Pitcairn was bad.
In addition to being a total nowhere place, it didn’t even have a runway. Worse, it was showing over two thousand nautical miles away. Her plane was going to run out of fuel about a thousand miles too soon.
Nope.
She’d stick with Honolulu.
But then she looked at the GPS map.
Her pretty new SyberJet had flown five hundred miles out to sea and then turned south away from all land.
Not enough fuel to reach the islands—she checked the GPS—or any land.
Not Honolulu, Pitcairn, or Ecuador.
And those were only a few of the places she couldn’t fly to. Samoa, Macau, Oslo… None of them.
Point Nemo—where they sent old satellites to die because there was no one there.
She was in the middle of the biggest land-free zone of any ocean.
Her closest companions would be the astronauts if the space station was passing by overhead.
She was going to plunge into the ocean a thousand miles from anywhere and she couldn’t do a thing about it.
The GPS map blinked off.
Then all four of the LCD display screens lit brightly—her two and the duplicate two in front of the empty copilot’s seat.
Cartoon versions of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger flew onto the leftmost screen on brooms. They did a loop-the-loop out the top of screen three back to two and then waved as they flew off the edge of screen four.
Wizard Boy and Witchy Lady.
She flicked the bird at them.
A little fleet of animated A-10 Lightning IIs followed them across, flying inverted, each with their wings raised—wingtips like hands to hold a white lily over their bellies. The little Warthog paintings on their noses all had cute Xs for eyes.
As the last A-10 Warthog slid off to the right, Harry and Hermione flew in again. Different screen antics this time, but the same trail of dead A-10s.
The third time Hermione was Smurfette, though it wasn’t clear why.
Then Hermione was back while Harry yanked up his robe to moon her.
And again.
None of the controls worked to shut them off.
She tried the radio for a distress call. Maybe there was a ship nearby, if she could survive the landing.
They wouldn’t transmit. And every one was pumping out KXXY—classic country from OK City. The only thing she hated worse than jazz.
She must have watched the Wizard geeks, and occasional Smurfette, fly through a dozen iterations, or maybe a hundred—all different—before she thought to pull off her shoe and use the heel to smash all four screens.
Daemon unbuckled and went back to lie on the bed.
As she lay down, she saw that they were flying across her flat-screen television as well. Beyond caring, she just lay there and watched them and their entourage of cartoon A-10s.
She really should have had sex with Haggador II before she died.
Yep. Too late for that too.
91
As Stefon Gabriel started his Mercedes-AMG GT R roadster, a message pinged onto his console display.
A video. He tapped play as he rolled out of his townhouse’s garage high on San Francisco’s prestigious Russian Hill, but stopped before crossing the sidewalk onto the road.
A small black dot at the exact center slowly expanded. A low rumbling sounded from his sound system. It kept growing until it shook his car.
The dot resolved into an A-10 Thunderbolt II Warthog.
Shit! No one in that whole operation was supposed to know who he was. Even that asshole Hunter Ramson didn’t know.
He could see the massive gun set in the mouth of the hog’s toothy grin.
A load BRRRRT sound, characteristic of the GAU-8/A Avenger rotary cannon, roared into the car.
He caught himself cowering in his seat and forced himself to sit up straight.
His clients had been beyond furious at the failure of his plan to discredit the A-10s. Over twenty million down the drain and nothing to show for it. Now they wanted him to repay those costs.
This must be part of their intimidation plan.
Eight million of it should have been easy, except that Daemon bastard had taken the SyberJet thirty-six hours ago. And other than a brief stop at Santa Monica—his people had been less than an hour behind—the plane had evaporated along with its pilot. Like it had fallen off the edge of the map, it hadn’t been reported landing anywhere.
It was that damn senator’s fault. Maybe Stefon could choke the money out of him. Or that CIA bitch who had recommended this hacker in the first place. They both owed him.
And if they didn’t pay? Well, they didn’t know who he was, but he could certainly splash their identities far and wide.
Whoopsie!
Displayed in bright red letters on the screen.
“What the hell?” But no one answered. He sat alone in the car, staring at the screen.
I haven’t logged in for over 24 hours.
I must be dead.
So sad.
A frowny round-and-very yellow emoticon wept a stream of tears so bountiful that he actually checked the leg of his pants to make sure they weren’t getting wet.
It must be the hacker. Dead? Good. Worth the eight million.
By the way…the frowny face stopped crying and smiled brightly…You’re dead too—Client F.
He froze, unable to move. No one should know that name belonged to him.
He held his breath, not by choice but because he’d forgotten how to breathe.
But the car didn’t explode like in the movies.
Nothing fell on him.
VX gas didn’t pour out of the car vents.
I told the CIA exactly how to find you.
And the cheery yellow emoticon winked.
He laughed at the screen. It had to be the hacker. “You screwed up, asshole. Who do you think told me to hire you in the first place? Got your contact info straight from that blonde bitch.”
I told them hours and hours ago.
