The Supremacy License

by Alan Lee

  He grinned and spoke into the radio. “This is the most fun I’ve ever had, Beck. I’m glad you’re here.” He took the headset off, tossed it onto the co-pilot’s chair, and braced himself on the exterior step. The wind ripped the loafer off his foot. Instantly gone.

  “Damn it!”

  “What?”

  “Lost my shoe. An Allen Edmonds, made in Wisconsin.”

  “You’re going to die, Sinatra,” she said, reducing her altitude. Soon their turbulence increased, hitting the Cessna’s prop wash.

  Manny sat on the deck, rolled onto his stomach, and scooted out backwards. He lost the other shoe. Dangling into nothing, his feet kicked wildly until connecting with the port wheel.

  “Stay away from their propeller!” he shouted. “And don’t raise the landing gear!”

  “Landing gear!” she said. “That’s what I forgot. Whoops.”

  “I’ll give a thump before I let go. Te amo, Beck!” He vanished out of sight.

  She set her chin. That was the power of Manuel Martinez. His energy and confidence and momentum caught her up. She would do anything for him in that moment.

  “Good luck, Sinatra,” she muttered.

  The wind snapped at him underneath the King Air. The twin propellers were tornadoes, slowly carving away his features. Only facing backwards could he open his eyes. His face hurt, his ribs hurt.

  Beck did well. The Cessna wasn’t far below. And beyond it, eternity.

  He increased pressure with his fingers on the tire’s axle stub. Released pressure with his knees and lowered his legs, searching. The wind pushed his body backwards, almost like a cape flapping.

  This was as close as Beck dared get. And still the drop was too far. He felt the King Air kicking, flying through choppy atmosphere.

  The Cessna was only a four-seater. The model with wings above the cabin instead of below, giving him a larger landing area. The cabin had windows in each direction, including aft. He and Beck had been lucky the piled cargo prevented them from being spotted.

  His feet dangled above the Cessna’s wings. Dangerously close to the propeller but he knew he couldn’t fall forward.

  Now, before he lost his nerve.

  Such a bad idea.

  He raised up to give the fuselage a solid whack, telling Beck he was letting go.

  And he did.

  Falling now. Windmilling. The air caught and hurled him backwards. Missing the wings entirely, landing on the tail, a thunderous impact, and sliding hard into the raised fin. The wind’s pressure pinned him there. Adrenaline kept the worst of the pain away.

  Beck felt the jolt of release. She pulled the yoke and arced from the Cessna, heart in her throat.

  Sudden blue sky above Manny, the shadow gone.

  The Cessna shuddered and wobbled. They saw him. The cockpit had windows in all directions but in the rear windshield he saw only the reflection of clouds above.

  Hello Catalina. Wish I could see your face.

  He couldn’t get his breath. His harness was caught on the fin and he couldn’t adjust his position.

  The plane pitched upward and rolled to starboard. Pilot trying to dislodge him but his mass affected the slip stream current.

  One hand holding tight, the other snaked under his harness. Grabbed the Glock’s grip and tugged. Forced his eyes open against the wind. Kept the pistol near his chest to avoid swirling vicissitudes, aimed slightly down at the bottom of the rear windshield, and fired.

  Two, three, four, five, six.

  The glass cracked and splintered. Shards tinkling into his face. Rounds thudding directly into the cockpit controls. Broken shouting reached his ears. The engine uttered a peculiar whine.

  He pressed the gun then directly into the tail and fired again.

  Seven, eight.

  Liquid spurted from the puckered bullet holes. Hot and thick. Oil? Gasoline? The engine whining again and now coughing.

  Inside the cockpit, a gun fired.

  He felt rather than heard a snapping near his ear, like an angry hornet. They were shooting at him, a sitting duck pinned against the fin.

  Time to go—Cessna in her death throes.

  He reached behind, grasped the drogue and yanked. The pilot chute caught.

  As the sequence of straps and nylon hurled from his harness, he mused a more cautious man would’ve checked to ensure the chute was packed correctly.

