Takeoff

by Joseph Reid

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Joseph Patrick Reid

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503949133 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1503949133 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781503949126 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1503949125 (paperback)

  Cover design by Damon Freeman

  First Edition

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Wednesday, July 15

  Everything changed when the blood struck my right cheek.

  Prior to that moment, the cross-country flight had been completely routine. Well, other than having a sixteen-year-old girl in tow. As a federal air marshal, I always traveled alone. Of course, she was the reason for my trip that day. And, technically, I wasn’t an air marshal anymore.

  At least, not like before.

  Exiting baggage claim at LAX had felt, as always, like approaching the mouth of a tremendous cave. Out past the lanes of traffic, where the overhanging ceiling stops short of the parking garage, golden sunshine trickled down to a few stunted palms. Their fronds danced weakly back and forth—likely more from the passing cars than anything else, but enough to tantalize with the possibility of fresh air and a breeze.

  Stuck back by the doors, though, we were still bathed in shadow, overhead fluorescents providing the same dim light they’d emit at midnight. The concrete beneath our feet, stained sooty brown, couldn’t help but give you ideas about what the cloud of acrid exhaust trapped beneath the overhang was doing as it filled your nostrils.

  It was good to be home.

  At least for a second.

  The girl and I had only taken two steps out the door when the suits started toward us from their van idling at the edge of the curb. Five guys, bulky with muscle and the vests you could see beneath their clothes.

  They’d been waiting for us.

  But they weren’t the only ones. While no one paid it any attention at first, a black SUV pulled in just behind the FBI van.

  As the lead suit drew up to us, he raised a badge and announced himself as Special Agent John Moore. “You must be Walker.”

  “How’d you guess?” I asked.

  Moore chuckled. “Tattoos, shaved head. Dressed like you just flew in from Cancún. Franklin told me to look for the guy I’d want to frisk for drugs.” Then he turned to the girl. “Which means you must be Max.”

  Her name was the last word Moore ever spoke.

  The blood that struck me wasn’t a remarkably large amount. Just a few drops, really. But the way the spatter erupted from Moore’s throat, it had the same effect as a left hook thrown by one of those cage fighters you see on TV: it turned my head, drove me down. I fought to keep my eyes forward, trained on the girl and the bright flashes from the black SUV, but everything blurred.

  Understand, I’m no stranger to guns. I grew up with them, and the past few years, the Sig Sauer P229 on my hip has been my steadiest travel companion. Until recently, I’d put at least a hundred rounds on target every other day, and that was on top of the paintball simulations we ran in a mocked-up aircraft cabin once a week.

  But here’s the thing about all that: I’m used to being the one slinging bullets in the opposite direction, not dropping to dodge a hail of screaming metal. In fact, before this particular day, I’d only ever been shot at once: six weeks prior, by a crazy woman in a lightning storm. A single shooter, at night, one semiautomatic pistol to worry about in limited visibility.

  Nothing at all like facing three submachine guns, point-blank in broad daylight.

  As my body followed my cheek around and down, I reached for the girl, who’d moved slightly ahead of me on the way to the FBI vehicle. My fingers found fabric somehow, and I dragged it with me. Turned out to be Max’s hoodie. She landed on top of me in a heap, then rolled off sideways.

  I glanced over, worried she might try to stand, but she stayed put. Flattened herself on her stomach.

  Good girl. Smartest move she’d made all day.

  Max looked at me, eyes wide. The gunfire had managed to wipe clean all the attitude and superiority she’d shown since we’d met eight hours earlier. Those wide eyes, normally a crisp, cornflower blue, had faded to the color of well-worn jeans, her skin china white against the brown cement.

  Rolling to my back, I drew the Sig and pointed it past my toes, toward the black SUV. The gunfire had paused momentarily, and now I saw why: Moore’s team was scattered across the sidewalk, all lying still or writhing weakly.

  The rear door of the SUV popped open, and a man slid out. Tattoos everywhere, up his neck, onto his face. I’ve got plenty of ink, but this dude put me to shame. He even had black-and-red swirls etched on his cheeks and forehead. A machine gun dangled from his muscular arm, until he brought it around and finished one of the writhers with a short burst to the head.

  When he started toward Max and me, I pretended the swirl on his forehead was a bull’s-eye.

  As his body slumped to the ground, I realized that wouldn’t buy us more than a couple of seconds.

  Flipping over onto my feet, I grabbed Max’s hand and dragged her into a crouching run back into the terminal. The glass of the doors, broken inward by the gunmen’s first barrage, crunched beneath our shoes. Another hail of fire rang out. As those shots pinged around us, I noticed the firing positions changing.

  Whoever had remained in the SUV was now following.

  Inside, travelers who’d been too stunned to move after the first volley of shots were now running, their screams mixing with the sound of ricocheting lead.

