by Haris Orkin
“We’re running out of time,” Belenki cried
Harper ignored him. “Do you actually intend to get an antidote to me and my men or were you planning on letting us die here?”
“I’m a man of my word,” Goolardo said. “As soon as we’re airborne, I’ll radio my compatriots and the antidote will be air dropped. Anything else?”
“So, you’re telling me I’m just gonna have to trust you?”
“What other choice do you have?”
“I can call your bluff.”
“Yes, you can, but what if you’re wrong, Mr. Harper? What happens then?” He locked eyes with Harper and Harper held his gaze. They stood there staring each other down.
“Please,” Belenki pleaded. “Can’t we talk on the way!”
Harper nodded and glanced at the billionaires. “Follow me, gentlemen!”
They followed after Harper, a rag tag group of frightened and bewildered billionaires. Mumson, bringing up the rear, said to Breen marching in front of him, “I wish I could change my pants.”
“What?” Breen shouted.
Sancho heard the commandos push their way through the sugar cane, their boots crunching on the fallen stalks. His heart pounded and his breathing grew ragged. He tried to stay with Flynn, but the fruitcake was as fast as hell and as graceful as a gazelle. Sancho didn’t want to lose him.
“Flynn!” he shout-whispered to him. He was afraid to call any louder; afraid to give away his location. Suddenly, a hand grabbed him, pulling him down. He looked up to see the furtive face of Flynn, his finger in front of his lips in the universal symbol for silence. Flynn rolled him into a ditch and quickly pulled dried sugar cane stalks over both of them. The sound of the boots crunched closer. Sancho heard voices. Shouts. Curses. Soon the crunching moved past them, growing more muffled as the commandos hurried away.
Sancho realized he wasn’t breathing and let out a lungful of air. “Oh, Jesus,” he whispered.
“Shhh.” Flynn froze.
They listened and waited, and when the closest commando sounded like he was fifty yards away, Flynn poked his head out from under the sugar cane.
“Are they gone?” Sancho whispered.
“What’s your name?” Flynn replied.
“Excuse me?”
“Your name.”
“You don’t know my name?”
“I know it, but do you know it?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then say it. What is it?”
Had Flynn finally totally lost it? “Sancho.”
“So, you know who you are?”
“What do you mean?”
Flynn said it again; quietly, but firmly. “Do you know who you are?”
“Yeah.”
“Say it. Say your name again.”
“Sancho.”
“So, you have complete control of your mind and your faculties?”
“I guess so.”
“Then he doesn’t have control of your mind?”
“Who?”
Flynn was losing his patience. “Goolardo.”
“No.”
“I’m guessing Q made sure we were all immune to the effects of his technology. Perhaps our food contained chemicals which created an immunity.”
Sancho had no idea how to answer Flynn. Finally, he decided to humor him. “I guess.”
“Dulcie probably knows the details.”
“Probably—” Sancho’s voice was drowned out by a deafening roar and the crack of a rifle. An Apache attack helicopter hovered directly above them, flattening back the sugar cane, creating a clearing, exposing them to the sniper half-hanging out of the chopper.
Crack! He fired again and if not for the sway of the chopper, he would have taken off the top of Sancho’s head.
“Shit!” But the chopper was so loud Sancho couldn’t hear his own voice. He did, however, hear the sniper’s bullet whistle past his ear. They both scrambled to their feet as the sniper squeezed the trigger again. They took off running and the helicopter floated right above them. Sancho raised his hands in surrender. He glanced at Flynn to see him pulling out his laser pointer. “Forget it!” Sancho screamed. But Flynn was determined. He aimed the laser pointer at the chopper as the sniper squeezed off another shot, this one ripping through the top of the shoulder pad of Flynn’s suit.
“Dude!” Sancho screamed, but Flynn was a man on a mission and wasn’t about to be deterred.
The red dot bounced around the cockpit and the sniper saw the dot dancing on the side of the pilot’s head. His eyes widened with panic and he leaned in close, screaming in the pilot’s ear, “He has a laser sight! It’s right on your head!”
