Bobby Sky

by Joe Shine

  With the PR machine nice and greased we needed to get over to Seattle, where the US tour would begin. A helicopter took us from midtown Manhattan directly to LaGuardia, where the plane was waiting. But this wasn’t some ordinary, private charter like we usually got—no, this was one of the official jets of the record label. This was reserved for the real heavy hitters of the company. The Stones got one of these jets. Coldplay got one of these jets. The girls of Solar One got these jets. We all shared a knowing look. The “just like you” boys had finally caught up to the rest.

  We’d been on our fair share of private charters, but nothing like this. Talk about awesome. Daaaaaang, this thing was nice! Flat screens, couches, and a buffet! Love it. The itchy fingers of old Hutch would have stolen so much stuff in here.

  “Universal’s going to be so mad,” Amit said with a chuckle.

  Seamus agreed. “Will definitely ruffle their feathers. Wish I could see it.”

  “We should take a picture, as a family, for our memory book,” Karim said.

  “Memory book?” I asked.

  “I’m making one for each of you,” Karim said, as if we were the weird ones.

  “That is quite kind of you,” Ryo acknowledged, staring me down, knowing I wanted to make fun of the kid. “I will agree to your picture.”

  He looked at me, knowing that if I agreed, Seamus and Amit would, too.

  “Yeah, why not.”

  As predicted, Seamus and Amit agreed. Karim took a few selfies, with each of us strategically placed behind him, and then asked the copilot to take some more. Thirty minutes later—pretty short for a Karim-inspired photo session—we finished.

  “Maybe we’ll take some more once we’re in the air?” Karim said, sounding hopeful.

  No one answered.

  “Gonna be a bit,” the captain told us. “Got a lot of planes stacked up, thanks to the storm in Florida.”

  It didn’t matter. Once you’re on a plane like this, delays don’t bother you. Oh, you mean I should just have another lobster roll while I watch a movie that’s not even out yet? Man, okay, I guess . . .

  Most of us were still on Europe time anyway, so when you combined that with waking up early for the talk show, naps were high on everyone’s to-do list. And the super-comfy chairs and couches on this plane were made for napping. While everyone got comfy I got a call on my phone. The number was blocked, but that didn’t mean anything since half the numbers of people we dealt with came across as blocked.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I answered, assuming it was one of our producers or something.

  “The blender you sold me is crap,” a person I didn’t recognize said on the other end of the line.

  “Not my problem, bro,” I responded automatically, and immediately looked out the window. I couldn’t believe this was happening. This was FATE calling. But why? They’d only contact me if something was wrong. What was wrong?

  I looked around. None of the boys were paying attention to me, which was good. Seamus (not surprisingly) was already asleep. I got up and moved toward the front of the plane to be farther away from them.

  “I want my money back,” the guy on the other end replied.

  “Fine. Where can I send it?”

  “Hangar 16C.”

  I looked back at the guys. All of them were busy texting or watching movies, so I turned and asked the pilot, “Okay if I go for a walk?”

  “Absolutely, but don’t go too far,” he said. “When we get the go-ahead, we’ll need to move quick.”

  I had no idea where hangar 16C might be. Given who I was dealing with, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see it was the next hangar over. I took one last look at the plane to make sure none of my bandmates were watching and then quickly walked away.

  The metal side door opened quietly enough as I pushed it. In my imagination the hangar would be pitch black except for a single light from the ceiling shining down on a black Lincoln. Oh, and there’d be a man in a black suit and trench coat, with black gloves and black sunglasses, standing next to it holding a manila envelope. Reality, as I’d learned, is quite different in comparison.

  The hangar was well-lit and fairly dirty, and had seven planes jammed inside it. It was quiet in here, though. At least my imagination had gotten that part right. A guy in a hoodie and jeans stepped out from behind a plane and waved at me to follow.

  I tailed him into the middle of the hangar, where the pieces of a small Cessna plane were scattered around, along with a bunch of tools.