  Inside the cabin they shot at him again. But he was gone, nearly yanked out of the harness. Sky rushing down. Gasping now, dangling below a full canvas umbrella. The shattering noise of wind and engine vanished, replaced by immediate calm. The ground impact wouldn’t be brutal— there had been no downward acceleration.

  “Hah,” he laughed and winced. “Asinine, Beck said. Never a doubt.”

  He drifted toward the vast green of Indian Mountain State Park. Far overhead, Beck’s King Air kept pace with the Cessna.

  38

  Catalina’s ears rang from gunshots, head between her knees. Cautiously she glanced at her brother—he was done shooting, now wrestling with the damaged controls.

  She twisted to peer over her seat at the man retreating in the distance. Of course Manuel had found them. She could fool the FBI, sure, but some men are made from different stuff. He hadn’t returned her calls or messages. Had he planned this?

  In Spanish, she said, “Manuel looks good holding a gun, yes? But where did he come from?” She tilted her head to peer upwards through the window.

  “Be quiet, little sister,” said Rafael. “I need to think.” He was a good pilot, hundreds of hours in the air over Honduras and Guatemala. He knew disaster when he saw it. “The aviation systems are ruined,” he told her. The dash blinked and sparked, broken by bullets. “This plane is old enough I could fly without them, but…” He tapped a few dials operating on hydraulic pressure, not electronics. “We are losing oil and fuel both. The ignition will—”

  The dash sparked and a small flame danced, visible inside the housing.

  “We need to get on the ground. Right now,” he said.

  He flipped off the master switch and the fire went out.

  Catalina nodded and she made a call. She spoke with the man on the other end, and asked her brother, “Where are we?”

  “There,” said Rafael, pointing at cultivated land. A flat cotton field. He pitched the Cessna sharply forward. The landing would be rough. “We land there. I don’t know when we’ll see flat land again.”

  “Where are we?” she asked again. “They need to get us.”

  “I don’t know! Use the damned map on your phone. Near…I don’t know. Near Tennessee.”

  She spoke into the phone again.

  Rafael said, “Brace yourself, little sister.”

  39

  Manny guided the chute down, aiming for a small clearing. He had no desire to get stuck in a treetop. Ground coming fast.

  Before the forest enveloped him, he saw the Cessna dive. Heading to the earth for a crash landing not two miles distant.

  He smiled to himself.

  A reckoning.

  40

  The propeller seized short of the fields. Rafael fought to keep the Cessna level. As the landing gear skimmed the first trees, he made sure all systems were off.

  They held hands.

  The Cessna had decelerated to sixty knots when the first big oak nearly sheered off their starboard wing. Catalina and Rafael were hurled sideways against restraining harnesses. The forward momentum persisted but now the aircraft spun in a rotation. Smaller trees broke, the Cessna acting as a lawn mower blade. All windows shattered, tree branches reaching in. Glass perforating their faces. Metal screamed and the wing struts ripped free. The tumble finally ended at a thick pine, which caved the tail and dropped the smoking fuselage to the earth.

  Rafael’s head thundered. Catalina blinked away stars.

  “We must go,” he said. Words sounded slurred, like underwater. His door wouldn’t open. Nor would hers. “There could be fire. Now!” H
e undid his safety straps and went forward, crawling through the rent windshield. No bones broken, though both were heavily scratched. He reached in for her and guided her out. Dropped down to the forest floor. Moved fifty yards away and sat to rest.

  No fires. No explosion. Smoke curled into the sky.

  Catalina closed her eyes, head in her hands.

  Rafael seethed. This was the fault of one man.

  41

  Manny found them by following the smoke. His feet bled from the hike, barefoot. The Cessna cut an ugly gash through the forest, the wreckage resting at the base of a gentle rise, smoldering on old brown pine needles. Rafael had half of their luggage freed.

  From behind a poplar Manny watched Catalina. Was she crying? He hardened his heart. Even now she was beautiful. Even now she was the girl from his youth.

  He didn’t want her in prison. But he didn’t want her on that plane, flying back to wreck more lives, hers and others. He was torn.

