Stealing Gulfstreams

by James Patterson

  By two a.m., I’ve bought my brother and crewmen more shots than I can count. We’re all pretty sloppy and are having a ball. But I’m sober enough to notice that taking a seat at the late-night winners’ table…is Natalie.

  I order a cup of black coffee and keep my eyes glued to the bar’s TV monitors, which are playing live closed-circuit footage of the final round of the tournament.

  I can tell right away that Natalie is a skilled player. An aggressive risk-taker but smart—just like she is in the air. And behind the wheel. I watch as she hangs in there, almost to the bitter end, until an unlikely full house beats her flush and knocks her out, landing her in third place overall, which is pretty damn impressive.

  It’s well past four a.m. now. With Arturo passed out on a barstool and Cole trying to close the deal with not one but two tipsy young ladies, I start closing out our tab.

  That’s when I feel someone beside me: Natalie.

  “I didn’t know you played,” I say to her. “You really cleaned up out there.”

  “I don’t,” she answers, holding an empty glass of what looks like bourbon up to the bartender, signaling for another. “And I didn’t. Third place gets just twelve percent of the prize pool. That’ll barely cover my fuel costs next week.”

  “So you’re flying in the Red Bull qualifier,” I say. Natalie nods. “Well, no one ever said our hobby was cheap.”

  “No shit,” she answers. “How you and Cole can afford to do it on a pilot-for-hire and maintenance supervisor’s salary beats the hell out of me.”

  I gulp. If only she knew the dark truth. Unless…she somehow already does?

  The bartender hands Natalie her bourbon. She downs it in one go, then wipes her mouth with her bare arm. Not very ladylike, but she sure looks sexy doing it.

  “If you’re not working next week,” she says, setting her empty glass down on the bar, “you should come to the race. Watch me. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two.”

  What I really want to learn is more about this woman. Maybe this is my way in.

  “Let me buy you another drink,” I offer. “We can talk…strategy.”

  Natalie just laughs. “Good try, Jack. Maybe another time. I’ve got to head home and get some shut-eye. I have a race to win. And don’t forget, you do, too.”

  Chapter 16

  It’s a picture-perfect afternoon at the packed Las Vegas Motor Speedway—but there isn’t a stock car in sight.

  Instead, the giant racetrack is decked out with pylons and air gates, tall inflatable markers that the day’s aerial racers have to navigate through.

  It’s the Red Bull Las Vegas Qualifier, and the stadium is bustling with pilots, plane aficionados, military aviators, adrenaline junkies, and loads of kids and families.

  I’m up in the stands with my own extended family: Cole, Arturo, and a couple of our crew guys. We’re guzzling some overpriced frosty beers and fanning ourselves with our programs to try to stay cool under the sweltering Nevada sun.

  All afternoon we’ve been watching some of the very best stunt-racing pilots in the world as they roll and spin through this challenging obstacle course, one by one.

  That’s the biggest difference between this event and the one I compete in. Mine is a group race, a test of pure speed—and guts. Natalie’s is an individual competition. A fast time means nothing without high technical accuracy and performance points.

  Which makes for one hell of a thrilling spectacle. The pilots might be flying solo, but they come within inches of death on each lap and must defy it every time—or else.

  I’ve got my eyes on my phone, looking up stats on a previous pilot, another competitor I expect to encounter in Reno, when Cole nudges me with his elbow.

  “Heads up,” he says. “Your girl’s next.”

  On the horizon, I spot a noisy little prop plane, its livery tangerine orange and white, barreling straight toward us.

  Then comes the booming voice of an announcer over the PA system.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Now approaching the track in a Zivko Edge 540, pilot number thirty-six, from Charleston, South Carolina, Natalieeee Hammoooond!”

  The crowd whoops and cheers. But they’re quickly drowned out by Natalie’s thunderous engine as her plane nears the race’s starting point.…

  And she’s off!

  She blasts through the first air gate, then uses the early straightaway to push the throttle and gain speed.

