Kenehan’s voice came over the intercom. “How do you hear?”
“Fine. Any change in their flight plan, course, speed or altitude?”
Kenehan looked at the iPad. “Negative.”
“I’ve forgotten. Does FlightAware update computed ETAs or just show what they filed?”
“It does both.”
“Hang on a sec.” Jensen listened to the automatic terminal information service—ATIS—and called Centennial Ground, indicating he was ready to file an IFR flight plan.
The ground controller responded. “Three Mike Juliet, contact clearance delivery on one-two-six-point-three to file that plan. Back to me with ATIS when you’re ready to taxi.”
Jensen cursed himself for getting in a hurry. He switched to clearance delivery and radioed in his flight plan, reciting the necessary information in the required order from memory. Then he switched back and got clearance to taxi. He remembered to call ground from the hold line before switching to tower frequency—a procedural anomaly at Centennial Airport.
That’s it, buddy, he told himself. One step at a time. Make haste slowly.
Once cleared for takeoff, he turned the plane’s hawkish nose to point down the runway and shoved both throttles forward. The electronic flight control system spooled the beautiful Pratt & Whitney turbofans to takeoff power. In seconds he was at rotation speed, and he pulled back gently on the ram-horn yoke. When the gear and flaps retracted, the jet soared skyward like a homebound angel.
The plane had onboard Wi-Fi, so Kenehan could monitor the other plane with the iPad during the flight.
“What’s our margin now?” Jensen asked.
“Twenty-one minutes,” Kenehan replied. “But we’ll lose time when we hit the jet stream over the Western Slope and Utah. They’ll be lower than us, right? So their headwind will be less over the mountains?”
Jensen shook his head. “No, we’ll be three miles higher than them, for better fuel and maximum true airspeed, and our headwinds up there will be worse than theirs all the way, but we’ve factored that into our cruise time, and theirs. So just keep me updated.” Jensen’s eyes swept back and forth as he scanned the displays on the instrument panel. After leveling off at forty-two thousand feet, he adjusted the throttles to maximum cruise speed.
The bogey that would lead him to his daughter was more than a hundred miles ahead, but they would pass over it in less than two hours. Aboard it was the most terrifying biological agent known to man, bound for delivery to the most dangerous dictator on earth.
When it landed, Jensen and his friends would be waiting.
With guns.
It was as if all the years from law school up to now had been edited from his book, and he was back in the Air Force, flying a vital tactical mission. If he weren’t so terrified, he’d be in heaven.
It felt good to think like a predator instead of a victim.
We’re coming, Christie. Hang on.
Chapter 48
Robert Sand gazed out the window and watched the blanket of glittering lights that was Las Vegas pass far below. He recognized the Strip, and a couple of hotels, including the Luxor, with its famous pyramid-tip spotlight.
He was thinking about what had happened to Jackie.
He knotted his fist and looked at his knuckles. They had once looked like heavy rawhide. He’d practiced on the makiwara board for hours at a time back then, toughening his hands and his mind. He’d practiced judo, karate, aikido and other Japanese martial arts for eight hours a day under the tutelage of a famous Japanese master.
Then he’d gone to work for the Baron.
Now his calluses were gone. His midsection was a bit thicker, his hair thinner and his eyesight much less acute. He’d been sedentary far too long, living the easy life. He remembered when he’d promised himself this would never happen again, years earlier, when he’d returned to Japan to hone his skills.
He thought of those earlier years as the “olden times.”
When he’d been a special kind of warrior.
A samurai.
The Baron’s ebony ninja, his angel of death.
The missions had been righteous, the results gratifying. He’d felt at peace, even while he was at war with some of the deadliest and most evil men in the world.
When the Baron had died, Sand’s life as a professional warrior had ended.
He’d inherited a massive sum. The Baron’s last will and testament had contained a cryptic notation in the codicil leaving him this vast wealth: Reward for jobs well done, with no thanks from an ungrateful nation—but with deepest gratitude from a man with the wrong blood on his hands.
