He'd lost situation awareness, what had dominated his mind for the last four years, even when he was enjoying a short stay in bed with a female, once two, who'd followed him back from the beach, giggling, wanting to ask about his scars and the big tattoo on his shoulder. Where was he now? Why was his head spinning, oh yeah, champagne, too much, married, I'm...
“I love you,” Cathy whispered and moved over him, her small, delicate fingers ran up and down his cock like she'd done it for him since they'd gone through puberty. How did she... learn... ahhh. He couldn't finish his thoughts, didn't want to, with her enchanting face filling his eyes, her warm body with her firm breasts and flat belly settling down on his, guiding him in so he could lay there and enjoy the show, a level of pleasure and relaxation she created, only her. His tears welled up again, feeling his shame at keeping her waiting all those years, stupid, when he could have had this, with her, all effortless and right, what they both wanted more than anything. It was the first time he'd felt no doubt at all relating to another human, no Bowie skepticism and bluster that was built in and sprang up when anyone approached and started talking. Who the hell is this? What's his game.
There was no game here, only warmth and love she gave him without a hint of reciprocity or debt, as much as he wanted, or needed, feeling his sorrow again, because all his feelings were just below the surface, with her, making him feel safe. That was it, what drove everything else, how protected this shy, happy woman made him feel, replacing his grandmother in his heart, now she was gone forever, the other female who'd made him feel this, but not as strongly or completely.
A soldier treasures safety more than anything else, in the field and here at home, the basis of rest and mental expansion, following rational threads wherever they led.
“Hey, front and center,” she giggled lightly, amazed he could look at her with such defenseless vulnerability, because of his confidence and strength, not yet taking credit for her contribution to his sense of security and peace.
“Were we doing something?” his lame humor let her frown instead of some canned response, anything was okay, failure was impossible. It made her feel safe too, in a female way, like he'd destroy anything that threatened her or her brood they'd make if they kept doing this, stuffing her very fertile body with loads of sperm.
“Have you ever checked to see if your sperm are fertile?” the champagne let her ideas pop out as soon as they appeared, if she wanted to know she asked, like he was a seer or an oracle, the google of the ancients.
“Well, there were the three women I knocked up, but they were primitives who ate them later, very tasty, so they said.” He was goofy when he felt like this, able to say whatever popped up in his mind as well.
“Gross,” she rolled her eyes, amusing her was the hardest thing he'd tried all night, making him wish he could be charming, a wordsmith who could talk the ladies into bed, like many of his team mates. They'd left a few ladies swelling with more than pride when their R&R was over the last time they hit Australia. “I'm serious,” then she stared at him hard so he wouldn't say, 'glad to meet you miss serious'. Could humor be taught?
Her pussy hurt, not from being opened up or the size of his manly cock. They'd been doing it, since she hated the word 'fuck' when applied to her love for Jabo, their love making. How long had they been going? She was in good shape and he'd make a movie idol with rippling muscles look flabby. Eight hours? Was that possible?
“I'm done,” he rolled over on top of her, tender, so gentle then brutal when he sensed she wanted it that way. They'd tried every position and passion, even spanking and gnawing at her breasts which were still burning when they lay against each other, kissing and moving slower and slower. He looked in her eyes, settling that question without words.
“Me too, if you're not shooting blanks I think we made a few goobers tonight.”
“Goobers?” then it was clear she was inept at humor sometimes as he was all the time.
“You know, little Jabo's and Cathies,” she felt her pussy as he pulled out, grabbing at his penis which he let her hold, and squeeze until his face tightened, showing her he was as raw as she was.
“I thought they were going be Sul-Ross-Bateman-Smith-Bowies,” he hated hyphenated names, thought they were pretentious and here he'd gone and married a hyphenator, possible spreading the contagion to his own children.
“Yeah, like I care,” she kissed his nose, loving how she could give him things like this, unimportant to her, but legacy to him. “They're all going to be Bowies, no damned hyphens, no middle names that carry on the past.” His face darkened, remembering his dead Grandparents, making him the last of the line, until his children appeared to take on his familial burden of celebrity, at least in Texas. “What was your Grandmother's name?”
“Ann Marie, Compton, but she liked Bowie,” he kissed her gently, thanking her for understanding him once again, “like you do, right?”
“Oh I guess, but only cause it's famous, the Alamo and all that,” he turned back to look at her, knowing this was a teasing challenge. Did she want to do it again? Her eyes flashed, Damn! She does, lucky me.
Chapter Four
If you die, you're dead
Anonymous
The airplane ride had proceeded silently, with no small talk after the pilot had asked his challenge question and got the right answer. It was basic trade craft for Vladimir, like wearing the safety belt he'd clicked on then checked the small plane's light weight passenger door, twice, assuring himself it was latched. It was impossible to wear a parachute for the ride, but he wanted to. Flying in a small plane scared him and he wished he'd specified a twin engine instead of this single one that droned on but caught or sputtered occasionally, nothing that bothered the pilot so Vladimir forced himself to ignore it as well.
