Stealing Gulfstreams

by James Patterson

  So I do.

  I stomp the gas and hook a left. Soon I’m just a few hundred feet behind Natalie, both of us speeding down this long, barren stretch of highway. I’m doing eighty, but she seems to be slipping farther away.

  Damn. She can fly and drive.

  Fine. If it’s a drag race she wants, that’s what she’ll get.

  I accelerate up to ninety now, then ninety-five. I blow past a sign informing me the highway is about to merge with US-95. Two hundred and fifty miles north is Reno; two hundred miles south is Vegas. Where are we going? I don’t want to lose her as we go around the next bend, so I jam the gas even more. My Camaro grumbles as I hit one hundred. Then one ten. One twenty.

  Finally, I start to gain a little ground on Natalie’s Mustang. I can make out its shiny red exterior glinting in the moonlight.

  But I realize I don’t see any brake lights. Which makes me worried.

  We’re approaching a pretty sharp highway T-intersection. Natalie better slow down.

  But she doesn’t. So I lean on my horn. I flash my brights.

  Nothing.

  If she’s playing chicken, she’s playing with fire. And I want nothing to do with it.

  I reluctantly tap my own brakes, decelerating to just under eighty-five.…

  And I watch in shock as Natalie’s Mustang keeps speeding forward—and barrels clean off the level highway and straight out into the open desert.

  This woman’s even crazier than I thought!

  No way I’m giving up now. I pound the gas and follow her. My Camaro skids hard off the pavement, then begins bumping and rattling along the rocky dirt.

  I’m trying hard to keep my shuddering steering wheel steady. But I quickly realize that’s pointless. Natalie has started swerving wildly from side to side.…

  Kicking up a massive dust cloud in her wake. Deliberately, I’m sure.

  I can’t help speeding right into it—and suddenly I’m driving blind, surrounded on all sides by a swirling wall of dirt as thick as pea soup.

  Damn it.

  I hate to do this, but I have no choice but to slow down even more for my safety.

  I strain to listen for the Mustang’s engine over my own. I try to make out where it’s heading. But it’s impossible.

  By the time I reach the other side of the dust cloud and the dirt has started to settle, I realize that Natalie has looped around me and driven back onto the highway.

  And she’s heading back the way we came.

  She’s already put a good half mile between us. Wherever she’s going next, there’s not a chance in hell I’d catch up to her now.

  I pound my hand against my steering wheel and slow the Camaro to a stop.

  “Well played, Natalie,” I say through gritted teeth. “Well played.”

  But then I remember. She parked her plane back at the airport. She has to come back for it. Right?

  Maybe I haven’t seen the last of this wild woman after all.

  Chapter 13

  To me, reconstructing a racing plane is both a science and an art. It takes passion, expertise, patience, finesse.

  To Cole, it’s nothing but a major pain in the ass.

  “Come on, let ’er rip, already!” he whines. He’s standing, puffing on a cigarette, behind a tower of diagnostic equipment hooked up to the underside of our Buckeye.

  I’m the one lying beneath the eight-thousand-pound plane. Drenched in sweat, my neck stiff as a board, I’m finishing the latest round of painstakingly tiny adjustments to the new turbofan we’ve spent the entire miserable morning trying to install.

  “Cool your jets!” I yell back to him. “That’s what I’m trying to do down here.”

  Some of our maintenance-men-in-training, who have been helping us out, chuckle at my cheesy joke. But Cole ignores me. He’d rather be doing pretty much anything else right now than calibrating a finicky jet engine.

  I don’t blame him. The process is awfully tedious. But if we’re going to win that air race in Reno in a few months, there’s no cutting corners. Gotta focus.

  I wonder sometimes if that’s what happened to our father. If he was stretched so thin, working as a private pilot and raising two boys on his own, that he got sloppy on race day and missed something while inspecting his plane. Maybe that’s why he went down.

  I’ll never know. But that sure as hell won’t ever happen to me.

  “Okay,” I call, “I’m firing it up!” I slide out from underneath as the half-built engine rumbles to life. After a few seconds I yell over the noise, “How’s she looking?”