  “Everything okay?” I asked him. I needed to know what was going on.

  He held up his finger silently, asking for a moment. He looked midthirties, had a mess of curly black hair with a touch of gray, and wore black-rimmed glasses. He didn’t look a threat with his pudgy frame, but I knew better. Anyone and everyone can be dangerous. I mean, yeah, I could take him—whether I could or couldn’t was a thought that went through my head every time I met someone new—but we were on the same team, so I knew I wouldn’t have to. Not to sound too egoistic, but I’d never met anyone I didn’t think I could handle. Comes with the gig, I guess.

  “All clear,” a man behind me said.

  “No one followed,” said another in the same area.

  Where in the heck had they come from?! Talk about silent. Were they part-cat? I looked over my shoulder to see two men wearing black combat fatigues walking toward us. Both had short-cropped hair, black combat boots, and don’t-mess-with-me attitudes. Unlike Floppy here with the glasses, these guys were legit—trained soldiers of some kind. They stopped a few feet behind me, one on the left and the other on the right. I wasn’t scared, but it did make me feel uncomfortable.

  Floppy reached into the front pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a pair of the clear linking glasses. “Here,” he said.

  I reached out and took them, but I didn’t put them on.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him.

  “You’re done. Your assignment’s over. Now, put those on and unlink. You’re still a valuable resource and we have a new assignment for you,” he said, as if reading it all from a cue card.

  “I sorta like the one I have now.”

  I couldn’t believe those words had come out of my mouth, and that I’d actually meant them, too.

  “Well, that’s too bad. It’s over, and you’re needed elsewhere.”

  “But, how?”

  Had I missed Ryo doing the miraculous, world-changing thing I was here for?

  “The how is not your concern,” Floppy said calmly, but I could tell he was getting annoyed. He jerked his head toward the exit. “Your assignment is completed. He is on his way. The rest will take care of itself.”

  “On his way?” I repeated. I felt a prickle at the back of my neck.

  “On the plane.”

  “What happens on the plane?!” I demanded. When he didn’t answer, I repeated, angrily and slowly, “What . . . happens . . . on . . . the . . . plane?”

  “How should I know?” he admitted, a bit annoyed.

  “Look, buddy, I know you’re just doing your job. I get it. But I joined a boy band for this. A boy band. Whatever makes this kid so special I’m gonna be there for it. I’m gonna see it,” I said seriously. “Give me the glasses, and I’ll put them on after he does it, and I’ll meet you wherever you want.”

  He didn’t respond. For a moment I thought he’d agree. But then it happened: a flick of the eye to the men behind me. Nothing more. Barely noticeable, but I saw it. I’d been trained to see it.

  I reacted in the only way I knew how—also the way I’d been trained—without mercy. In a flash, I slammed my left foot into Floppy’s chest, sending him flying backward into a mess of parts. At the same time a hand grabbed my right shoulder. I reached up with my right hand, grabbed it, and twisted until I heard things break. The attacker fell to the ground clutching his
arm. There was another on my left. So my left foot, which had never touched the ground after hitting Floppy, swung over and caught him in the throat. The whole thing lasted precisely one second.

  I looked at the men. Floppy was on the ground, clutching his chest and trying to catch his breath through . . . three—no, four broken ribs. The man on my right was still growling in pain, holding his mangled arm. The man on my left was silent and turning blue, gurgling through a crushed windpipe. He’d be gone soon and was no longer a concern. Kill or die. The only enemy you don’t have to worry about is a dead one.

  My focus went back to Floppy. He was the one with the answers.

  We aren’t trained to simply maim or injure and move on. Kill or die. The only enemy you don’t have to worry about is a dead one. I’d only done what I’d been trained to do. I reminded myself of this as I shoved the last of the bodies into the luggage compartment of a random plane in the hangar. As I was about to close the luggage hatch, Floppy’s glasses fell out. I picked them up and gently put them back on his face.

  What? I’m not a total monster.

