Stealing Gulfstreams

by James Patterson

  But as we taxi the Cessna toward an empty slot on the far side, I notice a convoy of silver BMWs speeding through the front entrance.

  The feds typically don’t drive luxury vehicles.

  Which means it’s gotta be León.

  When I sent him the encrypted message saying where I’d be stashing his plane, I mostly did it as a kind of insurance policy. I decided that if León was going to start accosting me in public and giving me coded orders over my open cell-phone line, I was going to start subtly linking him to the crimes as well.

  I didn’t think he’d actually risk showing up.

  At least, not personally.

  I get a bad feeling as Cole and I shut down the engines, peel off our latex gloves, remove our pilot outfits, still damp with sweat, and climb out of the Cessna.

  The three BMWs are just pulling up in front of the plane, kicking up a cloud of dust. As we climb down the retractable stairs, León and his entourage of burly bodyguards get out and approach us.

  “Hola, gentlemen,” León says with his usual Cheshire-cat grin. “What a nice coincidence this is.”

  “I see you got my message,” I say.

  “I did,” he answers. “I believe you asked for this?”

  One of the bodyguards standing near Cole tosses my brother a small sack. He unzips it. Inside is a heap of cash—but clearly less than Cole was expecting.

  “This is a joke, right?” he snaps. “You’re stiffing us again?”

  Normally I’d intervene and tell Cole to calm down. But if León really is fleecing us a second time in a row, especially after all we went through…

  “I am being more generous than either of you deserve,” León replies calmly.

  Then, in a flash, he pulls a handgun from his belt and aims it right at us, a silver Desert Eagle that glints in the scorching Nevada sun.

  “You goddamn fools!” he yells.

  Cole flinches, drops the bag, and holds up his hands.

  I’m just as terrified—but I don’t move a muscle. I refuse to.

  “First you risk exposing me online,” León hisses. “Then you take a joyride in my plane through the streets of San Francisco? You are lucky I don’t kill you both right here!”

  “I promise you, Mr. León,” I answer, “we took no joy in it. If you’d gone through the usual channels, given us more time to prepare—”

  “Bullshit!” he barks.

  He cocks the hammer of his pistol, ready to shoot.

  “Go ahead,” I say, struggling to keep my nerves at bay. “It won’t matter. Dead or alive, we’re never stealing another plane for you. Never. We’re through.”

  With a huff of rage, I throw down my pilot uniform, grab the bag of money, and start marching toward the airport’s main gate.

  I’m hoping to show this maniac I’m not afraid of him.

  But I’m also hoping he’s too much of a man to shoot me in the back.

  “Flynn!” León bellows. “You know you cannot walk away from this!”

  Part of me does know that. We’re in too deep. León is too powerful, too invested in us, to let us off the hook that easily.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t try.

  Chapter 23

  That night I don’t sleep a wink—and for the first time in years, it isn’t because of my recurring nightmare about my father’s death.

  I keep thinking about León and his chilling words.

  About the upcoming National Championship Air Races, just around the corner.

  About FBI Agents Laurito and Weiss, now surely working overtime to find us.

  About Cole, whom I’m dragging along on my quest to win this race.

  About Natalie, still an alluring mystery.

  About Arturo and the rest of my maintenance crew, the closest thing to extended family I’ve got.

  About my business, which would barely break even without León’s dirty money.

  And about my life—now under threat from all sides.

  When the clock on my nightstand hits five a.m. and the sun is just starting to rise, I decide to get out of bed and head to Tonopah. I want to tinker with my Buckeye. Or maybe I’ll just push some papers around in my office.

  Anything to keep my hands busy while my mind races and churns.

  I pull up in my Camaro and am surprised to see Natalie’s red vintage Mustang already parked in front of my trailer.

  Then I see Natalie herself. She’s wearing oil-stained jeans and a ratty black tank top. Her silky hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail. She’s sitting on the steps of my trailer…waiting for me?

