Cards called, “Right!” into his headset, and the pilot turned the plane.

The second set of streamers snapped out, spun like a kid’s wind-up toy. The strips wrapped together, pulled apart, then dropped onto the tree-flanked patch of the jump site.

“The wind line’s running across that creek, down to the trees and across the site,” Rowan said to Jim.

Over her, the spotter and pilot made more adjustments, and another set of streamers snapped out into the slipstream.

“It’s got a bite to it.”

“Yeah. I saw.” Jim swiped the back of his hand over his mouth before strapping on his helmet and mask.

“Take her to three thousand,” Cards shouted.

Jump altitude. As first man, first stick, Rowan rose to take position. “About three hundred yards of drift,” she shouted to Jim, repeating what she’d heard Cards telling the pilot. “But there’s that bite. Don’t get caught downwind.”

“Not my first party.”

She saw his grin behind the bars of his face mask—confident, even eager. But something in his eyes, she thought. Just for a flash. She started to speak again, but Cards, already in position to the right of the door, called out, “Are you ready?”

“We’re ready,” she called back.

“Hook up.”

Rowan snapped the static line in place.

“Get in the door!”

She dropped to sitting, legs out in the wicked slipstream, body leaning back. Everything roared. Below her extended legs, fire ran in vibrant red and gold.

There was nothing but the moment, nothing but the wind and fire and the twist of exhilaration and fear that always, always surprised her.

“Did you see the streamers?”

“Yeah.”

“You see the spot?”