He ignored the hard clench in his gut and the winking face that he couldn’t clear off his screen. Getting out of here seemed smart, so he pulled out to the brickwork on Lombard Street. Again he paused—because of all the asshole tourists who thought the street winding down the face of Russian Hill was somehow theirs.
Nope. All clear at the moment.
Except for directly across from his house, there was a car parked. It was pointed straight down the hill with the driver looking straight ahead across the city out to the ocean. Nobody was supposed to park on Lombard.
The tinted rear window rolled down.
A stunning woman, with her white-blonde hair back in a severe ponytail, sat in the back. As casually as a runway model, she turned to look directly at him.
Then, in seeming slow motion, she raised a handgun with a long silencer on it.
That’s when he recognized her. She was the CIA bitch who’d told him to hire that goddamn—
The first shot shattered his windshield and skittered aside to plunge into the Mercedes’ headrest.
“No! Wait!”
The next two caught him in either shoulder as if pinning him to the seat.
The pain exploded into his brain like nothing he’d ever imagined.
When he opened his mouth to scream, the last shot entered through his open mouth and cut his spine.
With the last of his fading sight, he watched her turn just as slowly to face front and raise the tinted window. The driver pulled ahead into the quiet evening without once turning in his direction.
The video winked again through splatters of his own blood, then blanked.
His foot slipped off the brake. The Mercedes rolled slowly sideways across Lombard and stopped when it bumped against a brick wall.
92
It was three a.m. and bitterly cold for Washington, DC, even in November.
Miranda’s plane had spent a day under a hastily erected Quonset-style tent on the JFK Hockey Fiel
ds. The perimeter secured by National Guard and the plane serviced by specialists from Andrews Air Force Base.
Miranda had spent the day asleep.
Drake was hoping to get to sleep soon himself. Now that the detailed interviews had been completed and the deep code unraveled to lay out exactly what had happened in that horrific twenty-four hours—especially what was in the simulator and what wasn’t.
The detailed code that had infected the simulation computer and the aircraft had been delivered to the right people. Security patches to block any similar attack were promised quickly. Very quickly after he threatened to cancel all future military contracts with anyone who didn’t deliver by the end of the week.
He’d spent nine of those hours down at Eglin and only returned to Washington an hour ago to put the last of the mess under lock and key.
Now he stood out on the southeast corner of the Ellipse in front of the White House to watch the final piece be put in place.
The wind was from the west, so they’d towed Miranda’s Sabrejet to the bus parking area just east of the Washington Monument.
No press was in sight…yet.
The few passersby who’d asked had been told that the ancient plane was headed to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum at the head of the Mall. A few had snapped photos, but no one had stayed to watch on the bitter November night.
At precisely three in the morning, Miranda was escorted to her Sabrejet.
Very quietly, in a smoothly coordinated plan, the police closed Constitution Avenue from the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial.
A generator, trucked over from Reagan National, was started and plugged into her Sabrejet.
After a successful engine start, they unplugged, pulled the chocks from her wheels, and a pair of runway conductors waved her forward with red wands.
Out of the bus parking area, they signaled her for a right turn onto 15th Street Northwest. Four lanes wide, her wingtips reached from shoulder to shoulder. The two conductors walked backward for the half block, stationed in front of each wingtip to make sure she was clear.
Left onto Constitution.
Drake held hands with Lizzy at the southeast corner of the Ellipse. The White House shone brightly behind them and he’d wager that the President was at his window to watch the show even if his press people hadn’t wanted him involved.
The press had taken the cover story hook, line, and sinker. The “unplanned mechanical failure” and the NTSB’s lead investigator saving her own life on her way to consult with the Pentagon over the tragic recent losses.
No mention of the White House.
Nor the CIA.
His own presence at her landing had somehow slipped by mostly unremarked.
He and Lizzy waved with their free hands as Miranda lined up at the corner of 15th and Constitution, pointed west.
Miranda waved back by flapping the ailerons at the trailing edges of her wings as she sat in her brand-new seat.
Then the engine roared to life, a shot of blue fire poured out the rear exhaust port, aimed at the distant Capitol Building. Couldn’t happen to nicer people, but Drake kept that thought to himself.
For the length of a breath, the plane strove forward against locked wheels while they covered their ears.
Then Miranda released the brakes and the plane raced ahead.
She accelerated past the Ellipse, the World War II memorial, and the Constitution Gardens.
The Sabrejet shot aloft somewhere between the National Academy of Sciences and the Lincoln Memorial.
Then it turned northwest over the Potomac and raced away exactly on schedule—during a planned gap in the Reagan National Airport’s pattern.
“You really know how to show a girl a good time, Drake.”
He took Lizzy’s hand again. “Just trying not to be some average boring guy.”
“I think you have that covered.”
Then, as the police reopened Constitution Avenue and melted back into the night, Lamont pulled his car around the corner and rolled up in front of them.
“Lizzy?”
“Mmm,” she sounded sleepy. It made sense; it was three in the morning after all and neither of them had slept last night.
