by Seth Coker
Francisco asked, “Anything to discuss before going to the airport?”
Alberto looked at the Cuban, who turned away, distancing himself from what Alberto was about to say. Undaunted, Alberto continued, “Mr. Escobar, look at these photographs I took from the house last night.”
Alberto handed over several pictures. A tall man with a wife and two young daughters at a sporting event. The tall man in a semicircle with friends, all holding large fish. The tall man and the grown daughters at a wedding. The tall man on the beach, shirtless, holding a baby under each arm, his grown daughters beside him and their husbands beside them.
“Yes, Alberto, this is Mr. Coleman. We had a picture of his face before we came. What do you want me to know?”
“Mr. Escobar, this hombre es muy grande. I think we should use guns.”
Francisco felt a flush of anger color his cheeks. He glanced about to make certain no one overheard and felt safely out of earshot. Alberto looked at him pensively and expectantly. The Cuban had coldly angled his body away from the conversation to keep the stain of cowardice off of himself.
Francisco let the idea rattle. Alberto had served him well, if for far too long. He was mad at himself for not preparing his younger men for this opportunity. Alberto should be enjoying guarding an empty villa at this point in his life.
Francisco disdained the idea of putting a bullet into Coleman’s head from a distance. It was frustrating enough that they would not have time to drag out his death with nicks and slices, and small threats about his children’s futures. Mind games mixed with physical pain—that was what vengeance looked like. Whether the plea was spoken or unspoken, he especially relished the look of recognition in the eyes when death was certain, and a speedy death was all that could be prayed for. Radcliffe had given him this, and he had forgotten how intoxicating it was.
Maybe a gut shot if they had to. Yes, maybe the gut.
“Let us each put on our silencers. We will attempt, as discussed, with the wire first. But, Alberto, you will have your firearm drawn to help quickly if necessary.”
The men nodded agreement. They finished breakfast and left for the ten-minute drive to the municipal airport at eight-fifty—an hour before flight time, in case their plans needed to be adjusted.
32
DUNT-DA-DA-DUNT, DA-DUNT-DA-DA-DUNT, DA-DUNT da-da-dunt dun dun da. Cale turned his phone’s alarm off mid reveille. If he dreamed last night, he didn’t recall.
He slipped out of bed, showered, brushed his teeth, and got dressed. He wore a tucked-in golf shirt and a baseball cap, both with his company’s logo, with sunglasses hanging from Croakies around his neck and his bag hanging off one shoulder. He took the stairs down, because the elevator was too slow for just two flights. Then he stopped at the continental breakfast, ate yogurt, drank orange juice, and decided to grab coffee at the FBO.
Stepping outside and into the cab, he felt anxious giving instructions for two stops—the marina first, then the municipal airport. Would she have changed her mind? The cabbie questioned his airport choice. Yes, he did mean the municipal airport. He should have thanked the cabbie for his diligence instead of being annoyed at the question. Cale took off his wedding ring, unzipped his bag, found an unused pocket in his Dopp kit, secured the ring inside with a Velcro strip, rezipped the bag, stared at the pale strip on his finger, and involuntarily took a deep breath.
Ashley stood in the parking lot with Joe. Joe had a newspaper tucked under the arm in which he held his coffee cup and was waving his free arm as he spoke. She wore the dress from Saturday night, and Cale still very much approved. At the cab’s approach, Joe and Ashley gave each other a long hug good-bye. They held a close conversation. Cale envisioned Joe’s parting words being something along the lines of Bogart telling Bacall “Give ’em hell, kid.” As they separated, Joe waved at Cale and turned the motion into a thumbs-up. Cale almost shook back a two-handed hang loose before he went conventional and returned the thumbs-up.
One anxiety left Cale as Ashley slid in the back of the cab.
“Good morning.” A quick greeting kiss before he could stop smiling.
Very nice. A flush of warm emotions. Cale worried he might be too distracted to fly safely.
