by Wesley Lewis
“Nope,” replied Jennifer.
The driver gave the horn two quick honks as the car flew past the entrance. Jennifer held her face to the window and watched a pair of headlights pull out of the driveway and fall in behind the limo.
“They’re behind us,” she said.
“Who is?” gasped Ashley.
“Tom and the others.”
“Relax,” said Vegas in her usual carefree tone. “It’s all part of the plan.”
Without warning, the limousine decelerated rapidly, then shook violently as the pavement gave way to a dirt road. The four passengers bounced in their seats.
Ashley braced her hands against the ceiling. “Is this part of the plan?”
“Yep,” replied Jennifer.
“How far do we have to go? I’m not sure how much of this I can take.”
“Just a couple of miles,” said Vegas, who seemed to be enjoying all the excitement. “Watch the side of the road for a white fence post standing out there all by its lonesome. That’s roughly the halfway point.”
Ashley peered out the window. “It’s awfully dark.”
Vegas laughed. “That’s ’cause we’re in the desert.”
I wish I were having as much fun as she is.
Jennifer watched the headlights cutting through the dust behind them and tried to ignore her creeping sense of nausea.
“We just passed it,” said Ashley. “We just passed the white post.”
“Welcome to California,” said Vegas.
“What?”
“We just crossed the state line. We’re in Cali now.”
“Where are we going?”
“You should be able to see it just over this hill.”
Jennifer turned and stared into the blackness ahead. As the limo crested the hill, a line of lights resembling a small city came into view.
Thank God, she thought, still fighting back the onset of motion sickness.
She watched the lights grow larger and brighter as the car bounced down the dirt road. Behind the limo, the other vehicle kept pace. When they were just a few hundred yards from the source of the lights, the bouncing stopped.
“Are we back on the pavement?” asked Ashley.
Vegas shook her head. “Dry lake bed. It’s super flat, so people come out here to, like, race cars and stuff.”
Now that the ride was smoother, Jennifer could make out the source of the lights. Silhouetted against the sky was a makeshift city of tents and motor homes—hundreds if not thousands of them.
The limo slowed to a crawl as it approached the encampment. The other set of headlights followed close behind.
“Who are all these people?” asked Ashley.
“According to your boyfriend, they’re three thousand of his closest friends,” replied Vegas.
“Boyfriend? You mean Tom? Tom’s not my boyfriend.”
“Well, he should be. He jumped off a building for you.”
Jennifer grinned. Ashley turned red and looked away.
The limo traveled down a de facto Main Street that lay between the rows of tents and travel trailers. The driver navigated the narrow path, stopping or veering occasionally to avoid a pedestrian or an oncoming golf cart. The hodgepodge of residents stared at the limousine with curiosity and amusement. A shirtless man and a bikini-clad woman, both with shoulder-length dreadlocks, approached and tried to peer through the tinted windows. Three young men with crew cuts and crisp, clean United States Air Force T-shirts fell in behind the second vehicle and trotted along, apparently determined to catch a glimpse of the mysterious VIPs. Others did the same, and by the time the cars passed out of the encampment, a small entourage followed.
The two vehicles parked twenty yards past the tent city, beside a white trailer marked ground control.
“This is it,” said Jennifer, staring out the window at the small crowd lingering near the edge of the encampment.
“What now?” asked Ashley.
As if in reply, Vegas grabbed her shoes from under the seat, opened the door, and climbed out.
Jennifer gestured toward the open door. “Now we get you the hell out of Dodge.”
Ashley hesitated only a second before grabbing her own shoes and climbing out of the car. Jennifer scooped up the diaper bag, which now contained her stiletto heels, and followed.
The night air was at least ten degrees cooler than it had been in the city. Jennifer crossed her arms and wondered for a moment if perhaps she should have hung on to the filthy sweat suit Ashley had worn to the Stratosphere. At least the packed earth under her bare feet still radiated some of the day’s warmth.
As Scarlett stepped out of the car, a man somewhere in the crowd of spectators yelled, “Oh, it’s just hookers.”
Amid a chorus of laughter and catcalls, the spectators began to disperse.
Jennifer turned her attention to the vehicle that had tailed them, an ancient green Land Rover.
The front passenger-side door opened, and Crocker stepped down. He walked to the limousine and knocked on the driver’s window, which promptly opened. He handed something to the uniformed driver, uttered a few inaudible words, then walked back to the quartet of women.
He waited while the limousine made a wide circle in the open patch of desert and disappeared back down the makeshift Main Street.
When the noise had passed, he extended a hand to Ashley and said, “Ms. Thomas, I’m Matt Crocker. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
Ashley accepted the hand and said, “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Crocker. I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you for everything you’ve done.”
“That’s not necessary. But if you want to thank someone, thank Tom—he did the dangerous part.”
“Where is he?” She glanced at the Land Rover. “Can I go talk to him?”
Crocker glanced back at the car. “It’s probably better if you wait.”
“Is he hurt bad?” asked Jennifer.
“He’s hurt?” shrieked Ashley, the words trailing off as she sprinted toward the Land Rover.