  Cole doesn’t respond. He’s too focused on the diagnostic monitors, watching the readouts to see if we’re getting the right thrust and internal temperatures we want. From his expression, I think we’re finally in the clear.

  “Shit!” he suddenly exclaims. He kicks the tower of machines so hard they nearly topple over. “Still running too hot. Kill it, kill it!”

  With a sigh, I shut down the engine. I start to slide back underneath, ready to return to work, but Cole has had enough. “Screw this!” he says, throwing up his hands.

  “Maybe I can take a look?”

  I swivel my head. It’s Natalie, standing in the hangar’s open doorway. She’s wearing an old navy-blue University of Nevada T-shirt and low-rise jeans. Before I can tell her not to, she’s marching up to our Buckeye.

  “Look, but don’t touch,” Cole warns her.

  Natalie doesn’t seem intimidated. She sticks her nose right into the shell of the engine, not flinching one bit from the scorching heat it’s still giving off.

  “A modified aftermarket TF37 turbofan,” she says, her forehead wrinkling. “I’ve heard they can be a little fussy. You try dialing down the axial compressor rates?”

  I have to admit I’m a little impressed. This woman doesn’t just know how to fly planes, she knows what makes them tick, too.

  I explain to her that of course we tried that. We’ve been working on the stupid engine for the past four hours.

  “Seems like an awful lot of thrust for such a little plane,” she says. “Lemme guess. You’re racing it.”

  That’s not something I want to talk about. “Maybe,” I say.

  “Wow. Following in your old man’s footsteps. I’m sure he’d be—”

  “We gotta get back to work,” I snap, more than a little edge in my voice.

  I look over at Cole. I can see Natalie’s last comment got under his skin, too.

  It’s one thing for a stranger to fly in unannounced, show off with some aerial stunts, then smoke me in a highway chase. Fine. But this woman has no right to even mention my late father. That’s where I draw the line. And she crossed it.

  “Hey, Jack, I’m sorry,” she says, contrite. “All I meant was—”

  “Yo, boss. Phone call.”

  Arturo Salinas—compact and muscled, one of the first guys we hired onto our maintenance team a year or so ago—has poked his head inside the hangar door.

  “Tell ’em I’m working,” I say. “Take a message.”

  “I tried,” Arturo answers. “But the dude won’t take no for an answer. He said something about…a lion?”

  Oh, shit.

  Mr. León—calling me—here?

  For security reasons, we’ve always communicated through an anonymous, encrypted online message board, never over the phone. How the hell did he track down my private office number? The guy doesn’t even know my real name! At least, I don’t think he does. And I doubt he’s just calling to say hello. This is bad news.

  Tossing Cole a nervous glance, I excuse myself and scoot to my trailer. For a moment I think about ripping my desk phone right out of the wall. But I know that would only delay the inevitable. So instead, I steady my nerves and pick up the receiver.

  “Hola, Mr. Flynn,” comes a deep, familiar voice—but one that has never said my name before. It sends a chill down my spine. “I am sorry to bother you like this.…”

  “How can I help, Mr. León?” I say,
trying to swallow my unease.

  “I just wanted to tell you what a pleasure it has been doing business with you. In fact, it has been so pleasurable that I wish to do more. A great deal more.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but León beats me to it.

  “Do not speak, Mr. Flynn. There is no need. I already know what you are going to say. You are too busy. The work is too…challenging. That may be true. But please understand, I am a very important customer. Who does not take no for an answer.”

  Jesus almighty. Is this guy threatening me?

  I know exactly what León is implying. He wants more stolen Gulfstreams. He wants them now. And he’s not asking.

  That’s why he called my office instead of messaging me online. To show his reach. To demonstrate just how resourceful and dangerous and deadly he really is.

  And let me tell you, it worked.

  “M-mr. León,” I say, stammering, “I…I do understand…but you have to realize—”

  “I will be in touch, Mr. Flynn.”

  I hear a click, and the line goes dead.

  Great.

  All I ever wanted was to make some quick cash to build a fast plane to win a big race. Now I might not even still be alive on race day.