Fifteen minutes later, the cab arrived at the chain-link fence separating the runway from the parking lot. The cabbie stopped, and Cale paid. They got out, walked to the fence, pressed the buzzer, and were buzzed in.
Cale indulged his hobby and scoped out the nearby aircraft. A Gulfstream V with its distinctive windows reflected the rising sun—a beautiful plane. It looked new. Most of the other planes were single-engine props, or what in professional pilot parlance were called doctor killers. A few twin-engine turbo props like Cale’s King Air were visible. Two jets besides the Gulfstream were parked on the tarmac. One was a small Brazilian Embraer: four-seater, fully pressurized, a great jet for short runways with steep climbs. Think Eagle-Vail. St. Barts was too short for takeoff, although the landing would be fine. The other jet was a faster, more fuel-efficient four-seat HondaJet. Its unique engine configuration—with the engine over instead of under the wing—might change the industry. The HondaJets were made in North Carolina, which seemed fair if John Deeres were made in Japan.
The small general aviation terminal was empty except for the shift manager who buzzed them in. They walked through the terminal and headed across the tarmac toward Cale’s craft to drop their bags. When Ashley remarked on it, Cale explained that general aviation terminals outside of major cities (and Lincoln, Nebraska, on fall Saturdays) rarely had more than a handful of people in them at any one time.
Ashley looked puzzled. “Hey, Cale. Where are the security checks?”
“There aren’t any. Saving hassle is what you’re paying for.”
They locked eyes. She was processing but didn’t quite get it yet.
“Ashley, you’re going to love this so much it’s going to ruin your life!”
“But people could bring guns or drugs or llamas—whatever they want—on their trip.”
“Yes.”
Sometimes the simplest answers said it best. Cale loved witnessing the understanding that came into her mind that there were still some freedoms left.
He was spoiled. He only found himself in commercial aircraft terminals when doing Caribbean island hops, where most airports were too small to separate general and commercial aviation entrances. Of course, even while working and going through metal detectors, it was hard to complain in the Caribbean. Inside the United States, the quality-of-life differences in air travel between general, meaning private, and commercial aviation were gargantuan. The price difference was pretty gargantuan too, but you picked your luxuries: Do you want a five-thousand-square-foot house, a new Mercedes, and to fly commercial? Or a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot house, a thirty-year-old Toyota, and to fly private? He knew what he’d choose—or, in this case, chose.
They dropped their bags behind the back-row seat in the plane’s elevated storage compartment, leaving the large lower part of the closet with the hanging rack empty for the clients. There were three men booked on this charter, and they indicated this was a business trip, so Cale wasn’t worried about fitting in golf bags. The plane sat six in the cabin, plus two in the cockpit. There was plenty of room for three passengers, the newest crew member, Cale, and everybody’s luggage (and there was no fee for a bag over fifty pounds).
They went back into the general aviation terminal to pick up drinks and snacks for the flight. The charter clients requested only sodas, waters, peanuts, pretzels, and M&Ms. The plane’s wet bar was always stocked. The hospitality group would have the provisions box assembled, along with bags of ice ready to load in the built-in cooler.
As they reentered the terminal and headed to the hospitality pick-up in back, the crew from the Gulfstream stood at the coffee bar. The stewardess was assembled in a beauty factory. Now, it was sexist to assume she was the stewardess, but Cale let this small personal imperfection—his,
not hers—pass without feeling guilty. The crew spoke Spanish and was joking about the quality of the complimentary coffee.
Cale’s phone vibrated in his jeans pocket. He glanced at his watch. A quarter after seven was a little early for a social call and a little late to cancel a charter. He pulled the phone out. It was a 703 area code but not the number he’d seen before. He guessed who it was and gave Ashley the universal “one minute” sign with his finger and walked ninety degrees away from her to answer.
“This is Cale.” Four hours and forty-five minutes of sleep and as chipper as ever. He was a professional.
“Cale, it’s Sheila.”
“Are you FedExing my old Kevlar vest?”