  He’d told me nothing, of course. Not anything useful. He didn’t know what was going on any more than I did. He was a Collector for FATE. I’d never heard the term before, but it wasn’t hard to figure out why they were called that. Guys like him were sent to collect Shadows who were no longer needed on their assignments—and presumably those Shadows would be killed or recycled or stuck permanently at the FATE Center.

  All he knew was that after the flight to Seattle, Ryo’s protection was no longer needed and I was being reassigned to some place called the Nest.

  Apparently they had assured him I’d go willingly. Uh, nope. I’d made it quick out of respect for his honesty. His friend with the jacked-up arm had known even less and quickly joined Floppy for whatever afterlife he believed in. Luckily, no one had come in during any of this. Try explaining that one to the press.

  With the bodies safely tucked away, I headed back to my plane. Whatever was going on, I was sure as hell gonna be a part of it until the very end. I would see this through. They’d linked me. What did they expect would happen? I only did what they’d trained me to do. Or so I kept telling myself. Then again, I’d disobeyed orders, and I’d killed some of their people—my people. The killing they probably wouldn’t mind, but the disobeying of orders? That was a big no-no. Maybe when we landed, I’d fall off the grid instead.

  Oh yeah, that would totally work. It wasn’t like I was in a world-famous boy band or anything . . . I’m not hugely recognizable with my face on posters in girls’ rooms across the world . . .

  I’d figure it out. All I knew was that whatever lightning-to-the-brain moment Ryo was about to get, I wanted to be there for it. I’d joined a boy band for this, so for God’s sake, at least let me see the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

  The closer I got to the plane, the more nervous and excited I got. What was about to happen? How long would it take? Would I even know when it happened, or would it just be a thought Ryo has and a small smile? I knew as I reached the stairs I was going to really have to focus on not staring at him.

  I climbed on board and within minutes we were taxiing. No one had questioned where’d I’d gone or why either. The hangar had never happened. I took a seat where I could watch Ryo without him knowing it. He was playing a game on his tablet. Was this what inspired him?

  “I have that game if you want to play it,” Amit offered.

  Wow, I must have been staring hard that time. Oops.

  “Oh yeah?” I asked, pretending to be excited.

  “Here,” he said, handing me his tablet.

  “Awesome. Thanks,” I lied and started to play it.

  It actually ended up being a good cover. I held up the tablet at eye level so it looked like I was staring at it instead of Ryo. Three cheers for Amit.

  An hour after takeoff, Ryo reclined his seat and dozed off. Ah, right, the old dream inspiration. Classic. He’d wake up, shout, “Eureka!” and then explain his world-changing idea to us. All I had to do now was wait.

  And wait.

  And wait—

  My pocket vibrated.

  Dut . . . dut . . . dut . . .

  I bolted up in my seat and my hand wrapped itself around the phone. That pulse was unmistakable. An alert.

  Dut . . . dut . . . dut . . .

  My phone—normal-looking, but developed and made by FATE specifically for Shadows—had a warning. I made sure no one was watching me before looking at the screen.

  Incoming Missile – Heat-Seeking flashed on the top of the screen.

  Below that was a lovely map showing our plane cruising happily along with another blip screaming toward us. Impact was imminent. There were seconds to spare.

  I tapped my phone to bring up the only option available to us. It wasn’t ideal, but given that the other option was the guarantee of dying in a fiery explosion five miles up in the sky, I had no other choice. My phone, packed with a lot of really other cool features, can release an electromagnetic pulse, or EMP, which fries all electrical stuff within its blast range. My finger hovered above the spot to detonate.

  With the engines killed, there would be no heat signature and the missile would miss us. Yeah, by shutting down the plane I’d most likely be killing us anyway, but a missile strike guaranteed death. Crappy odds beat crappier ones every time. Still I hesitated. We’d have to glide down from thirty thousand feet with no hope of getting the engines back online. It was possible, just not likely. It all depended on the pilot. Maybe ours was that good. Maybe he was on par with the “Miracle on the Hudson” guy, you know, the one who landed a plane on the Hudson River after hitting a bunch of birds. Okay, more likely we’d die on impact. But at least that wouldn’t be death now. The gift of time is the greatest of all.