The pilot freaked and pulled out of there so sharply, the sniper fell right out of the chopper. He plunged thirty feet down, landing silently and probably painfully, somewhere in the sugar cane.
Flynn was already running. Sancho hurried after. His lungs burned. His head swam. I keep this up, Sancho thought, I’m going to have a fucking heart attack. Flynn located the unconscious sniper. He couldn’t find the man’s rifle, but his sidearm was still in its holster. He unsnapped the leather cover, drew the man’s weapon, spun around and started running again. Sancho lurched after him.
Flynn ran flat out through the sugar cane field and out the other side. He was on a runway that crisscrossed Randall Beckner’s private airport. Sancho came bursting through the sugar cane a second later, sucking air something fierce. His face was bright red and he looked like he was about to blow a ventricle. Across the tarmac, he saw a-half-a-dozen commandos moving in formation
Flynn continued on, keeping low, running across the tarmac in a zig zag fashion. Sancho was too tired to zig or zag, so he just ran straight through. If someone shot him at least he’d have an excuse to lay the fuck down.
Sancho saw another contingent of commandos. If just one turned around, they’d be sitting ducks. They had no cover whatsoever. Flynn quickly changed direction and Sancho huffed and puffed to keep up with him.
“Pendejo…” wheezed Sancho as Flynn headed towards a corporate jet sitting next to a fuel truck. They heard the helicopter before they spotted it and Flynn ran faster. Sancho’s thighs were on fire. His lungs felt close to exploding. James ducked behind the massive landing gear of the corporate jet. Sancho was just grateful to stop running.
Flynn heard indistinct whispering. Slowly, he turned around to see the open door of a cargo hold. Dulcie’s face emerged from the shadows. “Come on.” she whispered. Flynn grinned and clambered up into the hold. It was five feet off the ground and Sancho was too damn tired to pull himself up.
Flynn grabbed one arm and Dulcie grabbed the other. They grunted and pulled and Sancho wiggled like a dog trying to get out of a swimming pool, kicking his legs to get his belly over the edge. Finally, he was in the cargo hold, hiding in the darkness. It was as hot as hell, but he didn’t care. The Baja sun had turned the space into an oven, but at least he was alive. At least he was lying down. At least his heart continued to beat, even if it was pounding like a cheap bongo drum.
“Is everyone all right?” Flynn whispered.
Sancho nodded. Dulcie frowned and said, “I won’t be all right until we get the hell out of Mexico.” She was about to say something else when they heard the voice of Francisco Goolardo.
“Is this the aircraft?”
“Yes, sir,” Sergei Belenki said, his voice tight with anxiety.
“Very nice,” Goolardo replied. “It’s quite large. If we were having a cock measuring contest, your dick would definitely be the winner. All right, gentlemen, please follow Mr. Belenki.”
They heard approaching footsteps and retreated deeper into the shadows of the cargo hold, hiding behind whatever they could find. Hunkering down, they stayed silent and motionless. A loud electric hum signaled the door to the cargo hold closing. Dulcie and Sancho exchanged an “oh, shit” look as the door shut tight with a loud metallic clank, plunging them into darkness.
Chapter Thirty
At one hundred and sixty feet from nose to tail, Sergei Belenki’s custom Boeing 767 was one of the largest corporate jets in the world. It had a galley the size of a restaurant kitchen and a full-time chef. There was a large lounge with leather recliners, an entertainment center with a seventy-five-inch HD-TV, two wet bars, two full bathrooms with shower stalls, two half baths, a master suite with a California King, a Jacuzzi, and sleeping quarters for fifteen.
Goolardo marveled at Belenki’s portable party crib, but noticed that on this particular flight none of the billionaires were having much fun. They sat in the large lounge, strapped into their seats, under the supervision of Mendoza and two thugs. All three carried Mac-10 machine guns. Goolardo occupied the co-pilot’s seat. The man who usually sat in that chair had run off and was probably hiding somewhere in the sugar cane. Goolardo had a holstered 9mm Glock, and the pilot couldn’t keep his eyes off it.