Jennifer followed as quickly as her bare feet would carry her. Ashley reached the car first and threw open the back door.
Tom lay in the backseat with his legs propped over the seat in front of him. Larry was turned around in the front seat, using a pocketknife to cut off Tom’s cargo pants. The right pant leg was ripped and spotted with blood.
“Hey!” exclaimed Tom as Jennifer skidded to a stop beside Ashley. “Can’t a guy have a minute to change clothes?”
Crocker, who’d made no effort to run, joined Ashley and Jennifer at the open door. “As I was saying, it would probably be better if you wait until he removes his gear and gets dressed.”
Ashley’s eyes locked onto Tom’s bloody pants. “Are you hurt?”
“I just skinned up my leg,” he replied. “It’s no big deal except that it’s making it even harder to get out of this ridiculous getup.”
Jennifer inspected the getup, as Tom had called it. The waist of his cargo pants hung at midthigh, revealing a pair of gray boxer shorts cinched tightly to his crotch by the nylon harness. Without the cover of the cheap canvas backpack, the rig’s straps and handles were visible protruding through strategically placed slits in his oversized T-shirt.
“What happened?” asked Ashley, her voice calmer.
“When I landed, a gust of wind picked me up and dragged me halfway across the parking lot of the Blue Parrot. It would have pulled me out into Las Vegas Boulevard if I hadn’t grabbed a car bumper and held on for dear life. Larry ran over and cut away the parachute with his knife.”
“Why did Larry have to do it?” asked Jennifer. “I thought the plan was for you to cut it away yourself as soon as you landed.”
&nb
sp; “It was,” said Tom, “but when I was repacking my main chute in the chapel, I started worrying that it might not open in time. I mean, it’s a great canopy, but it’s designed to open comfortably, not quickly.”
“So what did you do?”
“I used my reserve chute instead. It’s designed to open quick as shit, comfort be damned.”
“But why couldn’t you cut it away yourself?”
“Because a reserve chute doesn’t have a cutaway handle.” He pointed to a red, pillow-shaped handle protruding from a vertical slit on the right side of his T-shirt. “Which means that the only way to cut one away is to saw it off with a knife.” He touched a jagged nub of nylon webbing protruding from the left shoulder of the harness and fondled it mournfully. “I almost had this damned thing paid off.”
A loud ripping noise filled the Land Rover as Larry tore away the tattered cargo pants. He tossed the ruined garment in Tom’s lap. “There you go, kid. Now get out of my car before you get blood on the seats.”
Tom snorted and made his way to the open door. “Like anything could hurt this tank.” He stepped out onto the lake bed. “I still say we should have taken your other car.”
Larry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, there’s nothing less conspicuous than three grown men crammed into the front seat of a yellow Corvette.”
Tom took several seconds to examine his bloody leg and what remained of his getup. Finally, he grabbed the front of his T-shirt and tugged at it. The sliced and diced garment tore free.
“Ooh, take it off,” cheered Vegas.
Ashley cast a sideways glance at the young woman.
Tom tossed both the ripped shirt and the ruined pants into the backseat of the car.
“Dammit,” yelled Larry from the front seat, “don’t throw your trash in here.”
Crocker laughed. “Don’t worry, Larry. I’ll get it when we get back to the Pear.”
Tom undid the harness straps and tossed what was left of his skydiving rig on top of the ruined clothes.
“Is that trash too?” asked Larry.
“Hell no.” Tom looked a bit comical standing in the glow of the Land Rover’s dome light, wearing nothing but gray boxer shorts and white sneakers. “The harness and main chute are fine. It just needs new reserve risers and a new reserve chute.” He turned to Crocker. “Somewhere around here is a parachute rigger named Chuck. I’m going to get word to him that he needs to stop by the Pear and pick up my rig. Hopefully, he can repair the damage.”
Crocker nodded. “I’ll tell Dottie to—”
“I’ll make sure he gets it,” interrupted Vegas.
Ashley stared at Vegas for a moment before turning her attention back to Tom. “So you go to all the trouble of saving me, then you don’t even tell me hello?”
Tom stared at his feet. “Sorry.” He looked up. “I guess I’m still kind of focused on the mission.” He glanced around for support but seemed to find none. “How are you?”
Ashley gave an exasperated snort and marched over to the awkward young man in the boxer shorts and tennis shoes. “That’s not how you greet the woman you just saved.” She placed her hands on his shoulders. “This is how you greet the woman you just saved.”
With that, she leapt into his arms, wrapped her legs around his waist, and assaulted him with a kiss that sent him stumbling backward against the Land Rover. He steadied himself against the side of the car and, with his balance restored, set about keeping up his end of the kiss.
Jennifer didn’t want to stare, but it was hard not to. The kiss went on and on with no sign of stopping.
Behind her, Vegas whispered, “See, she just needed a little nudge.”
Jennifer turned and whispered, “Were you deliberately trying to make her jealous?”
Vegas smiled and shrugged.
Jennifer chuckled. “Crocker was right—you’re a lot smarter than you let on.”
