Control tower:
no
ARTCC:
SEATTLE CENTER
FSS:
SEATTLE FLIGHT SERVICE STATION
NOTAMs facility:
SEA (NOTAM-D service available)
Attendance:
UNATNDD
“It’s unattended,” said Ben. “No control tower, either. Hell, Karen. You might be right. They’d never expect us to try landing at a legitimate airport.” He laughed. “Let’s do it. It’s only a few miles away. We’ll just taxi this thing into the middle of all the other tie-downs and switch off the engine. I don’t know. It might work.”
“Then what?” Karen said.
“Here,” said Ben, handing back her phone. “See if you can find any used car dealers in that town.” He turned the plane east, heading for the airport. The runway was already in sight about three miles ahead.
Karen tapped the screen on the phone and brought up one item after another. “I can’t find any used car dealerships. Either that or they’re not listed. But...”
“What?”
“There’s a U-Haul dealer in town. It’s less than a mile from the airport.”
“I see a truck in our future then,” said Ben. “Any vehicle will do for now.”
“You’re crazy,” said Ray. “You want to haul guns, this big bag of money, and just walk a mile into the middle of town from the airport? We’re more wanted than the numbers to the next Powerball lottery. We won’t get halfway there before a cop spots us. Or some local farmer decides to be a hero.”
“We have to take a chance. If we stay in the air another ten minutes, someone is going to be on to us. You two will have to stay with the plane until I get back.”
“Why?”
“It’s safer if we aren’t seen together. And I’m the only one with a drivers’ license and a matching credit card in a different name. You need a credit card to rent a truck.”
Ben brought the Cessna into a final approach toward the airport. The tires bumped and made a slight squeak as they touched down on the runway. About a half-dozen private planes were parked near the end of the field and off to the side. No one seemed to be around as he taxied the plane toward the group of other aircraft. When he reached them, he turned the wheel and moved the Cessna in between two of them, shutting down the engine at once. It chugged to a stop and he took a deep breath.
“Anyone around?” Karen said.
Ray opened his door and stuck out his head. He saw a couple of hangar-type buildings, an old school bus, and a cargo trailer without a truck. No one was around, and in all directions were the brown, rolling flatlands of farm country. It was eerily quiet, with a soft breeze, and very hot. “It’s like the Dead Zone,” said Ray.
“Good,” said Ben. “Karen, you got the directions to that U-Haul dealership?”
“Yeah. Here.” She gave him the phone. I left the Google map going on it. It’s about a mile away.”
Ben tapped Ray on the shoulder. “Give me that Beretta,” he said.
Ray pulled the little gun from his back pocket and handed it over.
“Okay,” said Ben, “stay in the plane and keep down. I’ll be back as quick as I can. When I come back, I’ll park over by that school bus. When you see me, grab everything out of the luggage compartment, and get over to the truck. And don’t run. This will take at least an hour, so try not to panic if anyone drives up or anything. Just make sure you keep your heads down so no one sees you inside the plane. Understand?”
“Don’t take too long,” said Ray. “I can’t believe you’re going to try this in broad daylight. You’re fucking crazy, Ben.”
Ben smiled as he opened his door and dropped to the ground. “Yeah. But I’m so fucking good, too. Don’t worry, man.” He put on a pair of sunglasses and did his best Arnold Schwarzenegger impression. “I’ll be back.” He shut the door and walked away.
Ben headed casually up to the main road, checked the map on Karen’s phone, and started walking along the shoulder into town. An old Chevy truck passed him going the other way and the driver waved at him. He waved back and smiled. As he did, he heard a roaring up in the sky. He looked up and saw two military fighter planes screaming along at about ten thousand feet, heading southwest. He suppressed a grin. He knew they were looking for the Cessna. He watched them to see if they were going to make a low pass over the airport to check the aircraft on the ground. They kept going southwest.
He studied the map again and memorized the route. There was also a phone number for the U-Haul dealership, along with the map. He tapped in the number. It was a recorded message.
“Hi, you’ve reached Goldendale U-Haul. The office is closed for the Labor Day weekend. We will open again on Tuesday at 9AM. If you want to leave a message, press one. For more options, press two...”
His upbeat mood vanished like the last bit of water going down a drain. “Shit!” He had forgotten it was a holiday weekend and this was Saturday. They wouldn’t be open again for another three days. He ran options through his mind as some houses began to appear ahead. He decided to just walk toward the middle of town and see if any opportunities presented themselves. Many families were probably gone on vacation for the weekend. Maybe I can steal a car, he thought. It was already after five P.M. and it would be dark in a couple of hours or so. It would be best to try it then. He would have to pick an older one, something that probably didn’t have an alarm installed. He felt for his Swiss Army knife and was relieved to find it was still in his pocket.
As he passed the genteel homes lining the street as he came into town, his mind was racing, his eyes searching behind his sunglasses. And then he saw something just ahead and on the other side of the street. It was a white Toyota van, an older one with a few rust spots down low and a couple of dents on the back doors. There was a sign on it.
For Sale, it said.