  “Sorry, ma’am,” I say. “We don’t open for another few hours.”

  But Natalie isn’t in a joking mood. At all. She rises and gets right in my face.

  “I know it was you. You and your jackass brother. You’re both idiots!”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, trying to calm her down. “What are you talking ab—”

  “Cut the shit, Jack. It’s all over the news. Look.”

  She holds up an iPad and plays a YouTube clip. A redhead is standing on a bustling city street, speaking into a microphone.

  “I’m Colleen Taylor, reporting live from downtown San Francisco, where earlier today a private business jet, believed stolen from a nearby airfield, led an Air Force fighter on a jaw-dropping chase across the city, causing panic on the ground and chaos in the skies, especially in the airspace above SFO.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that,” I say. “Pretty wild. But what does it—”

  “Shut up and watch.”

  “News Channel Nine has obtained this exclusive eyewitness footage showing the fugitive daredevil pilots in action.”

  My heart skips a beat as a shaky cell-phone video starts to play.

  Taken by an office worker, probably, inside a tower, it shows our Cessna zooming wildly between buildings, with just a few feet on either side of our wings.

  Then the video freeze-frames.

  On a grainy but unmistakable close-up on the windshield.

  Of me and Cole.

  Uh-oh.

  Chapter 24

  “The two are believed to be retired military aviators,” the reporter continues, “or possibly stunt pilots, in their mid-fifties to early sixties. If you have any information…”

  I know Cole and I have done our share of hard living, but we don’t look that bad.

  Maybe I forgot to mention it, but before we got out of our car and strolled up to the Petaluma security gate, we didn’t just put on pilot uniforms. We also donned some heavy, realistic “aging” makeup. Salt-and-pepper beards. Even fake bushy eyebrows.

  And judging from the video, our disguises look pretty damn good! I’ve been staring at my mug in the mirror for thirty-something years, and even I don’t recognize myself.

  “Wow,” I say, still trying to play it cool, “they can really fly.”

  “Gimme a break,” Natalie snarls. “There are only a few dozen people on the planet who could have pulled off that kinda flying. You and Cole are two of them. And I was here all day yesterday. Neither of you showed up once. How do you explain that?”

  I still try to stay casual. Who knows if I can trust this enigmatic woman? Who knows who she really is? I’m definitely not taking any chances.

  “I bet Arturo and the gang would say otherwise,” I reply.

  “Yeah, I bet they would,” Natalie answers, resigned. She kicks some gravel, more disappointed than angry. “I thought you were a racer, Jack. You lied to me.”

  “Hey,” I say, grabbing her bare arm and spinning her to face me. “I am.”

  “Why would you risk throwing your whole life away?”

  “This is my life!” I cry out, startled by the passion in my voice. I think Natalie is, too. “It…it’s who I am. I don’t have a choice.”

  “You do, Jack,” Natalie says, placing her hand on top of mine. “Just like your father did. He made his own decisions. And you can make yours.”

  “You don’t understand!”
I snap, brushing her hand away.

  But Natalie doesn’t back down.

  “I do understand, Jack. I really do. I know what it’s like to devote your life to something bigger than yourself.” Then she adds, “So if there’s ever anything I can do to help…”

  For a few seconds I’m speechless. The way she’s saying it…is Natalie serious? Maybe I’ve misread her yet again. Whoever this woman is, and whatever she really wants, she’s getting more mysterious by the day.

  More alluring, too. With the glowing sun rising behind her, I’m tempted to lean in and give her a kiss.

  Instead, Natalie steps back. Turns. And starts walking toward her car.

  “Catch you ’round, Captain Jack,” she calls, climbing into her Mustang.

  Then once again, this puzzling creature is gone.

  Chapter 25

  Bang bang bang!

  A pounding at the door of my cramped, sweltering apartment jars me awake.

  After a long day at work on basically zero sleep, I left early, entrusting Arturo and the gang to finish repairing the engine of an old Piper PA-25—our only legit gig so far this whole week. As soon as I got home, I cracked open a beer, flopped down on my sagging couch, and turned on the Cardinals game. My father was born in St. Louis and raised me to be a loyal fan.

