by Wesley Lewis
“Damned if I know,” said Jennifer. “All I know is that in another couple of minutes, we’re going to be over the city.”
“We’re following Highway 95,” said Crocker, staring out the window to his right. “It looks like we’re about a mile from that big golf resort on the outskirts of town.”
“Perfect.” Scarlett’s voice trembled. “I’m great with golfers.”
“So you should have no trouble finding a ride,” said Jennifer.
Scarlett’s eyes did not project the determination of a woman prepared to jump out of an airplane.
Maybe encouragement is the wrong approach.
Jennifer let out an exasperated sigh. “So do you really want me to open the door, or can we dispense with this charade and let Brent land the plane?”
Scarlett’s eyes widened.
Jennifer continued, “Because you and I both know you’re not the jump-out-of-an-airplane type.” She hesitated. “You’re more the shoot-a-friend-in-the-back type.”
The surprise in Scarlett’s eyes turned to anger. She pointed the gun at Jennifer’s chest and said, “Open it.”
Finally! thought Jennifer as she knelt.
She slipped her fingers under the thin handle and pulled upward with all her strength. The door slid open.
The sudden rush of cold and noise took her breath away. She looked at the ground several thousand feet below and felt the world start to spin. She took a quick step back and closed her eyes until the feeling passed. When she opened them, she saw Scarlett frozen in place. The black wig flapped in the wind, revealing occasional flashes of red.
“Okay,” yelled Jennifer, “prove me wrong.”
Scarlett took a slow step forward, shifted the gun to her left hand, and used her right to hold on to the door frame. She stared out at the same view that had made Jennifer dizzy.
Jennifer saw that the plane was already past the golf course. They’d be over the city in less than a minute. She contemplated trying to shove Scarlett from behind but recalled from childhood that trying to push someone into a swimming pool was a great way to end up in the pool yourself.
Time was running out. The bluff wouldn’t work if Scarlett chose to land with the plane—she’d see that there were no jets and no police officers and order Brent to take off again.
In desperation, Jennifer yelled, “What are you waiting for? Don’t tell me you’re worried karma might be a bigger bitch than you are.”
Scarlett turned from the door.
As soon as Jennifer saw the young woman’s eyes, she knew she’d taken it too far. She fixated on the gun and didn’t see Scarlett’s other hand until it had grabbed hold of her blood-splattered what happens in vegas T-shirt.
Scarlett pulled Jennifer toward the door. “I think you should come with me!”
Jennifer clawed at Scarlett’s wrist and leaned back, straining against the pull. In her peripheral vision, she saw Crocker jump to his feet and move toward them.
Scarlett pointed the gun at him and laughed.
He stopped where he was.
Scarlett put all her weight into dragging Jennifer toward the door.
Jennifer’s feet struggled for purchase on the carpeted floor. Her foot slipped on a seat belt buckle and slid out from under her. She landed on her butt.
Scarlett’s grip on the T-shirt held tight.
Jennifer began sliding feet-first toward the open door. She grabbed the seat belt with one hand and hung on with every ounce of strength she could muster, praying that the shirt’s stitching would give out before her arms did. She dug the fingers of her free hand into Scarlett’s wrist, with no discernible effect.
“Let her go!” yelled Crocker. “Jump before it’s too late!”
Still pointing the gun at him, Scarlett replied, “You’re like a bad-luck charm, Matt. First your fiancée, then Vegas, and now this uptight . . .”
The words faded to noise as Jennifer’s gaze landed on a red, pillow-shaped handle attached to Scarlett’s harness.
An image of Tom standing on the runway in his boxer shorts flashed through her mind.
She released Scarlett’s wrist and grabbed the handle. It made a ripping noise as it pulled free of the harness. Two yellow cables trailed behind it.
Scarlett went silent. Her eyes widened.
Jennifer yelled, “You want to jump now, bitch, be my guest.”
Scarlett released Jennifer’s shirt and grabbed the handle. “What is this?”
“Karma!” Jennifer’s foot found the crotch of Scarlett’s velour tracksuit.
Scarlett tumbled backward through the door. The black wig flew away first. The rest of her followed, disappearing in a pink blur.
♦ ♦ ♦
As soon as Scarlett grabbed the red handle from Jennifer, Crocker rushed for the gun. Another half second and he would have had it. Instead, he got there just in time to see Scarlett fly out the door—gun, wig, pink tracksuit, and all—and cartwheel beneath the tail of the plane.
She fell for three or four seconds before the parachute deployed. Then she continued falling, away from the parachute.
Crocker stared at the spot where he’d lost sight of her, until the Plexiglas door slid shut in front of him. He hadn’t even noticed Jennifer standing to close it.
“What was that?” he asked. “That thing you pulled.”
She stared out the door. “Cutaway handle. Tom pointed it out.”
“So that’s why . . .” He searched for the right words.
Jennifer met his gaze. “That’s why the only way Scarlett is getting a lift from a golfer is if he happens to have a snow shovel and some Hefty bags in his cart.”
