Killer Summer

40

Cantell, McGuiness, and Salvo entered Sun Valley Aviation wearing flight uniforms. They approached the reception counter with an air of confidence, their caps pulled low.

ON DUTY: REBA KLINE read the plaque.

Cantell placed a small key on the counter, along with a pen and some paperwork.

“I’d like to settle charges for Lear tango-alpha-niner-five-niner.”

“Absolutely,” Reba said. She worked the computer, found the account, and printed out a statement for him to review.

Cantell paid her eleven hundred seventy-five dollars in cash.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Cash is king,” she said. “We just don’t see a lot of it here.”

She printed out a receipt.

“Where’s William this evening?” she asked the pilot. “Wasn’t that his name?”

“William the Conqueror?” the man teased. Salvo and McGuiness laughed with him. “He’s picking up the flight in the morning. We’re the maintenance crew.”

“There’s that pesky little requirement of TBO,” said McGuiness. TBO was an aviation term for time between overhauls. McGuiness had spun that into time between drinks. Reba Kline got the joke and laughed with him.

“There is that,” she said.

Cantell scribbled a physician-style signature on the paperwork.

“Did you happen to cater?” she asked, already checking a card file.

McGuiness produced a tin of Altoids. “This is our food service,” he said, wi

“We’re bringing it down to Boise for a DVD issue,” Salvo said. “Can’t have the DVD malfunctioning.”

Cantell shot Salvo a look.

“We’ve got some good electronics guys here,” Reba said.

Cantell smiled at her weakly. “Boss wants it done in Boise.”

“I hear that,” she said.

“Should be back around nine A.M. tomorrow,” McGuiness added.

“So, we’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she said. “Safe skies, gentlemen.”

Cantell checked his appearance in a mirror behind her that had been frosted to look like clouds.

Reba Kline experienced a slight tinge of unease as the three men left and headed for the Lear.

It wasn’t the pilot’s vanity-Lord knows, pilots are full of themselves. It wasn’t him paying cash, not exactly, though maybe that was part of it.

She’d gotten plenty of dirty looks in her time, but she’d come to accept the egos of flyboys. So the little guy had made a point of undressing her with his eyes, big deal. What pissed off and confused her was the wake of debris they left behind. Bark chips, sawdust, dried mud: it was like they’d been climbing trees or cutting firewood minutes before coming in here.

What was with that?

She turned back to the keyboard and closed out the sale.

41

Walt clambered over the logs, already on the radio trying to identify possible high-stakes, south valley robbery targets.

The first thing that came to mind was the cache of arms and vehicles housed at the National Guard Armory. Every kind of weapon, half a dozen Hummers, the theft could be catastrophic. There were other prizes locally as well: art collections, famous and wealthy kidnapping targets. When he looked at the valley from that point of view, he was all the more aware of how vulnerable it was to an organized attack like this one. The thought drove him over the final log all that much faster.

It was then, through the obnoxious beeping of car horns, that he heard someone falling and cursing behind him, someone following him over the logs. He turned, prepared to give Brandon an earful.

Fiona stared back at him, holding her black dress well above her knees. She released the dress’s hem, and it fell.

“I told you,” she said.

You can’t be here,” Walt said from the driver’s seat of a Toyota Prius he had commandeered. Thankfully, the driver hadn’t put up a fight.

“But I am, so live with it.”

“You’re a civilian. I’m dropping you off in town.”

“No, you’re not. I was the one who figured this out. You obviously need me.”

He smirked, resenting that she could win this from him.

“I also happen to be a woman,” she said, “which is something that has apparently escaped your attention. If you take custody of this runaway, then you’re going to need a woman as part of your team.”

“How can you possibly know-?” He cut himself off, answering himself. “Myra.”

“No, it wasn’t Myra,” she said. “I may have run into Chuck Webb, but I’m not saying I did.”

“I can’t deal with Kevin or the girl… not now.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“You followed me.”

“You really are a brilliant investigator.”

“Why would you follow me?” he said.

“You ask too many questions.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m conflicted,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“Some detective you are.”

42

Kevin scrambled down out of the pilot’s seat. He pushed her back into the body of the plane.

“What?” she said.

“Three guys heading this way.”

“No,” she said. “To a different plane. Chill, dude.”

“I swear.”

She eased into the cockpit and sneaked a peek.

“Not us,” she whispered but not convincingly. “First, it’s not William or Jack. Second, we don’t have three crew with us.”

But as they drew closer, she stepped back alongside Kevin.

“I don’t get it. They are not our crew.”

“I don’t think that really matters at the moment. What the hell do we do?”

“The power’s still on!” she said, diving forward and crawling on her knees to toggle the switches.

A loud electronic clunk came from the cabin door as it began to open.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Kevin said. “My mother’s going to kill me!”

Summer hurried him up the aisle and into the storage area over the toilet. She slid the partition shut behind her but not all the way, her eye to the crack.

Both jammed into the small space; his heart was beating too hard and too fast.

The cabin door came fully open.

Summer pressed her index finger to her lips, as she whispered at him, “I don’t know these guys. It can’t be anything much. Prep for tomorrow’s flight maybe. Who knows?”

She returned her attention to the passenger area.

As the three men came on board, they barely said a word to one another, which struck Kevin as odd. He could hear noises up in the cockpit. They were doing stuff.

Lights came on, the air system hissed.

When he finally heard the mumble of a voice, it was someone reading.

Summer’s hair tickled his face. “That’s the checklist!” she said. “I think they’re starting it up.”

“What? They can’t do that!”

“Shut up and let me think.” For the first time, she looked as scared as he felt.

Cantell read off the checklist just as he and McGuiness had practiced dozens of times. McGuiness had nine months of training invested in the next twenty minutes of flight, and though he ran through the run-up with authority his anxiety permeated the cockpit.

Cantell’s responsibilities were limited to the radios and GPS navigation. He set the proper frequencies, double-checked the destination he’d keyed into the GPS, and held his index finger over the transponder switch.

“Transponder off, yes?” he said.

“Off,” McGuiness said, busy with other switches.

Cantell’s action prevented the broadcast of a radio signal that would allow ACT, air traffic control, to track the Learjet’s flight. Above fifteen thousand feet, the Lear would be visible on most radar. But McGuiness had no intention of flying above fifteen thousand feet. He’d keep it at ten thousand or lower, once out over the desert. It was only mountain flying that presented problems. That, and the fading light.