  But I must have dozed off. Because the game is long over now; the TV is playing the evening news. And I’m still holding a full beer in my hand—except it’s warm, and it’s left a giant wet spot of condensation on the cushion next to me.

  Bang bang bang bang!

  The knocking continues. Then I hear a man calling out:

  “Flynn, open the door! FBI!”

  Ah, shit.

  I take a tiny bit of comfort in knowing that they’re probably not here to arrest me or even search the place. Otherwise, they’d have already busted down the door and cuffed me. If they’ve got a warrant, the feds definitely don’t knock.

  So what the hell do they want?

  “Yeah, all right, I’m coming!” I holler back.

  Groggily, I stagger to my feet. I set down my warm beer, shuffle over, and look through the peephole.

  Sure enough, standing outside are Agents Laurito and Weiss, wearing the same dark, cheap suits they probably sleep in. Looking serious. And angry.

  I take a deep breath. Then I unlock and open the door.

  “Evening,” I say. “What brings you two to my humble home?”

  Laurito peers inside at my dingy furnishings and practically recoils. “‘Humble’ is putting it mildly.”

  For a second I consider telling him how with all the money I’ve made from León over the past few months, I could afford better.

  But what I actually say is “I’m a pilot, not an interior designer. So to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Cut the bullshit, Jack,” Weiss snarls. “We know everything. What you and your brother have been up to. Stealing planes. Laundering money through your phony business. And that dogfight over San Francisco? You two aren’t just criminals. You’re psychopaths!”

  As Agent Weiss speaks, I struggle to keep as neutral a face as possible. When she’s done, I reply, “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. In fact, I heard the two pilots of that Cessna were practically geriatric.”

  “You’re a funny guy, Jack,” says Laurito. He takes a step closer to me so his gruff face is just inches from mine. I can literally see beads of sweat on his upper lip on top of his five o’clock shadow. “Let’s see if you’re still laughing when you and Cole are sharing a cell for twenty years at Victorville.”

  His partner picks up the thread again: “We’re here as a one-time courtesy. Be straight with us. Come clean. Help us, and we’ll help you. We’ll make a deal. Otherwise we’ll be back. And you and your brother are going away.”

  On the inside, I’ll admit I’m freaking out a little. Make that a lot. These guys don’t have enough to bust me yet—but they’re obviously starting to put the pieces together.

  On the outside? I just smile and shake my head.

  “Agents, I think this is all a big misunderstanding.”

  “You know what? Maybe it is,” Laurito says, “if you think we actually give two shits about the Flynn brothers. Use your head here, Jack. A pair of thieves baking out in the desert? The only thing the Bureau cares about is the man you’re selling to.”

  “We’ll do whatever it takes to get him,” Weiss says. “And he’ll do whatever it takes to get away. Even if that means taking out his number one supplier.”

  “Especially if he thinks you’re on our side,” Laurito adds. “You’ll be begging for a death as short and painless as a plane crash. You get me?”

  I quietly simmer over that last line, a deliberate reference to my father. But I refuse to take the bait—even though I know he’s right. Me and Cole, we’re just pawns. To the feds and to León. Either one would screw us—or kill us—in an instant.

  “Nice talking to you both,” I say, then literally slam the door in their faces.

  I watch through the peephole as Laurito and Weiss exchange a look, turn, and march back to their black SUV parked in my driveway. They get in and drive off.…

  And I let out the longest exhale of my life.

  I’m so screwed.

  Chapter 26

  “One bourbon on the rocks…and one Flaming B-52.”

  The bartender sets down two drinks in front of Cole and me. Mine is in a tumbler, simple and classic. My brother’s is in an oversized shot glass, multicolored, triple-layered, and quite literally ablaze.

  Cole lifts his and, with a flourish, blows out the blue flame on top. I roll my eyes.