“Captain,” Goolardo instructed. “Follow my coordinates to a T and this will all soon be over. If you try to be a hero, you will be responsible for the death of not only your employer, but his fellow multi-billionaires. And oh, yes, you will be quite dead as well. Are we communicating?”
The ex-air force pilot nodded grimly. He wasn’t at all happy, but Goolardo didn’t expect him to be. They taxied the 767 to the end of the runway. It was long enough to accommodate Jumbo jets and stretched from one side of Angel Island to the other. They fired up the massive engines and quickly accelerated down the tarmac. Goolardo allowed himself a tiny smile as they took to the sky over the Sea of Cortez.
Dulcie flicked her Bic and the lighter illuminated their tiny corner of the cargo hold. The flame trembled as they lifted off. The hold was fairly empty as Belenki and the other billionaires were in too big of a hurry to bring any baggage. The air temperature was in sauna territory and sweat trickled down her forehead, burning her eyes.
Flynn smiled at her. “How did you know?
“Know?”
“That they would take this aircraft?”
“It was the only goddamn plane on the runway.”
“Then maybe it was fate,” Flynn said.
“Or just bad fucking luck.”
“For Goolardo, most assuredly,” Flynn replied.
Randall Beckner wrinkled his nose. He glanced at Mendoza and the two thugs guarding them. Then he turned to the other billionaires. “What the hell is that smell?” Prince Adnan Bin Hassan of Saudi Arabia pointed to Bill Mumson with his thumb. Mumson sat alone. There was an empty chair between him and every other billionaire.
Rupert Breen glared at him. “You crapped your bloody pants? Jesus fucking Christ!”
Tears filled Mumson’s eyes. His shoulders shook as he started to cry. “It’s all right, mate,” Richard Cook tried to console him. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Fuck if I don’t,” Breen said.
“Rupert, give the bloke a break,” Cook urged.
“Bad enough we’ve been bloody kidnapped! But then this dill drops a load in his bloody daks!”
“We need to stay calm,” Warren Davis said. “We need to stick together.”
“Who died and made you fucking C.E.O,” Breen replied.
“He’s right,” Randall Beckner said as he pinched his nose closed. “It does us no good to argue.”
Breen glared at Beckner. “How could you let this happen? We’re all fucking infected or poisoned or who the hell knows what and it’s all your fault!”
“Actually, it’s more my fault,” said Goolardo, as he stepped from the cockpit and carefully closed the door.
“My legs feel numb,” Ingvar Knudson mumbled.
“I feel sick,” Sergei Belenki said. “Sick and dizzy. Very dizzy…”
“What did you do to us?” Li Chu Young demanded.
“I told you what I did,” Goolardo said. “Your lives hang by a slender thread and I alone hold the knife.”
“My people will pay you whatever you require,” Prince Adnan said.
Goolardo grinned. “Of course, they will. All your people will.”
“But if I die,” Prince Adnan promised, “You will never live to spend a penny. My family will hunt you to the ends of the Earth.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“There won’t be a place on this planet where you can hide,” Breen said. “Even if you get a billion-dollar ransom for each of us, how do you propose to spend it? Do you actually believe you can get away with this? We didn’t get to where we are by being poofters, mate. Whether we live or die, you’re not getting out of this alive.”
“Rupert’s only speaking for himself,” Beckner said. “He doesn’t speak for the rest of us.”
“You can feed him whatever line of bullcrap you want,” Breen said. “But the truth is, he’s a dead man.” Breen unbuckled himself and stood up, his eyes never leaving Goolardo’s face. “You do know that, don’t you? There’s only one way for you to get out of this in one piece. Give us the antidote and let us go. If you do that, if you let me go, I have little reason to spend my resources hunting you down. But if you don’t—”
“He’s right.” Quinton Blackstone unbuckled his seatbelt as well. “I’ll be damned if I give you a dime. So I die? So what? I’m eighty-five years old.”
“But I’m only thirty-five,” Sergei Belenki cried.
Goolardo laughed, much to the amazement of every billionaire there.
“You think this is funny?” Quinton Blackstone asked.