  They didn’t hear his approach. These were not survivalists, not fighters. These were wealthy bureaucrats and spoiled terrorists, used to issuing orders from couches. Defending themselves an afterthought.

  In Spanish, Manny called, “The trouble with foreign planes, the engines always die.”

  Catalina’s head whipped around.

  Rafael released the duffle bag he’d been tugging. He searched the ground for his pistol and lunged for it.

  “Don’t do it,” said Manny. “You’ll shoot yourself before getting me.”

  Rafael held the revolver with two hands and fired toward Manny’s voice, missing his tree by ten feet.

  Manny called, “You’re a crime boss, Rafael, not a fighter. If you make me, I’ll kill you.”

  “Come out! Come out, you lying son of a bitch!”

  “Manuel,” shouted Catalina, backing toward the wreckage. “Please, we must go! Come with us!”

  His head swam. He’d heard those words before. He felt woozy.

  Rafael’s hands were bloody and he side-stepped to get a better angle. Manny had only one bullet remaining in the Glock.

  “Rafael, your money won’t save you here. You are no killer. I could shoot you now,” said Manny from behind his tree. “You aren’t taking cover. You’re exposed. You’re like a stupid baby with that. Put the gun down.”

  “I’m not going to jail! Never again!” He fired. Closer this time, hitting the adjacent tree.

  “Catalina. Tell him to drop it. Otherwise I kill him. I do one thing well in this world, Rafael, and this is it. You won’t win.”

  “Manuel, please! We need you. I need you. Our men will be here soon, from the interstate, and we’ll leave with them.”

  Their security crew would be following the plane, taking different routes in case the cars were pulled over. He needed to be gone before they arrived.

  He said, “Your trick worked. You fooled the feds. Very clever.”

  “But we didn’t trick you, Manuel. You are too smart. That is why we need you."

  “No!” shouted Rafael. “We don’t need this traitor. A traitor to his country, to his people. We are the García family. This man does not deserve us. Does not deserve you.”

  Manny chuckled, pivoting around the tree trunk, keeping an eye on Rafael. The fool still took no cover.

  “Lucky I didn’t kill you in the kitchen with a paddle, Fidel Arroyo.”

  “Manuel, we’re going to Panama. You are going to Panama. I need you.”

  “No!” Rafael crab-walked to his right, aiming.

  “Rafael!” shouted Manny, angry now. “This is why I don’t give warnings. Put down the gun. You aren’t a fighter, you aren’t a killer. You are alive because of your sister!”

  “I would rather be dead.” Rafael fired again, kicking into the poplar trunk.

  Manny stepped from cover. Kept stepping to his right. Brought the Glock up. “If you shoot again, so do I. You’ll miss. I won’t.”

  Rafael stood still. One eye screwed up, aiming.

  Manny went behind another trunk. Circling, constant movement, carefully placing his feet. Gunsight fixed on Rafael’s chest.

  Rafael yanked the trigger, pulling his pistol off target as Manny had seen him do three times already. He missed, four feet too high.

  Shaking his head, Manny said, “You’re no fighter, Rafael. Bad decision.”

  “Manuel, no!”

  Rafael charged him. Rich, powerful, attractive man tripping over maple roots, still holding the revolver.

  Manny fired at a distance of seven feet. Caught his target between the eyes.

  Rafael, dead before he hit the pine needles. His body slid face first down the gentle rise and stopped. Gunfire echoing among the trunks.

  “Warnings never work.” Manny experienced no sense of victory.

  Catalina…

  No outrage from her. No scream of grief. She rose from her crouch near the wreckage. Wiped her cheeks and went to her brother. She lowered to her knees. Took shuddering breaths. Used her fingertips to close his eyes, coming away crimson.

  “The last brother I have left to bury,” she said. Manny barely heard. “Death. It never stops fascinating me.”

  This is why you don’t get on that plane.

  It cost more than your soul.

  Manny closed his eyes too. “I’m sorry Catalina.”

  A long silence. Even the birds and squirrels stayed respectful.