He crossed the road and walked up to the van, looking into the driver’s side window. It was a cargo van, no seats in the back, and a little dirty. He gave it a quick once-over. Tires are good, he thought. The sign did not give a price, just a phone number. Ben went to the front door and knocked. He heard a television going at high volume from inside the house.
After a bit, a short woman well past retirement age and dressed in a yellow bathrobe opened the door. She was bent over and holding a cane. “Yes?”
“Hello, ma’am. I saw your van outside and I was wondering if it was still for sale,” said Ben. He took off his baseball hat.
“Well, yes. Do you want to look at it?”
“Yes, ma’am. If you wouldn’t mind.”
“All right. Just a minute.” She shuffled back into the house. When she returned, she held out the keys. “I’m asking fifteen hundred dollars for it. It belonged to my husband. He did a lot of fishing and camping in it. He died last year. So I’m selling it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ben, trying to sound like he meant it.
“Don’t be. He wasn’t that nice. Not to me. Not to anyone else much, either.” She dropped the keys into his hand. “If you need to drive it around the block, go ahead. My favorite show is on. And knock louder when you come back. I barely heard you the first time.” She shut the door with a bang.
Knock louder, thought Ben. That’s because you’re so fucking deaf you old bitch. Get a hearing aid or something. He had a passing thought of just killing her right there, stuffing her body into a closet, and leaving with the van. In a sleepy little town like this, she might not be discovered for days. He decided against it as an unnecessary risk. Unlocking the door to the Toyota, he climbed behind the drivers’ seat and inserted the key into the ignition. The van started up the second he turned the key, humming quietly. He revved the engine a bit and the engine responded without any stumbling or noises. Putting it into reverse, he backed it out of the driveway. It was rough inside and out, but handled well and the mechanicals were obviously in good shape. Even the gas tank was full. He made a right turn at the next intersection and drove arou
nd the block until he came back to the house. He rolled the Toyota into the driveway and shut off the motor. It would do. He got out and walked back up to the front door, knocking a bit louder this time.
The old woman opened the door. “Well?”
“It seems fine, ma’am,” said Ben.
“You want it then?”
“Yes, I’ll take it.”
Her mood softened. “You have cash? I don’t take checks you know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She held open the door. “Okay, come on in. I’ll get the title for you.” Leaning on her cane, the woman shuffled into a nearby bedroom.
Ben pulled a stack of bills from his pocket and counted out fifteen one-hundred-dollar bills. What a rip-off, he thought. That van isn’t worth more than a fucking thousand. He laid them on the dining room table in a neat little stack. The television blared loudly in the corner. He glanced over and saw a blonde-haired women screaming at another woman on the screen. It was a rerun of Real Housewives of Orange County and Vicki was doing the screaming. That bitch is just like me, he thought. She doesn’t take shit from anybody.
When the old woman returned, Ben gestured to the money. “There it is.” She counted out the hundred-dollar notes carefully before handing Ben the title to the van. “Thank you,” she said. She lifted the lid on a sugar bowl sitting on the dining table stuffed the bills inside. Without another word, she sat down in an old plush chair and gave her attention back to the show.
Ben turned to leave.
“Lock the door, please!” she called after him.
He opened the door. Suddenly, he turned around to look at the old woman one last time. She was staring intensely at the television, absorbed in the battle between the screaming women. He had a sudden vision of taking out his Beretta, placing the barrel behind her ear, pulling the trigger, and then dumping her into the bedroom closet. Nah, he thought. Someone might hear the shot if they were close by, even with the TV going.
He turned and left the house, locking the door behind him.
Ray Morris took a quick look out the side window of the Cessna. The little airport was like a ghost town. A soft breeze waved across dead brown grass on one side of the runway. There was assorted trash piled outside some of the buildings. “Nothing out there,” he said.
“How long since Ben left?” said Karen from the back seat.
“I don’t know. Almost an hour, I guess. Hope he hasn’t killed anybody yet.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I know. You’re right, though. He’s a psycho. He’s not the guy I served with in Iraq anymore. Or maybe he was like that the whole time, and I just never saw it.”
“You still think we should get away from him?”
“Yes. But not yet. We’ll make our move once we get those passports from his friend in Seattle. Just keep your eyes open. He might be planning to kill us both and keep all the money.” Ray heard the crunch of tires rolling over gravel. He looked out the window again. “There’s a van pulling up outside the fence,” he said. As he watched, the door on the van opened and Ben stepped out carefully, looking in both directions. “It’s him,” said Ray. “Let’s go.”
They climbed out of the Cessna and Ray shut the door carefully behind them. As Karen ran for the fence gate, he popped open the luggage compartment behind the cockpit and quickly dumped everything inside onto the ground. He waved for Ben to help as he picked up the two M-16’s, the moneybag, and a duffle bag of clothes and other things. He ran for the gate and passed Ben going the other way.
Ben scooped up all the remaining items and followed Ray back to the van. Karen already had the back doors open, and the men tossed everything inside with a clatter and slammed the doors shut. The three of them hopped inside and Ben slid behind the wheel. Karen took the passenger seat and Ray sat down on the floorboard in the rear.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” said Ray.
Ben handed Karen her cell phone. “Get the map up,” he said. “I’m not sure which road we’re supposed to take, but we need to get to Seattle on the shortest route.” He started the van.