“What’s funny is how predictable you all are. I assumed that some of you would try to threaten me. That was to be expected. You’re all rich and powerful men. But I’ve been threatened by men far more frightening than you. The Cali Cartel in Columbia put a price on my head years ago. Every government in the world has, at one time or another, wanted me dead. You see, I already have more money than I could ever hope to spend. I made it by peddling a product that generates its own demand. A product that requires no marketing. No advertising.”
“Drugs,” Warren Davis muttered.
“Very good, sir, yes. Your country’s archaic drug laws have made me a billionaire.”
“Then why kidnap us?” The question came from Sergei Belenki. “If you’re already a billionaire, why—”
“Because he’s a greedy fuck,” Breen said.
“Actually, Mr. Breen, that’s not really true. As you know all too well, there’s only so much money a man can spend.”
“Then what do you want?” Beckner asked.
“How about a little respect.”
“Respect?” Breen spat. “Are you kidding me?!”
“I’m a business man. I manipulate markets. I obliterate my competition. And I make billions. But do you see me on the Forbes Four Hundred list? Am I celebrated for my accomplishments? No. I’m considered a pariah. An outcast. A criminal. You gentlemen control governments, pay for legislation, have politicians at your beck and call. Are you telling me you don’t break any laws? You’re no different than I am, yet Mr. Beckner has never invited me to his annual gathering. Am I not good enough? Am I not worthy to be in your presence?”
“No,” Breen replied. “You’re not.”
“Rupert don’t—” Beckner said.
“Don’t what? He’s a bloody—”
“What?” Goolardo shouted. He had Breen by the throat and suddenly the media baron didn’t seem so defiant. “I’m a what?” He pushed him backwards and Breen stumbled and fell. “What am I Mr. Breen?!”
“Just tell us what you want,” Cook kept his voice calm and measured. “We’ll give you whatever you want.”
“What do I want? I want it all!” Goolardo shouted. “All or nothing!”
“Nothing it is then,” James Flynn replied.
Flynn stepped from behind the small curtain that led to the stewardess station. Sancho was at his side. He tried to look as confident and masterful as his mentor, but the sight of Mendoza filled his stomach with ice.
Goolardo was dumbfounded. He moved his mouth, but nothin
g came out. He glared at Mendoza and then back at Flynn and finally a single shrill word erupted from his mouth like steam from a tea kettle.
“You!”
Flynn smirked and held the gun loosely, the muzzle hovering between Mendoza and his boss. “You don’t seem very happy to see me.”
“You’re like a goddamn bad penny!”
“Who the hell is he?” Breen demanded.
“The name is Flynn. James Flynn.” Flynn heard the rousing theme music that always followed the announcement of his name. It was mysterious and exciting and no one heard it but him.
“You can’t save these men with a gun,” Goolardo said. “Put it down or they will all die.”
“I don’t make deals with mad men,” Flynn replied.
Mendoza sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Please put the gun down,” Beckner pleaded. He pointed to Goolardo. “This man’s the only one who can save us.”
“It’s true,” Warren Davis said. A few of the other billionaires nodded in agreement.
“Listen to me very carefully. You are under the sway of a new kind of mind control technology,” Flynn explained. “Your thoughts are not your own.”
“Whose are they?” Belenki asked.
“His,” Flynn said, pointing to Goolardo with his weapon.
“I don’t think so,” Cook said.
“You’re not supposed to,” Flynn replied. “If you thought so, the technology wouldn’t be working very well, now would it?”
“What technology?” Lakshmi Mandar asked.
“The mind control technology,” Flynn repeated. “You see? He’s already trying to make you forget what I just told you.”
“Who?” Mumson asked.
“Him!” Flynn pointed at Goolardo. “Concentrate. Fight for control!”
“Of what?” Li Chu Young looked confused.
“Of whatever it is you think you should be doing and then do the opposite,” Flynn replied. The billionaires looked mystified. Even Goolardo seemed bewildered as Flynn elaborated on his explanation. “Of course, now that he knows you know, he’ll make you think that you’re thinking about something you’re not actually thinking about. So, don’t think about that. Instead, concentrate on what you thought you should think about, but didn’t.”