Crocker stood dumbfounded as she casually adjusted her stretched-out T-shirt.
From the front of the plane, Brent yelled back, “Did she jump?”
Crocker walked to the cockpit and leaned through the opening in the bulkhead. “You didn’t see?”
“No, once the door came open, I had to focus on keeping us straight and level. What was all the yelling about?”
Jennifer leaned in beside Crocker. “Scarlett was having second thoughts. But she finally jumped.”
“Good. Did her chute open?”
Crocker exchanged a look with Jennifer. “Uh, yeah, I’m pretty sure I saw it open.”
Brent nodded. “Now she’s the cops’ problem. Let’s get back to the drop zone.”
“The drop zone? I thought we had to land at North Las Vegas.”
“Nah, that crap about the air force ordering us to land was just a bluff to get her out of the plane.”
Crocker turned to Jennifer. “Did you know about this?”
“Know about it?” She looked as though she were suppressing a smile. “It was my idea.”
“And it was a damn sight better than what I had in mind,” said Brent.
Crocker shook his head in amazement.
“Now,” said Brent, “if you don’t mind, I need to let air traffic control know what we’re doing up here and figure out the safest route back to the lake bed.”
“Wait,” said Crocker. “Instead of returning to the lake bed, could you get us to Cortez, where you dropped off Tom and Ashley?”
Brent hesitated as if waiting for a punch line. “You want me to fly you to Colorado?”
“Why?” asked Jennifer.
“Because Dudka and his men are going after Tom and Ashley.”
Jennifer gasped. “Right now?”
Crocker nodded. “The FBI checked Ilya’s cell phone records, and it looks like Dudka and his men could be as close as . . .” He looked at the digital clock on the plane’s console. “They could be within ninety minutes of my place.”
“Hell,” said Brent, “it would take us almost t
hat long just to get to Cortez. Even if you had a car waiting at the airport, that puts you at least an hour behind them. What do you hope to accomplish?”
“Maybe nothing, but I damned sure won’t be able to help if I’m eight hundred miles away.”
Jennifer turned to Brent. “Do we have enough fuel to get there?”
He glanced down at his gauges. “We don’t have as much cushion as I’d like, but it’s doable.”
“Then let’s go,” she said.
Brent sighed. “Copy that.” He depressed a button on the yoke. “Las Vegas approach, King Air five one one Bravo Foxtrot. Request.”
Crocker placed a hand on Jennifer’s shoulder. She took it in her own hand and squeezed.
Brent depressed the button again. “King Air five one one Bravo Foxtrot is a Beech Bravo niner zero at one two thousand, seven miles northwest of North Las Vegas—Victor Golf Tango—en route to Colorado. Request flight following.”
He adjusted a dial on the console and turned to Crocker. “Okay, we’re looking at—best guess—an hour and a quarter until wheels down.”
“Do you have a cell phone?” asked Crocker.
“I thought there was no cell service at your place.”
“There isn’t. I need to confirm that police are on their way.”
Brent pulled a phone from under the seat, pressed the power button, and handed it to Crocker. “If I get a fine from the FCC, I’m billing Tom for it.”
Crocker pulled Sheriff Cargill’s crumpled business card from his pocket. He dialed the number for SA Bruce Eastland and waited.
After one ring, Special Agent Eastland answered, “Eastland. Who is this?”
“It’s Crocker. What’s the status of the police response to my cabin in Colorado?”
“Christ!” exclaimed Eastland. “Where are you? Tell me you’re not in that skydiving plane that took off from the lake bed.”
“We’re on the plane. One of Tom Blackwell’s friends is flying us to Colorado. How far out are the cops?”
“So Kathleen Dysart—er, Scarlett—isn’t with you?”
“Uh . . .” One thing at a time, thought Crocker. “No, she’s not. It’s just Jennifer, the pilot, and me.”
“Christ, man, we were afraid we were dealing with some sort of hostage situation. We have agents coordinating with the FAA as I speak.”
“It’s complicated, but I’ll explain it all once we know Tom and Ashley are safe. Where are the cops?”
“We’re working on it,” said Eastland. “Several agencies are activating their SWAT teams as we speak.”
“SWAT teams?” yelled Crocker. “Dudka’s men could be there in less than an hour and a half!”
“I’m aware of the timeline, but we’re talking about an unknown number of heavily armed killers. No agency is willing to send anything short of a fully equipped tactical unit.”
“Just have somebody pick up Tom and Ashley and get them out of there.”
“Your house is too damned remote. Nobody has a patrol that can get there in less than an hour, and you said yourself it takes twenty-five to thirty minutes to get back to the highway. They’re not going to risk running into a vanload of Russian mercenaries on a one-lane dirt road.”
“Goddammit!” said Crocker. “How far out are the tactical teams?”
“As we speak, the police departments in Durango, Cortez, Telluride, and Silverton are all activating their teams, as are the La Plata and Dolores County sheriff’s departments. Cortez is closest—they say they can be there in less than an hour and twenty minutes, once the team is assembled.”
“And how long will that be?”