Maybe it wasn’t his best idea. But maybe it was.
“We’re both exhausted.”
He could see the disappointment on her face.
“But I sure wouldn’t mind waking up next to you in the morning.”
Her radiant smile was all he needed.
He definitely didn’t need Lamont’s thumbs-up as he held the door open for them.
93
“Wow! That’s a huge turkey,” Jeremy flapped his arms as if it was eight feet wide.
Miranda did her best not to laugh.
It wasn’t that big, but it was Dillinger. She’d slept much better these last few nights without his shrieking two a.m. gobbles outside her island window.
She’d made the turkey and stuffing.
Jeremy had brought wine from Oregon and Washington vineyards, “That Cassidy Knowles blog rated these just super high.” And she’d been right; they were very good and Miranda was feeling just a little bit loose already.
Holly had claimed “no skills with that stuff” and found an unlikely place called the Australian Pie Company close by the SeaTac airport.
“They specialize in meat pies—no real wonder—they’re from Oz after all. But I got us a whole box of their dessert treats for later.” Peach puffs, cheesecake turtles, some kind of apricot cake. And she’d brought enough for many times the four of them.
Mike had shown a surprising facility in her kitchen and had created appetizers of spinach and artichoke dip on fresh-baked rye crackers, corn pudding, and real cranberry sauce. He’d also manhandled her attempt at gravy into a thick luscious wonder over rough-mashed potatoes with the skin on.
Now they sat at the big table in the main house. Even with all the leaves taken out, the four of them sat at one end and enough food for three more teams sat at the other. They’d each made their first foray down the table and now sat staring at their full plates.
She and Jeremy sat to one side and Mike and Holly to the other.
The two of them had sparred over having to sit side-by-side—“Even on the same continent is too close,” Holly had declared. But Miranda noticed that they also sat far closer together than she and Jeremy did.
The team had tried to place her at the head of the table, but that had been Dad’s spot and she never sat there. She also wondered if it hadn’t been John Wayne’s spot as well when “The Duke” had hunted here.
For a moment she wondered what it would be like to have Colonel Campos sitting here with them all.
She’d liked him.
It might even be nice.
But unless he crashed another A-10, it wasn’t likely that she’d ever see him again.
Even if she did, she wouldn’t seat him in the head chair.
That belonged to Sam Chase. She imagined her father sitting there, posing some challenging thought experiment over a slice of pie made from island apples.
The walls were paneled in dark Douglas fir, and big beams of the same created a lofty cathedral ceiling. The fire was crackling and the house was warm against the fast-descending night. A dusting of an early snow lay over the fields, but would probably melt by tomorrow. It wouldn’t matter, the planes—both the Sabrejet and the Mooney—were tucked away snugly in the hangar.
Miranda sighed.
She’d forgotten these times.
Mom and Dad. Her and Tante Daniels. It seemed there were always more. Tante Daniels was beautiful and often had male guests. Visitors, friends—who she now understood had probably been fellow CIA agents or aviation specialists.
She’d been exposed to flying a wide variety of planes long before she was legal to fly them. Almost everyone had been willing to take “Sam Chase’s kid” aloft for a ride. A ride that she’d always done her best to turn into a flying lesson since long before she co
uld reach the rudder pedals.
Mike raised a glass.
Holly and Jeremy did the same and Miranda almost knocked hers over in her hurry to join them.
“You cracked another one, Miranda. Well done, you.”
Holly and Jeremy were nodding in agreement.
“I, uh…” she looked down at her plate and tried to figure out what to say.
Saying she couldn’t have done it without them seemed too mundane, even if it was true.
Saying that she was glad they were here was also true, but it wasn’t enough.
It shouldn’t be even about the NTSB.
It should be about…how she felt.
How did she feel?
Like…
She looked up and raised her glass a little higher.
“I can’t think of any other people I’d rather do it with.”
Jeremy offered her one of his goofy-happy grins.
Mike placed a hand on his heart and made a humorous “Awww” sound.
But Holly tipped her glass ever so slightly toward her and whispered in a way that Miranda knew only she could hear.
“No one I’d rather be with either.”
Right. That’s exactly what Miranda had meant to say.
If you enjoyed this, keep reading for an excerpt from a book you’re going to love.
..and a review is always welcome (it really helps)…
Miranda Chase returns
Coming in 2020
Condor (excerpt)
Miranda Chase #3
“Favorite airplane?”
“Oh, c’mon, Jeremy, ask her a real question. We all know Miranda’s favorite plane,” Holly teased him.
“My F-86 Sabrejet,” Miranda answered calmly. For twenty years she’d flown the old jet and knew it as well as the back of her hand. She liked its familiarity. Just as she liked the familiarity of this house. She’d grown up here.
Though it was still slightly uncomfortable having visitors to her island.
No, not uncomfortable. Merely…unfamiliar. Yes, that was a better way to think of it.
Thunderbolt Page 25