In the years to follow, he’d lived alone for a time in a New York row home, losing himself on warm afternoons, taking long strolls through Central Park and Times Square. He’d visited the Museum of Modern Art, the Guggenheim and the World Trade Center before madmen took it down—and Ground Zero afterward. He’d been just another member of the human hive, flowing along wear-polished sidewalks, steering clear—most of the time—of muggers and thugs. A wanderer. A man with no future, only a past, and he’d felt more lost with each passing year. He’d kept himself in decent physical condition, running his customary five miles each day, doing push-ups and yoga and Pilates and working out at the dojo with other Japanese traditionalists. He’d practiced Zen, cultivated his inner peace and sense of no-self, polishing his mind into a mirror, but he’d been the wrong kind of empty.
Without wars to fight, lacking purpose, he’d decided to pick up stakes and start a new life. He’d moved to Colorado. The flow of his destiny had rounded a bend. He’d discovered a love of the mountains, learned to ski, and become an avid backpacker. He’d donated time and money to various causes dedicated to troubled young boys, to help them reach adulthood with intact values and skills, to make something of themselves.
Then a crack had formed in the crystalline purity of his mental cultivation, and all he thought he knew about himself and the world had turned inside out.
Jackie.
What had become of her? Could he heal her? Give her enough love to repair her emotional, physical and spiritual wounds?
He knew it was possible. After a fellow soldier had shot him, he’d received nurture, love, respect and time to heal. Eventually his Japanese brothers had invited him to join them in their brutally difficult training, which had given him a path. It had enabled him to recover from deep physical and psychic wounds of his own, allowing him to grow into something better than he had been.
A samurai.
But women were different.
Jensen’s flying skill impressed Kenehan, sitting in the right seat of the cockpit beside him. The trial lawyer was as good as any professional pilot. He was focused, calm and confident on the radio.
But Kenehan was deeply troubled.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized how fucked up this cobbled-together plan was. He played out possible scenarios in his mind. Assuming they timed their arrival correctly, they would have time to get out of the plane and into a rental car Jennifer had arranged, which was, even now, on the ramp at Signature Flight Support.
He’d considered an assault at the airport, but that would be ridiculous and would nullify the point of this hasty pursuit.
The working theory was simple: quickly transfer to a car waiting on the ramp, wait for Beeman’s plane to land, follow Beeman and his handlers when they landed, and observe their base of operations (a motel room, a house, a warehouse—what would it be?). Hope the girls were inside and still breathing, plan a two-man HRT assault and rescue the girls before Beeman could hand anything over to the North Koreans. Rely on improvisation, speed, violence of action and superior tactical skills to overcome problems encountered along the way.
Simple? The odds were horrible.
Kenehan didn’t even know how many opposing agents they would face, how well trained or armed they were, or where they were holed up. It would be Partridge and himself. The two made an effective team
, but just the two of them wouldn’t be enough.
There was Sand, of course. Old, but obviously experienced. The man showed no fear. Could he rely on the man in a firefight? Sand had brought his own weapons, which Roady had hoped was a good sign until he found out the weapons were an old Colt Commander and an ancient tanto short sword.
To each his own. Beggars can’t be choosers. Improvise, adapt, overcome. Use whatever you have.
And here was the tricky part: they had to keep at least some of the Wallies alive long enough for interrogation by the FBI, to avoid utterly wrecking Fitch’s goals of rooting out North Korean espionage operations in the US and unraveling whatever plan existed to deploy the Black Sunrise virus.
Fucked up didn’t even scratch the surface.
He turned to Jensen and asked if he knew how to shoot a pistol.
“They gave us a crash course in shooting before deploying us to the Gulf,” Jensen answered. “A long time ago. I’m comfortable with a pistol, but the only gun I ever fired in combat was a twenty-millimeter cannon built into a jet fighter. But Roady, know this: what I lack in skill, I make up for in motivation.”