  No way to help them now except by continuing to run, drawing the fire away from them . . . not that we weren’t already doing a masterful job of that.

  The nearest baggage carousel was empty but turning, its silver plates sliding endlessly counterclockwise. I forced Max up onto it, then jumped on behind her. When three bullets sounded against the plate by my left shoulder, I spun and spotted the nearest pursuer coming through the doors: another muscular mass of tattoos, gun raised.

  I fired twice, center mass, and dropped him.

  Behind me, Max was crawling away along the curve of the carousel. That wouldn’t help us once it circled back around. I grabbed her hood again and steered her up onto the carpeted platform above the
carousel.

  Some airport carousels feed suitcases up from below. Not LAX. Here, the bags tumble down ramps from darkened holes in the ceiling. Fortunately, the ramps point toward the rear of the building, rather than the front.

  Squatting behind Max and keeping my eyes on the doors, I herded her forward to the foot of the ramp. When I gave her ass one last shove, she got the idea.

  With the conveyor belt moving down toward us, it was slow going—she looked more like a kid than ever, clumsily crab-walking her way up the metal chute. While she fought the belt, I fired two more shots toward the door and hoped Max wouldn’t tumble back down at me, rammed by some giant suitcase.

  Above me, her second pink Chuck Taylor disappeared into the black square overhead. Quickly as I could, I climbed after her.

  CHAPTER 2

  Monday, July 13

  Two days before I met Max was my first day back in the office after a six-week break. Although I hadn’t been working, it wasn’t exactly what you’d call a vacation. Not unless you’re partial to hospitals and doctors, shitty hotel beds and takeout food, funeral homes and grieving parents full of scorn.

  Oh, and bills. Lots and lots of bills.

  Like I said, not exactly a vacation.

  So while I would have preferred to spend that Monday surfing or tinkering on one of my circuit projects, returning to work after an early-morning errand actually felt almost normal. A relief.

  Despite being only two blocks from LAX, the Federal Air Marshal Service’s LA field office sits on a relatively quiet street lined with nearly identical glass office buildings. Because we’re considered undercover agents, our building’s signs all say “Questar Express.” Someday, I’d like to meet the guy in DC who gets paid to come up with the names for corporate fronts—that’s gotta be some kind of job.

  When I got to Vince Lavorgna’s top-floor corner office, he was stuck nose deep in paperwork. Holding the results of my errand in one hand, I rapped on the door frame with the other. “Got a second, sir?”

  Lavorgna’s black beard twisted up into a half smile when his eyes met mine. “Come in, Seth. Shut the damn door.” He stood and reached across the desk to pump my hand before I could reach the guest chair or set the plastic bag on the floor. His grip was as strong as ever—Lavorgna’s built like an NFL linebacker—but his voice sounded softer, gentler than usual. After settling back into his chair, he looked me up and down. “How are you—”

  “All due respect, sir, can we skip it?”

  “Sure,” he said after a moment. “I just—”

  “Thanks for the flowers, sir. I know they came from you, and from Loretta, and I—”

  “The whole office contributed.”

  I shot him a look, but he just nodded.

  “Really.”

  “Well, I appreciated them. Sarah’s family did, too. But I think the best thing now for everyone—for me—is if we can just skip past the whole pity-party stage. I’ve got this new job, let’s start working it.”

  Lavorgna stroked the tip of his beard between two fingers while his eyes scanned over me. It felt a bit like playing poker, something I didn’t ever want to do with Lavorgna. “I get that. And I’ve been there, believe me.”

  Most times, when someone starts to give me an “I been there” speech, I have to resist throwing up in my mouth. You’re not me, never gonna be me, so spare me, you know? But I reminded myself that Lavorgna wasn’t that guy. Until recently, I’d always wondered what mysterious job had generated all the plaques and pictures decorating his office. Then an FBI friend of mine told me Lavorgna had done some superdeep undercover narcotics work. Serious shit, so from him, I’d take the lecture.

  “This is no pity party. You’ve been through a lot. What that Berkeley woman did to you and Sarah? That’s a lot of weight to carry around. People want to help you with that, if you’ll let them.” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, but I didn’t react. I was still hoping the usual edge would creep back into his Philadelphia accent. “Plus, there are procedures. You tell me you’re ready, I’ll take your word for it. But eventually, the docs are gonna have to get a look at you.”

  “Shrinks, you mean?”

  He nodded. “Anybody involved in a shooting.”

  I shrugged. Should have expected that. And anyway, I had much bigger things to worry about than some psych exams: before our gunfight in the rainstorm, the crazy woman had done a whole lot of other damage, not the least of which was framing me for double murder and exposing my identity on TV. That last part might not sound like much, but for an air marshal, it’s potentially career ending. Flying incognito was out of the question now, but since I’d tracked the woman down, the Service thought I might still have some value as a “liaison to law enforcement,” whatever the hell that meant. “What do I do in the meantime?”

