“Five-Nine-Four Romeo-Charlie, you’re clear to land on runway two-six.” “Roger that, tower. Cleared to land Runway two-six, five-nine-four Romeo-Charlie,” he confirmed then pushed the jet’s throttle forward on its final approach into Peachtree-DeKalb Airport. After delivering several cases of shrimp to a five-star restaurant in Wisconsin, he’d picked up another haul from Madison over to Butte, Montana. At the rate his company was growing it would clear ten million this year. The financial success came with a price. It had been a hard five days filled with long flights, bad food, and little rest. To say nothing of how badly he’d missed Abby. Phone calls and texts, as sexy as they’d been, were a poor substitute for the real thing. He landed the twin-engine turbo prop right on the numbers, then taxied to the Davis Air Transport hangar. Twenty minutes later, as the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, he was heading north on I-85. At that hour there wasn’t another soul on the road, so he leaned over the handlebars and opened the throttle of his bike.