“We’ll give you laxatives when we land,” Kim said, referring to the vial he'd retreived from that antique store and kept in the most intimate space in his body.
“Then you’ll have the virus and the chip. But you’ll still need me if you want to use them,” Beeman replied.
“This we know, Arthur. We’re your new best friends. You have nothing to fear. Your female friends will be waiting for you when we get to where we are going. Your new life will be fabulous. You will want for nothing.”
“You don’t have Pessoa?”
“Let’s just say Mr. Pessoa won’t be joining us,” Kim said cryptically. Beeman considered that the man who had spirited him out of his house had been telling the truth when he’d said Antonio had gotten away.
“Where do we go when we land?” Beeman asked.
“To sea,” Kim replied.
“You have a boat?”
“Yes.”
“Can it cross an ocean?”
“Easily.”
“Are we going to North Korea?”
“Not immediately, but eventually.”
“Where do we go first?”
Kim smiled and said, “You’ll see.”
“We’re passing them now.” Kenehan held the iPad up for Jensen. “This is them, right here.”
“Okay, let’s see if they’re on TCAS.” He pushed a few buttons on the multi-function display, and several dots and arrows appeared on the moving map, showing the traffic collision avoidance system. “That’s them right there. You can probably see their navigation lights just below and to the right.” Jensen banked the jet for a moment. “Over there—I’ve got them. Do you see that?”
Kenehan leaned forward in his seat to see down past the edge of the windscreen. He saw faint blinking lights far below. “Got ’em.” He thought of Beeman, sitting in that aircraft. How surprised he’d be if he looked up and saw them flying high above, at a much higher speed, and knew who was aboard.
He wondered for the hundredth time where they would go when they landed.
“Three Mike Juliet, descend at pilot’s discretion to one-two thousand; contact Los Angeles approach on one-two-niner-point-two.”
Jensen repeated the instructions and switched to the assigned frequency.
“November five six three Mike Juliet, Los Angeles approach, expect vectors to visual, Van Nuys runway two-eight. Confirm you have ATIS information Yankee.”
Jensen glanced down at the iPad in Kenehan’s lap and said, “Uh-oh.”
“What?” Kenehan asked. “Did they change course?”
“Worse—they amended their flight plan. They aren’t landing in Van Nuys. They’re landing at Oxnard. It’s a much smaller airport. That will make them easier to follow, but we don’t have a car waiting there.”
Kenehan saw they’d updated their flight plan to show “OXR” as the new destination.
Jensen contacted Approach Control and asked to change his own destination, receiving an amended clearance.
“Three Mike Juliet, fly heading two-seven-five, descend and maintain six thousand feet. Clear for the visual approach Oxnard runway one-seven. Contact Oxnard tower now.”
Jensen keyed the mic button. “Two-seven-five, six thousand. Over to Oxnard. Three Mike Juliet out.”
“It looks like we’ll beat them in by about fifteen minutes,” Kenehan said. “Not much time to find a ride.”
Sand’s voice came over the intercom from the cabin in the back. “Why not call an Uber? Commandeer the motherfucker. Pay off the driver. I’ve got lots of cash back here.”
This man was full of surprises. Was there a better idea? “Summon it now,” Kenehan said. “We’ll be on the ground in about five minutes.”
“Six and a half,” Jensen said. “And we’ll taxi to park in front of the small terminal building just north of the tower. Text the driver that’s where we’ll be and that we’re in a hurry.”
“Will do,” Sand said. “Meanwhile, be ready to immobilize the driver and disable interior cameras,”
“On it,” Partridge responded. He pulled a Taser from his pack and tucked it under his shirttail. Then he drew a collapsible baton from his pack and tucked it into the load-carrying loops on the outside.
Jensen reduced power, lowered the flaps and the gear and turned on the landing lights. “Seat belts, everybody,” he said. “We’re about to touch down.”