“Hey, jackass, I’m working on this for you!”
It was meant as a joke but getting yelled at raised his temperature.
“Based on the new disposable number, I’m thinking none too successfully!”
The outburst done, he cooled. Sheila had the ability and desire to help. She might be risking her career with this call.
“Sorry, Sheila. I had my mind on a job. Your call brought me back to reality.”
Actually, his mind was on Ashley, which was a very pleasant mental vacation from what might be a very unpleasant and imminent future. He was about to get his mind on his job. But he figured the apology itself was the important part, not the facts of the backstory. Was this ethically equivocating or just conversationally efficient?
She sighed. “Understood. You must be afraid and under a lot of stress.”
She felt bad that her former subordinate was dangling on a line without a hook. She should feel bad, but only in a misplaced maternal way, because it wasn’t her fault. It was the machine’s. As high as she was, she wasn’t high enough to call a press conference to discuss the Escobars that wouldn’t get her labeled as crazy within a half hour if the rest of the machine didn’t want the Escobars discussed.
But she was wrong about how he felt. The mandatory post-work-related-death psychiatrists and psychologists never got it either: It was indecision that troubled him. Once he knew Big Brother wasn’t stepping in and he understood the dynamics of the situation, the decisions were made, and that’s when fear left. The stress of the situation was stowed in a footlocker he’d unlock and deal with on Saturday, just like dragging the lawnmower out of the shed on a normal August weekend.
Without Big Brother, he’d created his own marching orders. Priority one: Eliminate the three Colombians. Priority two: Do it in a manner that would keep him from going to jail. Priority three: Do it without anybody knowing he did it. Best to not have four avenging the three who were here avenging the two. He needed to make sure whatever transpired didn’t go in a report preformatted for HTML.
But he needed to fill in the how. How started with Cale finding the Escobars on his terms.
At this point, as usually occurred, he received help. Sheila informed him, “We know where your friends are staying.”
Again the we instead of an I in government conversations—more Trotsky we than royal we. And this was a good employee, not a go back and fill this form out in triplicate employee.
“How did you put that together?”
“We started by finding the rental car from your description of the make, model, and color.”
Impressed, he asked, “You have that kind of information electronically?”
“Yes and no. If everybody was onboard, yes. But in this case, no. I sent human assets with badges to the local rental places. We came up with a dozen options. We then searched local hotels. Found about half our options, staked those out, and one of those turned out to be your three friends.”
Good old boring gumshoe work, sitting in a car waiting with a newspaper on your lap. You couldn’t pay Cale enough to do it, but he was glad others were willing. That Sheila organized this caused a lump of emotion to catch in his throat. She had used her autonomy for cross-purposes from the folks diagonally above her. There was career jeopardy in taking those actions. He felt worse about all his smart comments now and, at the same time, thought the disposable phone might be a bit pointless if fifteen agents had done legwork, but you never knew what broke the trail or created plausible deniability. It was probably not enough to save her job but maybe enough to keep her from being prosecuted.
She named the hotel where the Escobar men were staying. He was familiar with it. In fact, he’d left it just an hour before.
He asked, “Have you been able to figure out their schedule?”
“No. They were scheduled to check out Monday but rescheduled to check out today.”
That made sense. He had foiled their diabolical plan Sunday night, so they extended a day. Squeezing a bit of flesh between his thumb and index finger, he confirmed they didn’t achieve success Monday night either. He hoped they were patient and extended their rooms through the weekend. Guys, if you waited twenty years in the jungle, what was an extra few days at the beach?
“Sheila. Thanks for the info. I know what you’re jeopardizing.” Then he hated to ask, so he told her, “I hate to ask, but I’m leaving on a charter in a couple hours. Return Friday. Can you let me know their location Friday?”
“No promises. But yeah, I’ll try. Have a safe trip. I’m still pushing on the other fronts.”
“I know. Thanks again for what you’re doing.”