  I tapped the button.

  Everything shut off. A collective gasp of panic erupted among my bandmates when everything, even the lights, shut off. Well, not Ryo. He was still asleep. For the most wonderful of half seconds the plane held steady. Not bad, I thought. Then it got bad. The plane lurched, the nose dipped, and we all got that super-fun feeling in our stomachs as the plane gave in to gravity and fell. After that, the cabin was all shrieking terror. I glanced out the window and I caught sight of the tail smoke from the missile as it zipped past us like we weren’t there. Obstacle one down. Obstacle two, here I come. I needed to get to the cockpit. The pilot would need help.

  My body wanted to go up toward the tail, not down, so I practically had to pull myself down the aisle. Halfway there we began to spin. That didn’t help, either. Not only did it become near impossible to keep my bearings, but crap kept smacking me in the face. Eventually I got to the cockpit door and climbed inside. The pilot was clutching his chest and crying. Okay, so he wasn’t as good as that “Miracle on the Hudson” guy. Bang up job, buddy. Way to keep it to together.

  I grabbed him and unhooked his belt.

  “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . .” he was repeating over and over. What the hell? Don’t they train pilots for catastrophic power failures? I did when FATE gave me flying lessons.

  “Ugh,” I growled. I shoved him hard out of the cockpit and into the main cabin to get tossed around like a rag doll for a bit; maybe that would snap him out of it. I slammed the cockpit door shut, strapped myself into the seat, and took a breath. I’d done this before, sorta. I’d had to recover planes in free fall plenty of times on the simulator. It all came back to me and instinct took over.

  Within five seconds—which seems like not a lot of time but is an eternity when you’re free-falling—I was able to stop the spinning. Ten seconds later, I had us in a controlled glide. Okay, maybe not controlled, but these planes weren’t meant to “glide,” so a better way to say it would be a controlled dive. Yeah, that’s more like it. Whatever you want to call i
t, the big takeaway was it gave me some time to think and a chance at us not dying. A chance.

  “Where do I land?” I called out to no one.

  We were somewhere over the Grand Tetons. These are particularly sharp and snowy mountains that are also rocky and steep. Not ideal. But it looked like there was a break where the ground could be flat up ahead.

  I gritted my teeth as I kept one eye on the altimeter and the other on the terrain, trying my best to steer us to the crash zone. Yeah, it would be a crash zone, not a landing zone. Gotta have wheels to land, but the controls for those were fried along with everything else. We were crashing. There was no way around it.

  I reached behind me and unlatched the cockpit door.

  “Ryo, strap in and hold on!” I yelled, realizing I probably could have said “everybody” instead of “Ryo,” but at this moment I couldn’t care less about them.

  Ten seconds to impact. I gave the plane a little turn while I kept pulling up on the yoke with everything I had.

  Five seconds to impact.

  I pulled harder, trying my best to flatten us out. The trees and ground were flying by below so fast it seemed fake. The simulator was more real than this. Then again, you got to walk away from a crash in a simulator. Up ahead, the tree line gave way to a wide open grassy plain. I could make it. I had to make it.

  Three . . .

  Two . . .

  One . . .

  The last of the trees clipped the underside of the plane with a sickening jolt.

  Plane, say hello to ground.

  Ground, you play nice, please.

  Chapter 19

  Simple Livin’

  Dirt, grass, and hunks of airplane exploded up from the ground and blinded me as the nose of the plane dug into the earth. Noise, the rumbling of the ground on the metal, the creaking of the hull—it was deafening. We began to slide to the left. Something caught the wing and jerked us back around to the right. I didn’t care which way we slid as long as we weren’t . . . rolling.

  Why did I think that?!