  She’s gotta be going more than two hundred miles an hour when she reaches the chicane, a tricky trio of pillars she has to weave through.

  I expect her to ease up a bit to make the rapid turns easier. But instead—wow!—she accelerates, flipping her plane horizontal and snaking through with ease.

  She banks hard around the following turn and then—as she’s required to—snaps her plane back horizontal a split second before passing through the next air gate.

  Natalie rounds the final bend, then pulls up on the yoke hard, shooting toward the clouds to get some height and prepare for the second lap. I know she’s feeling six, maybe a grueling seven g’s right now. Just watching her is making my stomach churn—because I know how dangerous her flying style really is.

  As she approaches the starting gate again, Natalie points her nose almost directly at the ground. She’s trying to gain maximum speed by plummeting—fast.

  Too fast, it looks to me.

  Is she crazy? “Pull up, pull up!” I yell, leaning forward in my seat.

  But she doesn’t. She keeps speeding toward the earth. Dear God…

  Until at the last possible moment, Natalie pulls up.

  I exhale with relief as she evens out, zooms through the gate at what must be two hundred fifty miles per hour, then nails the chicane once again.

  I can tell she’s giving this last part of the race everything she’s got. Her final few turns are sharp, her banks brutal. A spinout—or worse—lurks at every turn.

  Which is why the crowd is loving it. The entire stadium is yelling their heads off.

  As Natalie comes around the final bend, I’m digging my nails into my palms and holding my breath again. She’s making incredible time. Definitely sub-fifty seconds, maybe even sub-forty-eight. That would easily put her in the lead.

  She’s got just one obstacle left. She’s almost done.

  Shit! Her left wing scrapes the top of one of the inflatable pylons!

  The crowd groans in shock as the tip of the pylon floats harmlessly away and the remaining bottom wrinkles and deflates—as Natalie’s plane whips past the finish line.

  “Number thirty-six, Hammond!” the announcer’s voice booms over the PA. “At 50.847 seconds, including a three-second penalty for the pylon hit.”

  Ouch. I know that’s gotta hurt. Natalie was doing so well—until the wind or pilot error, or probably a little of both, snatched it away.

  Still, I see N. HAMMOND pop up on the leader board…in third place—again. A very respectable standing. She’s also the only woman up there, even more impressive.

  When the afternoon’s final flight is done, I wander over to the press tent to congratulate Natalie on yet another bronze-medal finish.

  But she’s not there.

  I ask around, but no one seems to know where she is. Strange. Finally, one of the race volunteers tells me she’s still in the competitors’ area. Sure enough, that’s where I find her. She’s rolling up her flight suit and packing up her gear, visibly angry.

  “I don’t want to hear it, Jack,” she snaps. “I screwed up out there, plain and simple. No bullshit you can say is going to change that. So don’t insult me by trying.”

  Truth is, I was thinking of reminding her that placing third out of sixty-two competitors is damn good by anyone’s standards, especially with a big penalty. Or that she’ll still be awarded a nice chunk of Red Bull qualifying points.

  But I’ve been starting to realize more and more how similar Natalie is to me. She doesn’t want false praise.

  She only wants to
win.

  At any cost.

  “You’re right,” I say. “You flew like shit. You got lucky at the start, cocky at the end. You can do better, Natalie. And if you want to be a champion, you have to.”

  Natalie finally looks up at me. Her face is tight with shame—but also respect.

  “Thanks, Jack.” Then she adds, softly, “A couple of the other pilots, we’re meeting at a sports bar two stops south on I-15. If you still want to buy me that drink…”

  Hang on. Now Natalie’s asking me out?

  I want to go, but I decide to deploy a bit of reverse psychology. I don’t want to make things that easy for her.

  “Nah,” I say. “I’m kinda wiped. Maybe another time.”

  I duck out and rejoin Cole, Arturo, and the others by the stadium entrance. I’m still thinking about Natalie, wondering if I made the right move, as we head to our cars…

  And a silver Lamborghini Aventador suddenly screeches to a halt centimeters in front of us.