  Chapter 14

  “Damn, the Flynn hermanos clean up nice!”

  Arturo and a bunch of our other maintenance crew are already milling around the entrance of the glittering Meridian Resort and Casino as Cole and I stroll up. All of us are dressed to the nines: dark suits, flashy ties, spit-shined shoes.

  “Thanks, pal,” I say. “You boys don’t look too shabby yourselves.”

  “What a shame,” Cole says, “you had to wipe off all that grease that was covering your ugly mugs. Try not to scare any small children in there.”

  As we head in, I look back at the valet stand. A uniformed attendant is pulling away in my beat-up black Camaro. Still covered in dirt and grime from my drive through the desert chasing Natalie last week, it looks pretty out of place next to all the glistening Benzes, Bimmers, and Bentleys everywhere.

  But if anybody’s snickering at me, I don’t care.

  Tonight I plan on cleaning them out.

  Next to the casino doors is a giant placard: 7TH ANNUAL MERIDIAN WORLD POKER TOUR—SPONSORED BY RED BULL. We all step inside.…

  And it feels like we’ve been transported to another planet.

  Rows of marble columns stand as tall and wide as redwood trees. A massive, jewel-encrusted, rotating chandelier dangles from the ceiling. A ten-foot-high aquarium teems with exotic fish. Music pulses. Beautiful people move this way and that.

  Cole, Arturo, and the others are mesmerized—the crew by all the glitz, my brother by all the glamorous women walking around.

  But I, as always, am trying to stay focused. Sure, we’re here to unwind. Let loose. Meet some ladies. Maybe win a few bucks.

  But my main reason is business.

  Red Bull is also sponsoring an air-racing qualifier here in Vegas next week. I won’t be flying in it myself, but plenty of my competition later this year at the national championship in Reno will be—and many will be playing and partying here at the Meridian tonight. So I’ve come to scope them out. Get a read on them.

  After all, air racing is as much a psychological sport as anything else. If I can outthink my opponents, I can outfly them, too.

  We all pick up our chips and get our table assignments, then head over to the main game floor. It’s a soaring atrium even more packed and dazzling than the lobby.

  To get players amped up before the hands begin, scores of sexy cocktail waitresses are passing out flutes of top-shelf vodka mixed with—what else?—Red Bull. We each grab one. Then I propose a toast.

  “Listen here,” I say, holding up my glass. “You boys have been busting your asses for us for quite a while now. You’ve learned a whole lot. You’ve come a long way. You’re like family now, and Cole and I are proud of you. So tonight, don’t let us down. I expect each and every one of you…to win some money. But more important, to have some fun!”

  They laugh and cheer and split off toward their tables.

  Before I do the same, I take a few more minutes to stroll around the floor to see who I can see. Soon I spot a couple familiar faces. Like the first runner-up at last year’s Reno race, Ryan Villareal. He’s bearded and broad-shouldered, wearing flip-flops and mesh shorts in this sea of suits. But his expression looks focused and determined. I make a note.

  Next I notice K. C. Graf, a two-time Reno winner who flies out of San Antonio. A minor legend in the community, he resembles a slightly pudgy, grizzled Tom Cruise. Rumor is Graf’s been dealing with some demons lately—pills, booze—and isn’t the pilot he used to be. Seeing a floozy on each arm and a drink in each hand, I suspect the gossip might be true. I mentally file that away as well.

  Then I see another familiar face, one I almost don’t recognize.

  Natalie.

  She’s got on a stunning sleeveless black cocktail dress. Her long blond hair is swept up. And her lips are sparkling red.

  I had no idea she’d be coming tonight—not that we’ve spoken much since she first landed at Tonopah Airport a week ago. But I thought she was just a stunt pilot, not a racer. Is she flying in the Red Bull qualifier? She’s full of surprises.

  I have to stop myself from staring as Natalie flirts shamelessly with pilots, Red Bull reps, even the dealer at her table setting up for the first hand.

  Or maybe I just think she’s flirting. For a moment I feel a flicker of jealousy.