“Probably another thirty to forty-five minutes.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“The Bureau’s Denver team will be on a chopper within the next twenty to thirty minutes, but they’re looking at a ninety-minute flight time.”
“So you don’t have anybody who is likely to get there before Dudka’s men? What about a roadblock?”
“A roadblock still requires a SWAT team. Nobody is going to send a couple of patrol officers to get gunned down by a KGB death squad.”
“Fuck,” said Crocker. “Okay, keep working on it. I’m going to try to figure out something else.”
He hung up the phone and realized that both Jennifer and Brent were staring at him. “It’s not looking good.”
“We heard,” said Jennifer.
“I could try buzzing the house,” said Brent. “Maybe we could get Tom or Ashley’s attention and prompt them to run up that hill where you said they could get cell service.”
“Perhaps,” said Crocker, not liking the idea of watching helplessly from an airplane as Tom and Ashley got ambushed by Dudka’s goons.
An idea struck him. “Do you have any more parachutes?”
“Fresh out,” said Brent. “And even if I did, trying to use them at that altitude in mountainous terrain would be suicide.”
“What does the altitude have to do with it?”
“Same reason you can’t fly a helicopter to the top of Mount Everest—the air is too thin. Rotor blades and parachutes need dense air to work.”
“Well, I know helicopters work at my place. The Forest Service uses them for— That’s it!” He dialed 411 on the phone.
“Who are you calling?” asked Jennifer.
Crocker held up a hand to silence her.
An electronic voice on the other end of the line said, “Directory assistance. Say a city and state.”
“Durango, Colorado.”
“Please say the name of the business you want.”
“United States Forest Service.”
“Connecting.”
After two rings, a woman answered, “San Juan Public Lands Center. How may I direct your call?”
“I need the forest fire management officer.”
“Please hold.”
The phone rang twice, and a woman answered, “Allison Bensimon, forest fire management.”
“Allison, it’s Crocker. How quickly could you get a helicopter out to my place?”
“Crocker? What’s going on? Are you in trouble?”
“It’s not me. It’s the kids you dropped off the rental car for. We need to get them out of my house fast.”
Allison was silent for a moment, then said, “Does this have anything to do with the call we just got from the Durango police?”
“The police called?”
“They wanted to know if we could use our helitack choppers to transport SWAT officers into San Juan. But our helitack crew has both of our choppers down in New Mexico, helping out with the fires at Gila.”
“So you don’t have anything?”
“Nothing that’s ready to go. I could call over to Mesa Verde and ask if the park’s 206 is available, but it’ll take them thirty or forty-five minutes to get their pilot to the pad, do the preflight, and get airborne.”
“And how long to get out to my place?”
“I don’t know. Maybe fifteen minutes.”
Cutting it too close, thought Crocker. He couldn’t ask the pilot to risk walking into an ambush.
“What about Cortez?” he asked. “Could you have it meet me at Cortez Muni and take me out there?”
“I’d have to lie on the paperwork and say you have an official purpose for being on the flight.”
“I hate to ask you to do this, but lie on the paperwork. Put both my name and Jennifer Williams.”
“Who is Jennifer Williams?”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start. Please just make this happen. Ms. Williams and I will meet the pilot at Cortez in one hour. Tell him to keep the engine running.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The helico
pter pilot turned out to be a her, not a him, but she did keep the engine running. Brent’s plane pulled to a stop fifteen yards from the helipad, and Jennifer and Crocker sprinted from the plane to the pad, where the young pilot—dressed in a military-style flight suit and helmet—met them and instructed them to approach the helicopter from the side and stay clear of the tail rotor. A minute later, they were in the air.
Jennifer didn’t enjoy her first helicopter flight nearly as much as she’d always thought she would. She had other things on her mind.
She didn’t think of Crocker’s plan as foolish, but it certainly wasn’t foolproof. He seemed certain that Dudka’s men wouldn’t risk speeding and, therefore, couldn’t reach the house before 10:50 a.m. The helicopter would touch down at approximately 10:55, which meant Dudka and his men might already be there, but only if they’d driven the last three hours without stopping.
Crocker didn’t think they’d drive straight through. He predicted they’d fill up with gas in Cortez, in case they had to make a quick getaway, and stop again after leaving Cortez, to put on their gear and review their plan of attack.
Jennifer thought this sounded like hopeful speculation, but she didn’t say so. He seemed confident, though not so confident as to have the helicopter land directly in front of his house.
At Crocker’s request, the helicopter stayed out of sight of the house and approached through a nearby valley. It set down in a clearing a quarter mile south of their destination.
The rotor blades slowed to a stop, and, for the first time in almost two hours, Jennifer’s hearing wasn’t under assault from aircraft engines.
The pilot opened the helicopter’s large sliding door, and Jennifer followed Crocker out into a setting that, compared to the Nevada desert, might have been another planet.
The valley was bordered on either side by tall evergreens. Aside from the calls of a few birds, the only sound was the babbling of a nearby stream. The air smelled of pine and moss—and a hint of helicopter exhaust.