Vegas opened her mouth to speak, but her voice drowned beneath a cacophony of noise as, somewhere nearby, a pair of large engines fired to life. The ruckus caught the attention of everyone, including the two lovebirds, and brought the kiss to a reluctant end.
Tom lowered Ashley to the ground. Together they followed the rest of the group around the Land Rover, in the direction of the roaring engines. For a moment, the source of the sound wasn’t clear. Then the craft’s exterior lights came on, and the small airplane lit up like a Christmas tree, fifty yards down the dirt landing strip.
“What’s that?” asked Ashley.
“Our ride,” replied Tom.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As one of the few First Shot instructors with no wife or kids, Crocker often volunteered to perform what the other instructors disdainfully referred to as Sunday chauffeur service. On a Sunday before a busy week, he might make as many as three trips out to the private airstrip on the north side of Pahrump, to pick up students who’d arrived by private plane.
Though he’d never flown in anything smaller than a commercial airliner, Crocker had witnessed the arrival of everything from two-seat prop planes to lavish private jets. He knew little about aviation and cared even less, but thanks to six Arizona Department of Public Safety officials who’d flown in three weeks earlier, he knew that the low-wing, twin-propeller aircraft cutting across the dry lake bed was called a King Air. The six senior DPS officers had spent the fifty-five-minute drive between the airport and the academy bragging about their own King Air and lamenting the fact that more often than not, budget cuts kept it grounded unless the governor needed to be somewhere in a hurry.
Of course, unlike the plane now taxiing down the dirt strip, the King Air from the great state of Arizona didn’t have a stylized Texas flag and the words lone star skydiving painted on its tail.
Crocker and his cohorts watched the approaching plane as if it were the first flying machine they’d ever seen. Even Larry abandoned the comfort of his car and joined them at the edge of the temporary runway to watch the long-nosed bird taxi down the dirt strip. Only Tom, who stood at the rear door of the Land Rover, frantically pulling clothes from a suitcase, and Ashley, who sat on the car’s bumper, watching him, were not transfixed by the plane.
As the aircraft rolled to a stop in front of the small band of onlookers, Larry placed a hand on Crocker’s shoulder and shouted over the noise of the engines, “You gotta hand it to the kid—he knows how to make an exit.”
“Yes, he does,” shouted Jennifer, her eyes fixed on the plane.
The engines whined, and the propellers slowed to a stop. As the plane grew silent, Crocker and Larry glanced back at Tom, who, still dressed in his boxers and sneakers, was hopping on one foot and trying to slide the other into a pair of Bermuda shorts.
“I’m not saying I’d want him dating my daughter,” added Larry, no longer shouting, “but the boy is okay.”
“If you had a daughter,” replied Crocker, “guys like Tom would be the least of your worries.”
Larry laughed and slapped Crocker on the back. “You got that right.”
Scarlett turned from watching the plane and wrapped her fingers around Larry’s right arm. “Can we go now? Vegas and I are freezing.”
“I’m okay,” said Vegas, still watching the plane.
“Well, you’re a freak,” said Scarlett. “But I didn’t grow up in the desert, and I can’t handle these thirty-degree temperature swings. I need to either get inside or put on some warmer clothes.”
“You don’t want to wait to see Tom and Ashley take off?” asked Larry.
“I’ve seen planes take off before.”
Larry frowned.
“Please, Lare-Bear,” she intoned in a childlike voice. “It’s been a long day, and I just want to go back to your place and take a hot shower.”
He turned to Vegas. “What do yo
u want to do?”
“If Scarlett is cold, we can go. Besides, I need to get a spot in the lineup if I’m gonna make any money tonight.”
Larry glanced back at the plane. “To hell with it.” He turned to Crocker. “Just give me a call when you’re done here, and I’ll run down and pick you up.”
Crocker smiled. “Whatever you say, Lare-Bear.”
“Careful with that, or you’ll be walking back. You still have Vegas’s phone, don’t you?”
“He’d better,” interjected Vegas.
“I do,” replied Crocker.
“Good,” she said, “I need that back at some point. And my wigs. And my dresses. And my bag. And—”
“We get the point,” said Larry.
“Sorry. I just want to make sure I get my stuff back.”
“Don’t worry,” said Jennifer. “As soon as I get to the Pear, I’ll round up your things and bring them to you.”
Vegas grinned. “Thanks.”
Larry turned to Jennifer. “And after that, we’ll celebrate with those drinks I promised you. I make a margarita that’ll knock the sequins off that dress.”
Before Jennifer could respond, Tom—now dressed in the Bermuda shorts and a black T-shirt branded dallas storm on the front and champion 4-way skydiving team on the back—shuffled by, dragging his suitcase with one hand and Ashley with the other.
“I don’t know what you’re all standing around for,” he called. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Hey!” yelled Vegas. She ran to catch up to them. “I know you’re on the run and all, but you could at least say bye.” She wrapped her arms around him.
He released the suitcase and returned the hug.
“Watch your back,” she said. “When Dudka finds out what happened, he’ll be out for blood.”
“I know. We’ll be careful.”
“And you,” she said to Ashley, “you take good care of him. Not every girl gets a knight in shining armor, you know.”