His payment was already completed, stored in a canvas bag the pilot had tossed in his luggage area behind the front seats. The pilot had let the killer pat him down, finding his keys and a small knife that was useless unless the man was highly trained in blade work, which he doubted. A small time criminal who'd flown drugs around the country, Vladimir was another job he had no particular interest in knowing about.
“No talking, I don't want him to ask me anything, agreed?”
The contact he'd talked to said he'd pass it along, peeling off a few thousand of the ten thousand dollar fee for himself, the cut out if anything went wrong, protecting the pilot and the passenger from knowing each other. After paying for the gas, there and back, plus a carry out dinner he'd eaten flying down, he'd make over seven thousand five hundred. Not bad for a day's work, so he'd kept his mouth shut, hoping the guy would hire him again. His going rate was half what this foreign looking guy was paying, making him a prime customer – golden.
“November Five Three Four Lima, entering Lancaster Control space, five miles south Angels three, descending, straight in approach, any traffic? Any traffic Lancaster approach, four miles, Angels two..." the pilot talked himself into the uncontrolled airport, using his radio to warn any other pilots in the same area he was going to land soon and to adjust their own flight paths to avoid his. When he was close the airport landing lights turned on, activated by a radio frequency and two clicks on the mike. They'd stay on for fifteen minutes then automatically turn off. There weren't any height problems coming in or anyone to drive out to the airplane when he landed gently then turned to the taxiway on the far side of the landing strip where a rental car awaited Vladimir.
"What was all this about?" the pilot asked, wanting to know this mysterious man's business, a question he'd been warned not to ask. But he felt confident it wouldn't cause a problem, feeling a certain camaraderie had blossomed on the flight from the Big Bend area up to south Dallas. He was curious, a simple human urge, the same thing that had motivated Vladimir when prepared to torture the young girl's father before he'd been forced to hurriedly kill them. He still wanted to know why he'd been paid so extravagantly for this hit, but that opportunity had passed.
For the pilot it was curiosity that killed the cat.
"I'm a contract killer and I just finished a job. You understand?" His face was friendly, an expression he'd learned to make using a mirror since the internal feeling that normally made it spring to life on most people's faces was rarely present in his, except when he was having fun, playing his special game with a special girl.
"Oh, really?" the pilot's interest was obvious, what he'd been thinking about the entire flight but hadn't mentioned, until now. What was the big deal, they were all criminals, selling drugs meant people died as well, not that he'd killed anyone. His open ended question was his last. The same small .22 automatic, that Vladimir was never without, slipped down the inside of his loose sleeve, carried in a sliding rail, mounted on his forearm. The rig was exactly like the one in the movie 'Taxi Driver', used for the same reason – stealth and rapid use, as well as constant availability. A twist of his wrist and the small caliber weapon of death fell into his hand as he dropped his arm alongside the light front passenger seat in the airplane, moving his body like he was stretching to work out the kinks from sitting so long.
"Got to go, thank you," he lifted his hand like he was going to shake and pointed the gun at the pilot's head. The small .22 auto made a large sound in the small cabin, producing a surprisingly bright flare of light that left him blinking, the reason Vladimir had left on the headphones and his sunglasses until now. The round penetrated the pilot's temple making a small hole that quickly dribbled blood that ran down to drip around his ear. The sound and impetus of the small lead bullet made his head snap to the side, an amazing feat that never ceased to stun and amaze Vladimir, then the instantly dead man drooped in the seat, falling over toward the passenger side where Vladimir was sitting, forcing him to push him back up. Sitting up, the dead pilot's head dropped forward in a silent prayer. Vladimir left the pilot's body hanging by his seat belt as he opened the passenger door. The only sound was his blood that patted quietly on the soft leather between his thighs, running down to make a red pool on the metal floorboard at his feet.
Vladimir looked out through the Plexiglas windshield across the airport, searching for any response to the light pop of his gun, muffled by the closed cabin of the small aircraft that sat next to a farmer's field abutting the small municipal airport. Checking the pilot's body one more time, assured it was stable where it was, Vladimir unbuckled and climbed out, taking a deep breath and smelling the mix of light industrial pollution and lush green farm crops sharing the same, flat land. For all their environmental claptrap, the Americans were just like everyone else when it came to business and efficiency.
Walking around the front of the airplane, giving the still prop plenty of space, he felt a small shudder when he remembered pushing a man into a spinning propeller to end his life, making it look accidental, as requested. It had made his victim's upper body vaporize, leaving his legs standing for a second, then they crumpled to the ground. It was an image he'd never forgotten and always came up when he went near any plane with propellers.