  We leap back, barely avoiding being struck.

  “Hey, watch it!” Cole exclaims. He bangs his fist on the shiny hood.

  Then the driver’s window rolls down.

  Behind the wheel, wearing dark sunglasses…is Mr. León.

  You’ve gotta be kidding me!

  Cole shuts up fast. But I’m pissed.

  “What the hell do you think you’re—”

  Mr. León simply puts a finger to his lips. Ominously. Then he rolls up his window and peels out.

  I’m left furious and rattled and confused—even though his message couldn’t be any clearer.

  Keep quiet, or I’m a dead man.

  Chapter 17

  I spend the rest of the weekend fretting over this latest run-in with Mr. León.

  Because it just isn’t making sense.

  First he calls me at work, to spook me and tell me he’s going to need some more planes—soon. Next he shows up at a poker tournament, to make it clear he’s watching my every move, no matter where I go. But then he almost mows me down outside the stadium, just to remind me to keep my mouth shut or else?

  Right—because I’d been planning on blabbing to the whole world that I’m guilty of multiple counts of felony aircraft theft.

  I’m still thinking about all this as I speed down US-6 toward my office on this warm desert morning. All the windows of my Camaro are down, and the highway air feels refreshing and invigorating as it blasts my face.

  I take the exit for Tonopah Airport. I pull into the main entrance.

  And I immediately slam on my brakes.

  Oh, my God. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  Parked in front of my hangar is a black SUV—with government plates. Arturo and some other crew guys are being interviewed by a man and a woman in dark suits, with gold badges and holstered sidearms clipped to their belts.

  The feds?

  Stay calm, Jack. If the government was raiding the place, taking us down, even just executing a search warrant, there’d be a whole throng of them. Right? A SWAT team. A chopper. But I only see two. Asking questions, looking around, taking notes.

  Not a great sign, don’t get me wrong. But way better than the alternative.

  I consider pulling a U-turn and driving away. Coming back later after they’ve left. But one of the agents turns and sees my vehicle. Oh, well. It’s probably smarter to act cool and cooperative anyway rather than edgy and evasive. So I pull my Camaro up to the hangar, put it in park, and casually step out. Don’t screw this up, I tell myself.

  “John Flynn?” the male suit asks, sizing me up. He’s fairly tall, trim, with square-rimmed glasses framing a stern oval face.

  “John was my father,” I say. “I go by Jack. How can I help?”

  “I’m Special Agent Aaron Laurito, FBI. This is my partner, Special Agent Jessica Weiss. We’re investigating a string of private corporate jet thefts over the past few months. Most recently, one was taken outside Seattle. At gunpoint. Witnesses say the two pilots bore a striking resemblance to you and your younger brother.”

  Oh, shit. Maybe this is why León warned me to keep my mouth shut?

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, cool as can be, “about the plane and the coincidence. I can assure you, Cole and I had nothing to do with it.”

  I gesture to Arturo and the others. Many of them have served time in prison and understand the value of a solid alibi. I know they’ll have my back in a heartbeat.

  “Ask any of these guys,” I continue. “They’ll tell you I’ve been working alongside them just about all day and night for months.”

  “Yes, your employees have been very helpful,” Agent Laurito replies. “Still, we’d like to take a look at all your maintenance and flight logs for the two weeks before and after the incident. Your landline and cell-phone records as well, if you don’t mind.”

  Wow. That’s an awful lot to ask for without a warrant. How do I play this?

  Turning down their request could look suspicious. And Cole and I did cover and re-cover our tracks meticulously. It’s still a huge risk, though. But I have to take it.

  “If it helps your investigation,” I say with a grin, “I’d be happy to provide them.”

  “We appreciate it, Mr. Flynn,” Agent Laurito says. “And any security-camera footage from that period would be great, too. Frankly, if we can get your faces on tape during the time the theft occurred, we can clear you two lickety-split.”