Ashley procured the hospitality box while he was on the phone. When he rejoined her, she didn’t pry about the call. They retrieved the ice together and carried everything to the plane.
The King Air’s cabin was pretty self-explanatory, and she took the lead stocking provisions. Cale began his visual examination of the plane’s exterior. The metal rivets looked good, tires good, flaps good, and props good. He grabbed an A-frame ladder and set it up in several spots around the plane, looked for anything amiss topside, but found it all shipshape.
He ascended the steps into the cabin. The low ceiling height made him bend forward at the waist, which was less painful than bending at the knees. He squeezed past Ashley, who was doing her work on young knees, and he found the plane egregiously too wide for maximum incidental physical contact. He stepped into the cockpit and tested the instrumentation. Radio good. Flaps good. Rudder good. He continued his extended preflight check routine and found nothing the worse for wear from the wind and rain.
“Ashley, you want to check out your seat?”
“Sure.” She came forward with one of his logoed ball caps on her head. Part of the crew. She was in character. Discovering another fun side to her personality so early in their courtship was a bit titillating. Down boy.
She slid past him, choosing to have her perfectly shaped bottom face him before stepping into her seat well. She settled in and figured out how to buckle up. He then gave her the instrumentations’ CliffsNotes.
Mid-tutorial, she asked, “Why do so many small planes crash in the water like JFK Jr.’s?”
It was a non sequitur unless you remembered this was probably her first flight on a small plane. Cale answered, “I don’t know what happened to him, but the main reason is because when you’re flying, the ocean and sky look a lot alike. If someone is flying by sight rather than by instruments and is not checking their altitude, they sometimes just cruise down into the ocean, for no reason other than they think they’re going level. They won’t even try to jerk up the controls. Amazingly, if someone was fifty feet off the water and just hit their autopilot, it would raise them up. Truthfully, if they were upside down, the autopilot would right them.”
“So do you have autopilot?”
“Yes, on this plane. Not on the helicopters I flew.” He pointed to the button. “If I have a heart attack, press this button.”
She nodded.
“We have about an hour before departure. I’m done with all my checks. What do you want to do?”
“Can we check out the other planes?”
Good girl. How did she know he wanted to check out the three jets?
They walked t
o each jet in turn. They circled, then lingered outside the big boy with the oval windows. They started to giggle as they’d made their circling conversation unnecessarily loud, hoping the Gulfstream’s crew would notice their interest and invite them inside for a tour. But the crew proved unwilling to notice them—which was really hard to believe, because everybody noticed Ashley. Perhaps that beautiful stewardess demanded absolute fealty from her coworkers. Also, every time-killing pilot wanted a tour, so they’d probably learned not to notice.
Ashley asked questions about the jets and prop planes. She talked about her grandfather, who served on a carrier and always labeled the jets buzzing San Diego for her. At nine thirty, Cale told her they should use the facilities. Never looked good to a new charter customer if the pilot got up and took a whiz midflight. And the pee tube wasn’t a favorite of most lady passengers (or crew).
Ashley said, “If our clients show up before you’re done, I’ll show them to the plane.”
He grunted his appreciation, thinking it sounded like she thought he was going to be in there longer than to just take a whiz.
33
BEFORE REACHING THE bathroom, Cale’s phone vibrated. Same 703 number as earlier this morning.
“Calling with good news?”
“I’ll deliver it. You judge whether it’s good or not. Your friends checked out this morning.”
“Are they being tailed?”
“Sorry, we didn’t have the resources.”
“Did you attach a birddog tracker to monitor via the computer?”
Sheila paused, and Cale remembered she did that when delivering news she didn’t want to deliver, supported by a reason she didn’t agree with. “No. That would be against the law. That would be criminal harassment of a minority group that has, to our official knowledge, not committed a crime.”
How could she deliver that line with a straight face? Of course, he couldn’t see her face, so maybe she was wincing with a crooked smile and one closed eye when she said it. Next time, they’d talk on a video feed.