24 Hours

by Greg Iles

  “Life and death, damn it! Get him to the phone!”

  “Who are you calling?” Cheryl asked.

  “This is Mr. Geautreau. May I help you?”

  “This is Dr. Will Jennings, the keynote speaker at the medical convention. We spoke yesterday when I checked in.”

  “Of course, Doctor. How may I help you?”

  “You’ve had the FBI in this morning, right?”

  Geautreau hesitated. “That’s right.”

  “And they checked my room.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are there still FBI agents in the hotel?”

  “The last one left a few minutes ago.”

  “Listen, Geautreau. I don’t know what the FBI told you, but they were there because my daughter was kidnapped last night. She’s still missing. I’m not in the hotel now, but I need someone to think I am. One of the kidnappers. Starting in about fifteen minutes, he’s going to call my suite several times over the next few hours. I need all those calls forwarded to the cell phone I’m using now. Can you do that?”

  “Doctor, this sounds like a matter for the FBI.”

  Will had considered calling Zwick. The SAC could have an agent at the Beau Rivage in ten minutes to handle this, if Will would share his plan with the Bureau. But that would put him back under the control of the FBI, which was the last place he wanted to be.

  “Can you technically do it?” he asked. “Just tell me that. Can you intercept the calls and patch them through?”

  “Technically? Yes, we have that capability. But it’s not hotel policy to—”

  “Forget hotel policy. Let’s talk about your personal policy. If you make sure those calls are forwarded to my cell phone for the next three hours—personally ensure it—I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.”

  “Ten thousand . . . ?”

  He had the man’s attention. Geautreau was caught between perceived legal risk and flat-out greed.

  “Doctor—”

  “Let’s make it fifteen thousand. Fifteen grand for three hours’ work.”

  There was a brief silence. Then the manager said, “Promises are easy to make.”

  Will breathed a sigh of relief. All he had to do was set the hook.

  “I’d need some security,” Geautreau said. “Earnest money.”

  “Would a thousand dollars cover it?”

  “I think that would be sufficient.”

  “Connect me to Dr. Jackson Everett’s room. And stay on the phone after he hangs up.”

  “As you say, Doctor.”

  The phone rang five times. Will sweated every ring. Then he heard a click, followed by a crash.

  “Son of a bitch,” said a ragged voice. “Have a little mercy on a guy.”

  “Jack? Wake up.”

  “Who is this? Crystal?”

  Crystal? Everett’s wife was named Mary. “It’s Will Jennings, Jack. Wake up!”

  “Will? What’s so important it can’t wait till a decent hour? I’ve got the hangover from hell.”

  “I’ll tell you later. Right now I need to you go downstairs and write the hotel desk manager a check for a thousand dollars.”

  “A thousand dollars? What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. I just need you to do it. It’s life or death, Jack.”

  “You’re bullshitting me, right? What is this?”

  “Jack, for God’s sake, I need a thousand dollars at the front desk in five minutes. My life depends on it.”

  “Your life . . . ? You must have gone gambling last night after all. Did you get into one of those unofficial poker games with this guy?”

  “Damn it, Jack!”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll put it on my Visa.”

  “That won’t work. It’s got be cash or a check. This is a personal thing with the desk manager. His name’s Geautreau.”

  “This is a casino, Will. They’re dying to give people cash to lose at the tables. I’ll handle it. Let me get moving, brush my teeth—”

  “Now, Jack! The guy’s waiting. His name’s Geautreau. G-E-A-U-T-R-E-A-U.”

  “Are you down at the desk now?”

  “I’m a long way from that desk, buddy. This is life or death, no shit. Will you do it?”

  “I’m on my way. But you owe me big-time.”

  “Anything you want. Now hang up. Geautreau’s waiting for me.”

  “Hey, don’t worry. I’ve got you covered on the money.”

  The phone clicked.

  “I heard,” said Geautreau.

  “Fourteen thousand more where that came from. Write down the number of my cell phone. It’s six-oh-one, three-three-two, four-two-one-seven. Read that back to me.”

  Geautreau did; the number was correct.