  When he opened them again, Catalina had the revolver. She held it easier than her brother, in her right hand, arm straight. She raised to stand, the barrel three feet from Manny’s face.

  Manny dropped his Glock.

  She said, “You still love me.”

  “I always will. I think.”

  “But…”

  “But I’m not going to Panama. Or Honduras. Or anywhere else.”

  “I’m disappointed, Manuel.” She’d changed in sixty seconds. From grieving sister and forlorn lover…to the type of person Manny chased for a living. “I could use you. You’re the most dangerous man alive. Yet you refuse. Why, I wonder…”

  She stepped forward. Barrel against his chest. Shoved her hand into his left pants pocket and felt nothing. Rooted next in his right. Tossed out his wallet, and came away with the photograph. Of the smiling woman.

  “Of course.” She laughed, a bitter mocking sound. She shook it. “So weak. Of course because of her, your precious mama.”

  Again his head swam. Just like on the tarmac, as a young man; she shook it at him.

  “Your mama doesn’t love you.”

  “Doesn’t mean I don’t love her. I choose the things I love.”

  “You feel it. I know you—you admitted it. Some days you don’t want to wake up. Nothing we do matters in the long run. Does it, Manuel? That is why you cling to her.”

  “I am more than what I cling to, Catalina. I have to be. It keeps away the dark.”

  “Nothing keeps away the dark.”

  “You mean, money and power don’t.”

  “And she does?” shouted Catalina. The heat of her breath reached his neck “You found her. I know you did. And?”

  “And she’s broken. Still lost.”

  “You think saving your mama makes you noble.” A sneer.

  “Makes me human."

  “You won’t give up on her,” she said.

  “Never.”

  “You gave up on me.”

  “No. You left. You both left.”

  “Poor Manuel.” Her lips twisted, angry and mean. “All alone.”

  He stayed silent. She searched his eyes, bouncing back and forth between them. Their gazes collided like rods breaking. He wouldn’t beg. She knew it and she hated him for it.

  “You aren’t coming with me,” she said.

  “No.”

  “You’ll stay here, in America. You get it, right? You get the symbolism, Manuel, you child. You foolish immature child. You want to be American so badly. You think you are America. You think by saving it you can save yourself.”

>   He tried to reply—the words stuck. The truth often takes our breath.

  She said, “This country can’t love you back.”

  He was embarrassed at how thick and hot his words sounded. “It’s not going anywhere. That’s something.”

  “Poor Manny, clinging to his fat arrogant country. Hoping patriotism makes him whole. A boy pretending to be a man, playing hero. Think you can save America. Think you can save me, the lost girl.”

  “I’m a fool for the women I love.”

  “I’m not a girl who can be saved. I’m the girl America needs to be saved from.”

  He nodded. Grim. “I see that. Now.”

  “You should not have dropped your gun, Manuel.”

  “You shouldn’t have picked yours up.”

  “No?” That excitement in her eyes. “I’m going to kill you, love me or not. Watch your life bleed out of you.”

  “Go ahead, Catalina.”

  “You think I won’t.”

  “I think you can’t.”

  She laughed. A mocking sound. “You still underestimate me.”

  “No. My fault is, I overestimated you.”

  “Took you to my bed. And then killed you. Just like so many other men.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Her thumb drew the revolver’s hammer drew back. Click.

  She said, “Goodbye, Manuel.”

  She pulled the trigger. Click.

  She pulled it again, harder this time. Click.

  Manny’s heart fell. He was wrong—he predicted she wouldn’t. Hell hath no fury…

  “Empty,” she said like she was dizzy. Threw the gun at him and missed. “You knew?”

  “I always count. Rafael used six shots.”

  Her hands shook. Her voice shook, with sudden fear. “I’m not going to jail.”

  “I agree."

  Her breath caught. She glanced at the Glock in the pine needles.

  She said, “You wouldn’t shoot me.”

  “Might be surprised. I’m not crazy about the way you speak of America.”

  “No! You won’t shoot me. You love me. Let me go, Manuel.”