  “The bosses in DC are still toying with ideas for how best to use you in this new role.”

  So, apparently the bosses didn’t even know themselves.

  “But,” Lavorgna continued, “they’ve come up with an easy one for your first time out.”

  I raised my eyebrows and winced, waiting for it.

  “Don’t worry. It’s not that bad. Just babysitting a celebrity on a cross-country flight.”

  “Who?”

  “Some teenybopper with a hit on the radio, a takeoff on some old song. I’ve never heard of her.” Lavorgna glanced down at a paper on his desk. “Max . . . Magic? Can’t be her real name.”

  My godkids in Texas probably knew her—it’d give me an excuse to call them. I was trying to do that more these days. “Anyone tell you why she needs babysitting, sir?”

  “Her father contacted the FBI about death threats. All celebs get them, but since she’s so young, I guess he’s extra anxious. Anyway, they’ll escort her to JFK and hand her off to you. You fly with her, then pass her back to them at LAX.”

  “Why don’t they just fly with her?”

  “I think this is one of those . . . efforts at interagency cooperation.” Lavorgna’s beard compressed into a couched smile.

  I nodded, but it still wasn’t adding up. “If she’s such a big star, why doesn’t she have her own plane, her own pro detail? Why fly commercial?”

  He shrugged. “All excellent questions, Mr. Law-Enforcement Liaison. I suggest you ask the people in the know.”

  “Loretta book me?”

  “Believe so.”

  I scooped up the bag and got to my feet as quickly as I could—hanging around would only draw more questions about how I was doing. “All right, sir. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  “Qualify downstairs before you leave. You been shooting?”

  “Not the usual amount, but enough. I should be good.”

  Lavorgna rose, and stuck out his hand again. This time he looked me square in the eye. “It’s good to have you back.”

  I wove through the maze of cubes outside Lavorgna’s office until I reached Loretta’s. Pecking away at her keyboard, she didn’t see me coming.

  “How’s the prettiest girl in LA?”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen her old bones move so quickly. Before I knew it, she’d spun around, hopped off her chair, and wrapped her spindly arms around my waist.

  After a long moment, she reached a hand up to either side of my head and tilted it downward until my blue eyes were looking straight through her spectacles into her brown ones. Loretta’s voice always had a certain warble to it, but I could swear it almost cracked as she asked, “How are you, dear?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Her lips drew to a point, and she glared over the top of the glasses at me.

  “Really, I swear.”

  “You know you can’t lie to me, boy.”

  Loretta grilling me about how I was handling Sarah’s death felt awfully ironic: One of the last romantic nights we’d had before . . . before everything had changed, we’d gotten into an argument over dinner about Loretta. Sarah couldn’t understand why I was always orderi
ng extra food on our dates—when she found out it was for a woman at the office, well, she’d stormed out of the restaurant, blue eyes blazing. Once I’d finally caught up to her outside and explained, things got better, but it had made for a nervous few minutes.

  Now my heart raced the same way it had that night, and I had to look away from the pressure of Loretta’s gaze. After somehow managing to swallow, I said, “I’m . . . sad. But that’s natural, right? It’ll fade eventually.” I knew from experience that last part was a lie, but I hoped Loretta couldn’t tell. I looked back down at her. “Right now, I’m just glad to be home.”

  “You beatin’ yourself up? Blamin’ yourself for what happened?”

  “No, ma’am,” I answered too quickly.

  Still, she released me and sank back into her chair. “Good,” was all she said.

  As relieved as I was that she’d stopped asking questions, the way Loretta moved worried me. So did her skin. The color of dark chocolate, it always looked as thin as tissue paper, but today it appeared every bit as fragile.

  I produced the plastic bag and set it in her lap. “You know, when I landed yesterday, I was so hungry I couldn’t help myself. Headed up to Langer’s for a sandwich, but my eyes were bigger than my stomach. With me going out of town now, you think you can finish the rest off for me? I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

  Loretta wrinkled her nose. She knew as well as I did that Langer’s Deli wasn’t open on Sundays. Besides, the heat from the brisket sandwich was still palpable through the plastic. We’d played this game for two years, but today none of the usual teasing came, no sharp rebukes. She simply turned and placed the package on her desk. That was worrisome, too.

  “How’ve you been?” I asked. “How’s Bob?”

  “You know us. We’re getting by.”

  I tried not to let her see me wince. Getting by was what she’d called it when I’d caught her early one morning in the office kitchen, making a ketchup sandwich from the communal bottle and a stolen slice of bread. The reason I’d been bringing her my “leftovers” ever since. “If you need money—”

  Loretta’s eyes darted at me. “That’s enough, young man.”