  “You cannot screw this up.”

  “Don’t worry, Doctor. A pleasure doing business with you.”

  Will hung up, threw the Tempo into DRIVE, and headed for the airport.

  “Do you really think that will work?” Cheryl asked.

  “I’m way past thinking.”

  NINETEEN

  The sign beside the chain link gate read:

  WELCOME TO GULFPORT-BILOXI REGIONAL AIRPORT

  PRESS INTERCOM BUTTON FOR APPROVAL

  AFTER GATE OPENS, PROCEED TO STOP LINE

  WAIT FOR GATE TO CLOSE BEHIND YOU

  The sign on the gate itself read:

  FAILURE TO STOP AND WAIT FOR GATE TO CLOSE IS

  PUNISHABLE BY A $10,000 FINE.

  Will pressed the button on the post beside his window and waited.

  “Good morning,” said a male voice. “Welcome to U.S. Aviation Corp. How can we help you?”

  “This is Dr. Will Jennings. I flew in yesterday in Baron November-Two-Whisky-Juliet. I have a serious emergency. My daughter has been gravely injured in a traffic accident in Jackson, and I must get airborne as soon as possible.”

  There was a brief delay. “Understood, Doctor. We are contacting the tower. Be advised that—”

  The voice was drowned by the thunder of jet engines.

  “Sorry. The Air National Guard has flight operations progress, and that might cause some delay. Please wait at the gate, and we’ll get back to you ASAP.”

  Air National Guard operations. Will didn’t like the sound of that, but it explained all the activity in the sky as they had approached the airport.

  “How long will they make us wait?” Cheryl asked.

  “Shouldn’t be long. They do all they can to help you in an emergency.”

  The speaker on the post squawked with a sound that made Will think someone had held a telephone up to a radio.

  “Dr. Jennings, this is Gulfport Tower. We understand your situation and will do everything we can to expedite your takeoff. Please be advised that the Combat Air Readiness Training Facility is in the middle of a combined operations exercise. We have F-18 Hornets taking off from runway thirty-two, and Army C-130s landing on runway thirty-six. This is a timed exercise, and it cannot be stopped. However, we should have a brief window during which you can depart. We estimate that window to be eleven minutes from now.”

  Eleven minutes. They could be halfway to Hazlehurst in eleven minutes. But he had to be careful. If he sounded too upset, they wouldn’t open the gate for him.

  “I understand, Tower. I contacted ATIS by phone on the way in, and I have the wind conditions. I also have sufficient fuel to reach Jackson. What do you suggest?”

  “When the gate opens, proceed to the white line and stop. An employee of U.S. Aviation Corp. will escort you to your plane and assist with your preflight walkaround. We’re sorry about your emergency, and will do all we can to expedite. When you reach your aircraft, contact us on 123.7.”

  “Thank you, Tower. Much appreciated.”

  The gate slid open.

  Will pulled up to the white line and put his foot on the brake. He could see his Baron about seventy feet away, parked between a Bonanza and a KingAir.

  “We just sit here?”
Cheryl asked.

  Eleven minutes. Evidence of military operations was all around them. The roar of the departing F-18s shook the nearby buildings like a hurricane, and two more of the sleek fighters were taxiing past only a hundred feet away, on their way to the primary runway. The Hornets lifted into the sky one after another, every thirty seconds. It was hard to believe there were enough fighters at the Gulfport airport to eat up eleven minutes doing this, but perhaps the tower intended to bring them back in just as fast. Will also saw two C-130 transports hanging in the sky to his right, preparing to land on the shorter, general aviation runway.

  Ten minutes. He didn’t know exactly where he planned to go, but he needed to get there fast. There was no way Hickey was hiding inside the Jackson airport, as Zwick had suggested. Hickey would want to be moving toward the money. And whether he was bound for the cabin near Hazlehurst, the motel in Brookhaven, or the house near McComb did not matter. All three towns lay on a straight line south from Jackson. Hickey was almost certainly driving south on Interstate 55. At the speed limit, he could reach Hazlehurst in thirty-five minutes, and he could have left the Jackson airport up to twenty minutes ago. By flying northwest at max cruise—and factoring in a delay for automobile traffic in Jackon—Will could probably reach Hazlehurst before him, but it would be a matter of minutes, perhaps even seconds. How he would find Hickey and Karen—or Huey and Abby—once he got there was something he’d have to figure out on the way. What mattered now was getting airborne.