Opening the pilot's door he reached in, leaving it ajar as he leaned in, reaching around the dead body harnessed to the front seat, groping for the storage bin in the back until he felt the small canvas gym bag the pilot had tossed there, retrieving it to get his money back. He tossed it on the taxiway, where it slid to the edge of the pavement. Still at the pilot's door he stepped up on the small landing on the wheel spar, climbing inside to sit on the dead man's knees. He pulled the plane's throttle back after he started the warm engine easily, advancing the throttle so the propeller spun up quickly, producing a stiff wind as he hung out halfway, hanging on the door, using it as a wind shield, half sitting on the dead man's lap so he could steer the plane with its rudder pedals which braked the wheels individually, so it steered like a tank he'd enjoyed driving back in the Soviet Army years ago. He turned the plane off the taxiway so it perched at the end of the runway, bouncing slightly, like it was eager to take off.
The flaps were still down and he spun the trim tab all the way down so the nose would lift up as it gathered speed, insuring the plane would rise at low speed without anyone at the controls. The trimmed up nose was all he needed to make the plane take off by itself at full power and flaps. Taking his time, listening to the guard frequency the dead pilot had set on the radio, he worried about another plane coming in like they had. He ran the small plane to the other end of the runway so it would take off into the light wind. There he slowed down and spun the plane around so it sat pointing North again, the same direction they'd been going in when they'd landed. The quick turn left the small single engine plane at the end of the long runway, where it was barely moving, the engine idling again. A little fussing with the brakes to tweak the direction and the light plane pointed directly down the long runway, twice as long as he needed for his next trick.
Checking all was in order, he grabbed the mike and called out "November Five Three Four Lima taking off Lancaster runway 31, any traffic?" Scratchy silence then he heard a voice identifying another plane coming in, eight miles out, South of the airport, far enough he could see his plane take off, a witness that would cover his tracks nicely. The other pilot acknowledged his signal and call sign, using the numbers and the last letter Lima. "Guess you'll have time to get up and gone before I get there."
"Roger that, I'm gone," his Texas accent would impress anyone who heard his normal Slavic version of English, one of his hobbies, imitating life, in this case local dialects and vocal qualities. It helped him blend in, disappear when he was on a job, becoming invisible, just another person in the crowd.
Making sure the trim tab was spun full back, enough to make the plane lift off, combined with the full flaps, without anyone at the controls, he jerked the throttle back, then slammed the door shut, backing away so the rear elevator wing wouldn't clip him as the small plane with its powerful single engine raced down the runway, nearly going off the strip before it achieved lift off at sixty miles an hour, when the paved runway fell away and the plane took off on its last flight. After it rose up he started jogging back to his rental car on the taxiway, a few hundred meters away.
It didn't matter where it crashed or if the body would burn up and hide the small bullet he'd shot into the pilot's brain, but that would be a nice bonus if it did. It was more a joke coming from someone like him, a plane flying along at slow speed entering the controlled airspace of Dallas where a very busy airport sat, just a mile North of downtown. It would drive the air controllers crazy if it wandered over the large, very busy airport just north of downtown, Love Field, where he'd flown in and soon, out, saving money on the local, upstart airline – Southwest – his destination now.
Parsimonious though fairly rich, it fit his personality, the son of extremely poor potato farmers from the hinterlands of Russia. Spending more than necessary grated at his soul, not that he had one, but he cared about money, tool that bought tools. The way the regional Airline packed people into the planes then gave them just enough to keep them docile – a single coke and a small packet of nuts – reminded him of Aeroflot, which didn't even do that. If you landed in one piece you were happy with that airline, which he never flew unless it was absolutely the only one available, it was like playing Russian roulette, you never knew until the hammer dropped or the wheels chirped on landing.
After the other plane landed then taxied away, on the other side of the landing strip, hopefully not noticing his dark rental sitting on the grass by the taxiway, he reached into the rental car to pop the trunk, using a lever by the driver's seat to retrieve his suitcase, the one with a new change of clothes. Moving quickly he stripped, changed into his new costume, western this time with blue jeans then he bagged the things he'd worn over the last day, doing the job, tossing them in a black plastic trash bag he later dropped in a dumpster he saw driving through the small town next to the airport, hoping it would be dumped today, not that it mattered much.
This far from his handiwork in West Texas the clue
s wouldn't match up to anything the local authorities knew about until it was too late, just like the plane crash. The small aircraft would fall out of the sky, gliding down on its random course North when the tanks in the airplane ran dry in an hour or less, since they'd been emptied by the long ride up from the dirt strip where he'd been picked up. A plane crashes and burns, a man, the pilot, is dead, next story, no mention of the fact an infamous hit man had used it to disappear from his latest job. Who could figure something like that out in time?
That's how Vladimir operated, everything nice and tidy, including the reservation he'd made a week ago for the flight out of Dallas, the last one before they closed the airport at ten. An airport that closed at night, very strange to a man from Europe where life didn't stop because the majority were sleeping. He'd stay up the entire three hour flight to Atlanta, where he'd catch a hop to Copenhagen, sleeping on the way, with a blindfold provided by an aging blond stewardess who'd keep his icy vodka refreshed, hoping the lean, impeccably dressed man would notice her.
SAS offered the cheapest flight, one that flew on to Moscow where he landed exactly thirty two hours after he'd blown up the Border Patrol station, killing everyone, as far as he'd known.
Hell To Pay Page 14