A minute later, the Phenom rolled out and slowed to taxi speed. Jensen turned the jet to taxi back to the terminal building. As soon as they stopped, Partridge had the door open and climbed down the air-stair to the tarmac, followed by Sand and Kenehan.
Jensen remained in the cockpit to monitor the tower and ground control frequencies, so he could hear where Beeman’s plane would taxi and park.
Sand groused that the Uber was only five minutes away but didn’t appear to be moving even though the driver had accepted the ride request.
A teenage boy ran up to Kenehan with a clipboard in his hand. Panting, he asked, “Are you the men from the movie studio?”
Movie studio?
“That’s us,” Kenehan answered. “You got a car?”
“You’re taking mine—we didn’t have time for a rental car. Wait here! I’ll be right back, Mr. Hemsworth. You look just like your brothers!”
The boy turned and sprinted off.
What the fuck?
Partridge made a call and learned that Thomas had seen the last-minute diversion on FlightAware and conjured up a quick scheme to provide them with ready transportation.
“You wouldn’t believe what people will do for a chance to be in a movie,” Thomas said over the phone speaker. “Be convincing. Treat Mr. Hemsworth in the manner to which he has grown accustomed—he’s a big deal in Hollywood, you know. Mention the boy’s screen test; tell him we’ll schedule it the day after tomorrow.”
Sand chuckled. “Should I cancel the Uber?”
The King Air radioed ten minutes later that it was on final approach. Jensen heard the call. He waited impatiently. When the turboprop sailed past in the middle of its landing flare, Jensen could hear the props through the open door of his jet.
A few minutes later, the King Air taxied up and stopped beside the Phenom.
As the propellers spooled down, the door came open, and an Asian man climbed down, followed by C. Arthur Beeman, PhD. Kenehan locked eyes with him for an instant and then looked away. Beeman had to have recognized him but didn’t react in any visible way; he merely checked the time on his watch; it was on his left wrist. No immediate danger.
I hope that’s a good sign, Kenehan thought.
But his stomach told him otherwise. It just didn’t feel right.
Beeman and three other Asian men sauntered into the terminal building. Kenehan heard one of them say they would wait inside for their ride.
The boy pulled his Subaru Outback
to a stop near the jet, jumped out, raised the tailgate and began to lift the bags into the cargo space.
Come on and grab your guns—let’s ride.
Roady and the rest climbed in. “The keys are in it, Mr. Hemsworth. See you in a couple of days. Don’t forget my screen test, sir.”
“I won’t. What’s your name again?”
“Timmy Schaefer, Mr. Hemsworth.”
“You know, you remind me of Billy Idol, Timmy. Do you know who that is?”
“No sir. Is that good?”
“Better than good.”
Kenehan started the car, pulled out through the automatic gate and then waited alongside the terminal building for Beeman and his companions to drive past. Fifteen minutes later, as expected, Beeman and his three escorts drove out through the gate in an ancient green Mercury Marquis. Kenehan followed as discretely as possible as they pulled out of the parking lot and turned right onto West 5th Street, which ran parallel to the airport.
From the back seat, Partridge said, “Back off a little, Roady. Give them some space. We’ve got Beeman’s GPS tracker. I can see it on my phone. We won’t lose them.”
Chapter 49
“I’m okay with it, CJ,” Jackie murmured. She was lying on her bunk with her arm up over her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at Antonio’s corpse or the pool of blood beginning to dry around his head. “In fact, I think it’s just about the most wonderful horrible thing I’ve ever seen.” She gave a slightly unhinged giggle and pointed blindly at the floor with the arm that wasn’t covering her eyes. “Whatever else happens, at least we have that going for us.” Another deranged chuckle.
She’s been through too much, Christie thought. And so have I.
Seated atop a small crate, Christie stared with a mixture of horror and contempt at Antonio’s body. Her brain felt like a stone someone had thrown into a deep lake, quickly sinking to the bottom and settling in mud and silt where it would remain forever.
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