  He looked toward the U.S. Aviation Corp. building on his right, but saw no one coming his way. “Listen,” he said to Cheryl. “When I give the word, I want you to get out of the car and follow me on foot.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To my plane.” He pointed at the Baron. “It’s right over there. If I drive past this white line without permission, all hell will break loose. But if we just walk away, they may not notice a thing.”

  “You go,” Cheryl said in a tight voice. “I’m staying here.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t need me!”

  Will started to pull the Walther, but a simpler idea struck him. Cheryl would not separate herself from the money now. He took the briefcase off her lap, got out, and walked briskly toward the plane. Before he was halfway there, he heard the door of the Tempo slam, and the sound of running feet behind him.

  “Change your mind?” he said without turning.

  “You bastard.”

  He opened the Baron’s double-wide door, tossed the briefcase between the cabin seats, then turned and helped Cheryl into the plane. She slid between the aft-facing seats and settled into the righthand seat up front. Will sat down in the left seat, scanned the control panel, then switched on his avionics and started his engines. The twin Continentals rumbled to life with reassuring ardor.

  “What’s that?” asked Cheryl.

  A high-pitched sound was cutting through the engine noise. A siren. Will looked up and saw a boxy airport security vehicle bearing down on them, its red light flashing.

  “Shit.” He throttled up and pulled forward before the guard in the Cushman could blockade the Baron in the line of parked aircraft. Turning right, he started down the taxiway that paralleled the general aviation runway. The Cushman was following, but it couldn’t hope to keep up with the rapidly accelerating airplane.

  “Beechcraft November-Two Whiskey Juliet,” crackled the radio. “This is Gulfport Tower. You are in violation of FARs. Return to the ramp immediately.”

  Will increased speed. He had thought he might take off from the taxiway, but he saw now that was impossible. A giant C-130 Hercules transport sat astride the taxiway ahead of him like an alien spacecraft, its four props slowly turning. He would have to taxi beneath the wing of the Hercules and turn onto the next taxiway, which intersected the main runway at 90 degrees.

  “Baron Whiskey-Juliet,” said the tower, “you are endangering the lives of military aircrew and ground personnel. Cut your engines immediately.”

  Cheryl braced in her seat as they rolled toward the Hercules. The sight of the huge spinning props was sobering, but Will held his collision course.

  “You’re going to hit it!” she shouted. “Stop!”

  He swerved left, buzzed under the left wingtip of the C-130, then slowed for the turn that would carry him onto the next taxiway.

  “Tower, this is Delta-Seven-One,” said the radio. “Who is that crazy son of a bitch?”

  That had to be the C-130 pilot. Will was halfway through his turn when another C-130 dropped out of the sky to his right and touched down on the general aviation runway.

  “You’re going to kill us!” Cheryl shouted.

  Will completed his turn, centered the Baron on the taxiway, then stood on his brakes and ran both engines up to full power. His oil pressure looked good, and under the circumstances, that was all he cared about.

  Eight hundred feet ahead of him, the F-18s took off without pause, flashing left to right across his line of sight. They looked like sculpted birds of prey as they screamed into the sky. He had always thought it a sad irony that the most beautiful machines ever built by man were built to kill. But that rule held true in nature as well, so perhaps the “irony” was merely sentiment getting in the way of reality.

  “You can’t fly through that!” Cheryl yelled above the engines.

  He was going to have to time his takeoff so that the Baron would pass between two of the departing Hornets, but he felt confident he could do it. This was the last takeoff he would ever be allowed to make from this airport, probably from any airport. It might as well be his best.

  “Is this even a runway?”

  “It is for us.”

  “Baron Whiskey-Juliet!” barked the radio. “You are not, repeat not, cleared for takeoff.”