  My smile falters. We don’t have any security cameras installed. I explain as much to the agents, not mentioning that this is precisely the reason we don’t have them.

  Agent Weiss finally pipes up. “Is that so?”

  She gestures toward the hangar’s open doors. The inside is packed with spare plane parts and electronics, not to mention the unfinished Buckeye up on the rack.

  “There must be a few million dollars’ worth of equipment in there,” she says. “You’re really telling me the only security system you’ve got is a lock and key?”

  She’s correct. About both. But I just shrug.

  “Like I said, ma’am, I practically live here. Maybe some folks have trouble holding on to their planes. Not me.”

  Agent Weiss nods, but she’s clearly not convinced. “Yes…tell me about that plane of yours. Building and maintaining it can’t be cheap. And by the looks of it, your aircraft-repair business isn’t exactly booming. How can you possibly afford it?”

  Damn, these agents are sneaky. But I know I can’t let them see me sweat.

  “I make money all kinds of ways. Private flight lessons. Pilot-for-hire jobs. Race winnings. You’re welcome to look at my books and see for yourself.”

  Agents Laurito and Weiss look at each other instead. The former hands me his business card. “Send me those logs and records when you can. We’ll be in touch.”

  The two climb into their black SUV and drive off, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them.

  “Hijo de puta!” Arturo exclaims, finally showing his nerves. “What now, boss?”

  That’s a damn good question.

  The answer could mean the difference between freedom and prison…or worse.

  Chapter 18

  In an instant, John’s cockpit is engulfed in searing flames.

  He pulls the windshield-release lever, and the glass top goes flying off. But the smoke is still billowing too much for him to see a thing—except for the ground, coming up fast. He yanks hard on the yoke, trying desperately to soften his crash landing.…

  When he hears a strange digital trilling somewhere inside the cockpit.

  In all his years of flying, John has never heard this warning buzzer before. It’s getting louder, louder, drowning out all the other instruments and alarms. Where the hell is it coming from?

  Outside, the ground is getting closer, and now the entire plane is starting to vibrate. The trilling is almost deafening. His plane is about to crash.

  I let out a piercing scream as my torso shoots up in bed, drenched in sweat.


  That nightmare about my father’s death again!

  It’s haunted me my entire adult life—but it’s never ended like that before, with that strange digital noise filling the cockpit and the body of the plane buzzing. I start to wonder what it could possibly mean.

  Then I figure it out.

  On my nightstand my cell phone is ringing and vibrating.

  It’s after three a.m., so I know it’s either a very wrong number…or a very bad sign.

  I look at the screen: Unknown Caller. What a surprise.

  I decide to let it go to voice mail. When the ringing stops, I see I already have four other missed calls tonight from that blocked number. Then the phone starts ringing yet again.

  I know I can’t ignore it much longer.

  Fearing the worst, I answer it.

  “Buenos días, Señor Flynn.”

  It’s—who else?—Mr. León.

  My fists clench tightly. And not just because of the low growl of León’s voice. Dialing my public office line during business hours is one thing. But now, at this ungodly hour, he’s somehow got hold of my personal, unlisted cell-phone number?

  My mind starts racing along with my pulse. I’m filled with dread—but also rage. This guy has finally crossed a line. I’m sick of being pushed around by him.

  “Listen, León, or whatever the hell your name is,” I say, startled but encouraged by the toughness of my own tone, “I don’t know what you’re doing to me. Or why. But this is not how our relationship works. Showing up everywhere I go, calling me in the middle of the night on my private number, almost killing me and my friends with your fancy car! It all stops now. Do you hear me? Or maybe I’ll tell the two badge-toting visitors who stopped by my work the other day all about our arrangement. How would you like that?”

  There’s a long pause on the other end of the line.

  For a moment I worry that I’ve pushed León too far. That I’ve just bitten the hand that’s been feeding me—and it’s about to slap me hard.