  “Named after an airplane on fire,” I say. “As if we needed more bad luck.”

  “Hey,” answers Cole with his trademark smirk. “When in Chrome…”

  Chrome is the name of the trendy bar and nightclub we’re in, just a few blocks off the Strip. I’d wanted to spend the weekend in the hangar, fine-tuning our Buckeye’s air-brake servo actuator, which hasn’t been sealing properly. But after I told Cole about my nerve-racking visit from the FBI the other night, he insisted we do something fun on Saturday to take my mind off it. So, despite my protests, we piled into his car and drove the few hours to Vegas.

  “I don’t even want to think what this night is gonna cost us,” I say. “Forget that surf-and-turf dinner. These drinks alone are probably—”

  “Can’t you quit worrying about money for one minute?” Cole demands.

  “Sure,” I say, “if we had more of it. Sorry for not wanting to make it rain when we still need to buy that new igniter box and some new inner fan ducting. And don’t forget, we should probably lie low for a while. If we get any more special requests from you-know-who, I say we tell him no. Which means cash is about to get even tighter.”

  Cole shrugs and takes a sip from his ridiculous cocktail, giving himself a thick mustache of Irish cream that he doesn’t wipe off. I can’t help but smile, despite myself.

  But then I say, “I’m serious, Cole. What are we gonna do?”

  “I said I’d help you,” says a chipper female voice behind me.

  I spin around on my barstool. It’s Natalie, wearing a tight black dress and glittering emerald earrings. As always, dressed up or down, she’s a knockout.

  She gives me a cute wink hello. Then she greets Cole with a kiss! Hard to tell if it’s on his cheek or lips—and if it’s genuine affection or she’s just trying to get a rise out of me. Either way, it’s startling. And I try my best to hide my envy.

  “Of all the gin joints in the world…” she says, gesturing to get the bartender’s attention and mouthing her order.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Cole told me you guys were coming out tonight. He invited me, too. Sorry I’m late. I just drove in from Mojave.”

  The Mojave Desert? That’s where another Red Bull qualifying air race was being held this weekend. I’d decided to skip it.
/>   “I didn’t know you were going,” I say. “Were you competing or just watching?”

  “Neither,” Natalie says with a cheeky little grin. “I was winning.”

  “No shit!” Cole happily exclaims.

  “Yep. Imagine that. A girl at the top of the Red Bull championship board.”

  “Congratulations, Natalie,” I say. “Really. Well done. You should be proud.”

  “Thanks, guys,” she says. “And you will be, too. When you win.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I wave my hand dismissively, not wanting her to jinx anything.

  “I mean it,” Natalie insists. “And I meant what I said before, too.”

  I give Natalie a curious look. She can’t be serious about wanting to help us, can she? Because I have to wonder, What the hell is in it for her?

  The bartender sets down Natalie’s drink. It’s a pale lavender color in a martini glass, with a bright red cherry at the bottom. I recognize it right away. Made with gin and violet liqueur, it’s called an Aviation.

  “You two with your clever drink orders.”

  Natalie savors a long sip of her purple concoction. “Think about what I said. You don’t seem to trust me, and I get it. I showed up out of nowhere, and you have an operation that works. But I want the same things you do—I might even want them more. That’s why I’m here. You can take my help or leave it.”

  This is the second tempting but dangerous deal I’ve been offered this week.

  Except that this one I might actually accept.

  Chapter 27

  Another scorching, sleepless night. Another predawn drive to Tonopah Airport. Another vain attempt to calm my anxious mind by working on my beloved plane.

  I pull up outside my office trailer just as the sun is rising. This time Natalie isn’t here waiting for me. In fact, I don’t see another soul on the whole airfield.

  After flipping on the coffee machine, I wake my desktop computer from sleep mode to check my work e-mail—and my stomach drops.

  On my screen is a notification from the encrypted online message board I use to communicate with León. (When he’s not calling me in the middle of the night or showing up to scare me in person, that is.)