  I think about going up to her. Maybe here, away from the grime of the airstrip and with a few vodka Red Bulls in her system, she’ll finally let her guard down, finally open up. And who knows? Maybe we might even—

  “Feeling lucky tonight, Mr. Flynn?”

  A heavy hand grips my shoulder. I spin around.

  And there he is.

  Mr. León.

  In the flesh.

  His mane of salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back. His gaze is narrow and steely. His smile sinister.

  If León is truly a major player in the aviation world—legal or otherwise—and not the drug-smuggling kingpin Cole and I are afraid he is, it isn’t crazy that he’d be here. It’s an industry event, after all. And with all these witnesses and security cameras everywhere, I know I’m not in immediate physical danger.

  Still, I feel every muscle in my body tense up. I don’t know much about this man, really, but I do know I’m staring evil in the face. And it leaves me speechless.

  So once again he does all the talking himself.

  “Relax,” he says sarcastically. “I simply wanted to say hello. And remind you. That whatever you do, wherever you go…I am watching.”

  Just as suddenly, León slips back into the crowd.

  I look all around, yet I can’t see him anywhere.

  But like the man said, you can bet he can still see me.

  Chapter 15

  My father used to say only a fool plays poker; a wise man wins.

  Three hours into the evening, I’m doing my best to live up to those words.

  The Red Bull Meridian World Tour isn’t one of Texas hold ’em’s bigger tournaments. Not by a long shot. The event is basically a nightlong party and marketing ploy, an excuse for pilots and fans alike to drink and mingle before next week’s big air show. The buy-in is low, and the prize pool is meager.

  Still, my Buckeye needs at least another six figures’ worth of parts before it’s race-ready. Maybe more. So to me, every penny counts. I figure it’s worth a shot.

  Especially with León breathing down my neck—wherever that maniac went.

  I’m one of just five players left at my table now, down from nine at the start. Cole went broke at his table hours ago and has been hovering near mine ever since, drinking and chain-smoking and cheering me on. So have a few other men from our crew.

  I’ve only got a modest stack of chips left, but I’m not giving them up without a fight. Not w
hen I’ve just been dealt pocket queens, a very solid pair to start this next hand with. But like every advantage in life, I know I have to use them right.

  Two players fold right away. A third checks. The fourth—Peyton Ritter, a sharp and talented if wily biplane-racing pilot I’ve met a few times before—raises.

  Now here comes the flop, three cards face-up on the table: a seven, a four, a jack. Two of them are spades, which could be setting up one of my opponents for a flush. But I think I’m still in the best position, so I raise the stakes accordingly.

  Next comes the turn, one new card dealt into the mix. A six of spades. Now the game starts to get interesting. A third player folds, but Peyton places a gigantic bet, worth everything I’ve got. Damn it. Is he trying to knock me out? Or is it a bluff?

  I’m still feeling good, and I know statistically the odds are in my favor.

  So to stay in the game, I go all in, betting every chip I have left. This is a huge gamble. The spectators around our table whoop and cheer.

  “Got some big balls, big brother!” Cole calls to me, lifting his umpteenth vodka Red Bull high in the air in support.

  There’s one final card left, the “river.” It’s a king—of diamonds. Phew.

  I breathe a cautious sigh of relief as I flip over my own two cards. I’m almost positive my queens are going to beat…

  “Pair of kings,” the dealer calls out when Peyton shows his hand.

  Are you kidding me? What are the odds he had a monarch up his sleeve this whole time?

  Well, I guess that’s why I’m a pilot and not a professional gambler. I don’t like leaving anything up to chance, however slim.

  And now I’m out of the tournament. Well, shit. I muck my cards, shake Peyton’s hand, and try to stand, a little shaky after so many hours of sitting and sipping.

  “Ah, don’t sweat it, man,” Cole says to me, slinging an arm around my shoulders and thrusting a fresh drink into my hand. “If you two were in the air instead of at a table, you woulda smoked his slow-ass four-winger.”

  Cole, Arturo, the rest of the crew, and I mill around the floor for a little longer, watching as more and more players go bust. When we get bored, we move to the bar.