Flight HA1710
Book #1 Retrograde
Blurb:
Co-Pilot
Lachlan Donaghue wakes up in hospital, a survivor of the crash of Flight
HA1710, with memory loss and the suspicion that he could be at fault for the
tragic accident. When everything becomes too much he goes home to hide, back to
the small Scottish town he grew up in and to his family home.
Rory Kendrick watches the news, sees every hour of the disaster unfold but never thinks that Lachlan was in the middle of it all. Or that his friend will be forced to come back home to hide and to heal. What Lachlan needs is a friend, not a lover, but sometimes the lines are just too blurred to make any sense.
Rory Kendrick watches the news, sees every hour of the disaster unfold but never thinks that Lachlan was in the middle of it all. Or that his friend will be forced to come back home to hide and to heal. What Lachlan needs is a friend, not a lover, but sometimes the lines are just too blurred to make any sense.
Buylinks:RJ Scott Blog
Excerpt
Chapter
1
The day of the crash
Lachlan Donaghue opened his eyes, cracked them just a little. Something had sideswiped him, glass in his hair, his hands gripping… to his left a person, eyes wide and open, facing Lachlan with not a spark of life left.
And red… orange. And silence. Utter and complete silence.
He closed his eyes.
Rory. Help me.
When he opened them again, this time there was no red, only the blur of a night sky, the black all encompassing. This time there was noise in the silence. A shout, crashes and bangs, and a sense of urgency in the people who stared at him now.
“He’s alive.”
“How the hell is he alive?”
It hurt too much to keep his eyes open.
Tell Rory I’m okay. Don’t let him worry.
“Lachlan? Lachlan Donaghue? How old are you? Who is the Prime Minister? What is the Queen’s name? Lachlan? Can you hear me?”
Who cares? I can't even speak, let alone think.
Lachlan answered… or at least in his head he answered, but his throat was tight, there was pain in his head and neck, and he was staring at whiteness and blinking at bright lights.
Where had the red gone? And the black?
“Lachlan. Open your eyes. Look at me!”
I don’t want to.
“Pupils responsive. Someone get him to the Ulster.”
“He’s triaged for Downe.”
“He’s the fucking first officer. Get him to the Ulster Hospital and away from the scene now.”
Rory, I’m sorry. I should have told you I was sorry.
The TV was loud, discordant, and scary with red and orange against black, and they were shouting at him from the screen. People walked around him, all the time talking about the TV—or was that the TV itself? Nothing made sense.
“The Captain is dead.” The words spun in his head, people talking around him; a chaos of noise.
“Not… Andrew.” Lachlan murmured in despair. The staring eyes, the absolute stillness and quiet—Andrew was dead. Is everyone dead? Am I dead? What kind of hell was he in where they pushed him and held him, then took the pain away with needles?
“Lachlan? Can you hear me? My name is Dr.…”
The words faded, and he looked past the man who stared at him, looking instead at the screen, hearing the words all pilots dreaded to hear. Death. Destruction. Crash.
His picture flashed on the screen labeled in yellow: Lachlan Donaghue, First Officer. Then there were safety records… and red … and orange.
“And do you think, taking this into consideration, that the crash was deliberate? An act of terrorism? Or one of the pilots deliberately flying the plane into the ground?” A soft but insistent voice came from the TV.
“There is nothing to indicate that at this moment. Neither of the black boxes have been located at this time—”
“Do you know your pilots? Can the airline categorically say that the crash of Flight HA1710 was not pilot error?”
“It’s too soon to comment—”
“Can you say that?”
Pause.
“No. No we can’t.”
The day of the crash
Lachlan Donaghue opened his eyes, cracked them just a little. Something had sideswiped him, glass in his hair, his hands gripping… to his left a person, eyes wide and open, facing Lachlan with not a spark of life left.
And red… orange. And silence. Utter and complete silence.
He closed his eyes.
Rory. Help me.
When he opened them again, this time there was no red, only the blur of a night sky, the black all encompassing. This time there was noise in the silence. A shout, crashes and bangs, and a sense of urgency in the people who stared at him now.
“He’s alive.”
“How the hell is he alive?”
It hurt too much to keep his eyes open.
Tell Rory I’m okay. Don’t let him worry.
“Lachlan? Lachlan Donaghue? How old are you? Who is the Prime Minister? What is the Queen’s name? Lachlan? Can you hear me?”
Who cares? I can't even speak, let alone think.
Lachlan answered… or at least in his head he answered, but his throat was tight, there was pain in his head and neck, and he was staring at whiteness and blinking at bright lights.
Where had the red gone? And the black?
“Lachlan. Open your eyes. Look at me!”
I don’t want to.
“Pupils responsive. Someone get him to the Ulster.”
“He’s triaged for Downe.”
“He’s the fucking first officer. Get him to the Ulster Hospital and away from the scene now.”
Rory, I’m sorry. I should have told you I was sorry.
The TV was loud, discordant, and scary with red and orange against black, and they were shouting at him from the screen. People walked around him, all the time talking about the TV—or was that the TV itself? Nothing made sense.
“The Captain is dead.” The words spun in his head, people talking around him; a chaos of noise.
“Not… Andrew.” Lachlan murmured in despair. The staring eyes, the absolute stillness and quiet—Andrew was dead. Is everyone dead? Am I dead? What kind of hell was he in where they pushed him and held him, then took the pain away with needles?
“Lachlan? Can you hear me? My name is Dr.…”
The words faded, and he looked past the man who stared at him, looking instead at the screen, hearing the words all pilots dreaded to hear. Death. Destruction. Crash.
His picture flashed on the screen labeled in yellow: Lachlan Donaghue, First Officer. Then there were safety records… and red … and orange.
“And do you think, taking this into consideration, that the crash was deliberate? An act of terrorism? Or one of the pilots deliberately flying the plane into the ground?” A soft but insistent voice came from the TV.
“There is nothing to indicate that at this moment. Neither of the black boxes have been located at this time—”
“Do you know your pilots? Can the airline categorically say that the crash of Flight HA1710 was not pilot error?”
“It’s too soon to comment—”
“Can you say that?”
Pause.
“No. No we can’t.”
About RJ
RJ Scott has been writing since age six,
when she was made to stay in at lunchtime for an infraction involving cookies.
She was told to write a story and two sides of paper about a trapped princess
later, a lover of writing was born.
As an avid reader herself, she can be found
reading anything from thrillers to sci-fi to horror. However, her first real
true love will always be the world of romance where she takes cowboys,
bodyguards, firemen and billionaires (to name a few) and writes dramatic and
romantic stories of love and passion between these men.
With over seventy titles to her name and
counting, she is the author of the award winning book, The Christmas Throwaway.
She is also known for the Texas series charting the lives of Riley and Jack,
and the Sanctuary series following the work of the Sanctuary Foundation and the
people it protects.
Her goal is to write stories with a heart
of romance, a troubled road to reach happiness, and most importantly, that hint
of a happily ever after.
www.tumblr.com/blog/rjscott
(some NSFW (not safe for work) photos)
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