  Will took his feet off the brakes, and the Baron rolled forward with nauseating slowness compared to the jets. As they approached the intersection with the main runway, an F-18 hurtled toward the same point with a roar like a perpetual explosion. Cheryl screamed and covered her eyes, but Will knew the Hornet would be airborne before they reached the runway. He gave the twin Continentals everything he could.

  Seconds before they reached the intersection, the F- 18 blasted into the blue. Cheryl was still screaming, but Will let himself ride the rush of adrenaline flushing through his system. All the fatigue of the past twenty-four hours had disappeared. After hours of impotence, he was finally doing something.

  “November Whiskey-Juliet! Cut your engines! You are not cleared for takeoff!”

  They crossed the intersection at eighty-five knots.

  “November Whiskey-Juliet—Goddamn!”

  The Baron rocketed into the air. In seconds it was only a thin cross-section against the sky.

  Will was banking north at a thousand feet when he sighted the helicopter. It was a mile behind him, but it was moving to cut the angle off his turn. He increased speed and kept climbing, his eye on a bank of cumulus clouds to the northwest.

  He had turned down his radio to dampen the sound of the tower, but as they plowed toward the clouds, he detected a new voice competing with that of the furious controller.

  “Baron Two-Whiskey-Juliet, this is the helicopter on your starboard side. I am FBI Special Agent John Sims. Be advised that you have committed multiple felonies. Return to the airport immediately. Please acknowledge.”

  “Can he catch us?” Cheryl asked.

  “Not a chance. We can do two hundred twenty knots, and we’ve got clouds ahead. He’s history.”

  “Baron Whiskey-Juliet,” crackled the radio. “I know you can hear me. I’m patching my Special Agent-in-Charge through on this channel. Stand by.”

  Will kept climbing toward the cloud bank, pushing the twin engines as hard as they would go. “Can you see the chopper?”

  “Getting smaller by the second,” Cheryl reported.

  “Dr. Jennings,” crackled the radio. “This is Frank Zwick. You’re putting the li
ves of your wife and daughter at risk by cutting us out. You’re going to need backup. Without it, your family will end up dead.”

  Will keyed his mike. “That’s a risk I’m prepared to take.”

  “At least tell us where you’re headed.”

  “The best thing you can do right now is get some agents into Brookhaven, Mississippi. Put some more in McComb. I’ll call you back.”

  Will switched off the comm radio, then the transponder, which would normally broadcast his altitude and position to air-traffic controllers.

  “You’ve got a bigger problem than that helicopter,” Cheryl said.

  “What?”

  “You told that guy at the hotel to forward Joey’s calls through to my cell phone, right? That means that whether Joey tries to call you at the Beau Rivage, or me on my cell phone, he’s going to get this phone. How do we decide who answers?”

  Will’s face suddenly felt cold. How could he have missed it? If Hickey called Cheryl and got “the hotel” instead, his whole plan would be blown. “We’re all right for ten or fifteen minutes,” he said, thinking aloud. “I’ll answer. I’ll say we’re stuck in traffic on our way back to the Beau Rivage.”

  “And after that?”

  “By then we’ll be halfway to Hazlehurst.”

  “Is that where we’re going?”

  “North is where we’re going right now. That’s all we know until Joe calls and tells you something else. Where exactly is this motel you’re supposed to go to in Brookhaven?”

  “Right by the main exit.”

  Brookhaven was twenty miles nearer than Hazlehurst, and Will had once landed there to refuel, but he didn’t remember what sort of rental car facilities they had. He’d have to wing it.

  The Baron shot into the clouds like a stone thrown through a waterfall, and his heart lightened instantly. The FBI chopper couldn’t see him now unless it had radar. And if he dropped to treetop level, it would take an air force AWACs with look-down radar to find him. He felt a brief chill as he remembered that Keesler Air Force Base was only a few miles behind them. There might be an AWACs in the air already, on maneuvers, and after his stunt at the Gulfport field, they might be glad to shadow him for the FBI. He needed to get down into the ground clutter as soon as possible.