“Okay, hang on.” She enabled the map application and checked it quickly. “I got it.” Pointing down the road running past the airport, she said, “That way. It goes back into town. Then you can hit Highway 97 going north, and then Highway 12 over to the Interstate.”
Ben put his hands on his head and thought about something for a moment. “Let me see the map,” he said, taking the phone. He looked at it for a few seconds. “You know what? When they find that plane, they’re going to think we headed north, because I think they already know we’re headed for Seattle. So you know what? We’re going south, back to Interstate 84. It goes into Portland, and then we head north from there. If we try to go north now, they will have roadblocks all over these two-lane highways, just like they did back in Eureka.” He put the van into gear and grinned. “You got to think like a cop to outsmart these fuckers. They’ll never expect us to try backtracking now. And it’s safer if we keep to the interstate. They don’t roadblock those too much,” he said, laughing.
Special Agent Ryan McKenzie finished brushing his teeth in the tiny bathroom at the back of the command post trailer. It was now sitting in the main parking lot of the Federal building in downtown Seattle. He spat in disgust and rinsed, wiping his mouth with the only clean towel remaining on the rack. It was now Monday morning, Labor Day, a bit after 9AM, and he had just received the news about the stolen Cessna. He was not happy.
The F-16’s scrambled out of Fairchild AFB hadn’t spotted a thing, even after refueling in Portland and doing a second search. The Goldendale police finally discovered the plane sitting on the side of the tarmac at the local airport on Sunday morning. No one had seen it land, and no one knew where the fugitives had gone after it landed. It was as if they simply vanished. The roadblocks tossed up along Highways 12 and 97, the most likely escape route for the fugitives, had turned up nothing. Did they call somebody to pick them up? McKenzie thought. And even if they got a ride, how were they not found at the roadblocks? All vehicles had been subject to a search at every roadblock, and even the Forest Service roads had been covered. They’re like ghosts. He glanced at his watch. Assuming they landed in Goldendale in the late afternoon on Saturday, this meant his fugitives now had a thirty-six hour head start. They could be anywhere, although he knew they were probably somewhere in the Seattle area.
McKenzie slammed the door behind him as he exited the bathroom. Four of his agents were sitting at desks, studying documents, maps, and one was on the telephone. He waved to get their attention. “Stop whatever you’re doing and listen up.”
The agent on the telephone said something quickly and hung up. Everyone turned their attention to McKenzie.
“All right. It’s official. We lost them. But that doesn’t mean we won’t find them again,” said McKenzie. He pointed to one of the agents. “Decker. Anything yet from the search on Cummings’ ranch?”
“No sir. They’ve torn the place to pieces. A few more weapons, some ammo. That’s about it. No notebook.”
“Well, okay. This is the situation. We know they’re probably somewhere in Seattle, but we don’t know who is helping them. Cummings doesn’t have regular cell phone service, so that means he was using a pre-pay phone when he called his friend in Seattle. But they got out of the Goldendale area somehow. I want agents to check every car dealer in that town, and put out the word on the local TV stations there asking if anyone sold a car to someone matching one of our suspects’ descriptions. It would be nice to know what the hell they’re driving now.”
McKenzie opened the door to the trailer and stepped outside. “I have to get some fucking coffee,” he said in disgust.
Chapter 13
Mercer Island was one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in the Puget Sound area. It sat in the middle of Lake Washington between Seattle and its relatively affluent neighbor to the east, Bellevue. A white Toyota van now cruised quietly south on
East Mercer Way past expensive homes on lakefront property. The island was home to people like Paul Allen, one of the founders of Microsoft, and a host of others in the Rich and Famous category.
The van itself was a bit of an anomaly on Mercer. Ben drove on, looking around nervously at the BMW’s and Mercedes sedans driving north in the other lane. “We’re almost there,” he said. He pointed to a black wrought-iron gate in front of a cobblestone driveway. Above the gate, there was a name, also in wrought iron but painted white. Woodburn, it said.
“That’s it,” said Ben. He turned the van smoothly into the driveway and pulled up at a call box. Rolling down the window, he pushed the call button.
“Yes?”
“It’s me,” said Ben.
“Are your two friends with you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Come on up. I’m going to open one of the garage doors. Pull in there and shut off your motor.”
“Got it.” The gate swung open and Ben drove up the steep, winding driveway until he rounded a corner and saw the house.
“Oh my God,” said Karen. “This place is huge!”
The main house was painted a light grey and was three stories tall. There were five garage doors attached to the left of the house. Large picture windows, some with slider doors, filled the second story. A deck ran around three sides of the home on the second story as well. The garage door at the far end of the house suddenly opened. Ben drove into the garage and turned off the key.
“What now?” said Ray.
“We wait,” Ben replied. “Open your window and put your hands outside. This guy is the nervous type.”
Ray did as he was told.
A door leading from the garage into the house opened quietly, and a tall man with red hair and a thick mustache came into the garage. He held a gun in his right hand, but kept it pointed at the floor. He was dressed in a polo shirt and designer jeans. “Hello, Ben,” he said. He stayed near the door.
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