“Damn it, León!” I shout. “Don’t!”
I’ve had it with this maniac! That money means everything to me right now. After all I’ve been through, I will not see my dreams—literally—go up in flames.
With a sinister cackle, León lowers the lighter.
“All right, all right,” he says. “I won’t burn your cash. I’ll just keep it.”
Wait—what?
Before Cole, Natalie, and I even realize what’s happening, his small army of bodyguards has whipped out an arsenal of automatic weapons, aimed right at us.
“Step away from my planes. Or all of you die.”
Chapter 31
No…this isn’t happening!
I trade scared glances with Cole and Natalie. Both are too shocked to move.
“You-you…” I stutter. Then I explode: “You double-crossing piece of shit!”
I feel my adrenaline surging. My heart pounding. A scalding fury bubbling up in my gut. This bastard has cheated me, toyed with me, lied to me, assaulted me, shot at me one too many times.
“I said, step away from my planes, Señor Flynn. Do not make me ask again.”
I know my life is on the line here, but steam is practically shooting out of my ears.
I just can’t take it anymore. It’s time to end this. Now.
If León wants to screw us like this, I’m going to make him go all the way.
“No,” I reply, standing a bit taller, gulping back my nerves. “You’re paying up, León. Who the hell do you think—”
“¡Jefe, escucha!”
One of León’s heavies is holding up a finger, the universal sign for shut up and listen.
Then I hear it, too. Some kind of mechanical thumping, audible in the distance.
“What the hell is that?” I ask Cole and Natalie. They both shrug.
Whatever it is, and whichever direction it’s coming from, it’s getting nearer.
León and his goons begin to murmur among themselves with concern as the thip-thip-thip-thip noise gradually gets louder.
Until it’s unmistakable.
A military-grade helicopter.
Accompanied by approaching police sirens.
“¡Policía! Ándale!”
With a thunderous crash, four black SUVs with their red bubble lights flashing, filled with armed guys in navy-blue windbreakers, burst through the old wooden doors of a hangar alongside the tarmac and begin barreling straight toward us.
“This is the FBI!” a voice booms over a megaphone. “You are surrounded! Lay down your weapons or we will open fire!”
Fat chance.
Almost instantly, a fierce gun battle breaks out between León and the feds, turning the quiet runway into an all-out war zone.
“Get behind the planes!” I scream to Cole and Natalie. “Go, go!”
We dive onto the hot desert ground and scramble to take cover, then watch in horror as the two sides trade increasingly vicious fire.
León’s BMWs are peppered with bullets. Tires pop, and glass windows shatter. His men are felled left and right.
A few gunshots even ricochet off the stolen aircraft, missing Natalie, Cole, and me by mere inches.
The FBI’s vehicles are taking heavy fire, too, but they keep coming, getting closer and closer. And the roar of that helicopter is practically deafening now, wherever it is.
Seeing that he’s trapped in a losing battle—and having taken a nasty bullet wound to his shoulder, which caused him to drop the cash-filled backpack and lose it in all the chaos—León barks what appear to be retreat orders to what remains of his crew.
Some frantically crouch, others literally crawl on their hands and knees into their shot-up vehicles, then hastily peel out.
I’m thrilled that León was shot and routed. I’m overjoyed to be alive. Plus, that one-point-three million bucks is literally sitting on the runway twenty feet in front of me!
Wiping some dust and grit out of my eyes, I see that instead of pursuing León and the fleeing BMWs…
All four black SUVs are rumbling directly toward Cole, Natalie, and me.
Chapter 32
“Hey, maybe they’ll let us share a cell,” Cole says with a grin as he picks himself up off the ground.
“What’s our play here?” Natalie asks, her voice frantic, desperate.
“Hands in the air!” comes the megaphone voice as the SUVs begin to slow.
“I’d start by doing that,” I answer, lifting my arms to the sky.
“You know what I mean!” she snaps, doing the same. Natalie is almost on the verge of tears. I’ve never seen her so worried, so vulnerable. It’s moving. Almost…alluring. “They have us linked to the planes, Jack! To León—who got away! We’re gonna take the fall!”
“It’s all going to be okay, Natalie,” I tell her. “I promise. I won’t forget how you helped us.”
The four black vehicles—two with cracked windshields, all of them pocked with bullet holes—finally screech to a stop ahead of us on the runway.
“Keep ’em high!” the voice says, as its owner and the other agents start to get out, guns pointed at us.
“By the way,” I lean over and say to Natalie, “as someone who’s been to a few air shows in her day, did you happen to actually see that helicopter?”
As she considers my question, I watch Natalie’s expression morph from confusion to disbelief to epiphany…to joyful astonishment.
“No way,” she mutters. A gorgeous grin beams across her face. “No freaking way! Really?”
“Looks like they’re gone, boss,” says one of the FBI agents, tracking León’s convoy with a pair of binoculars as it disappears down a highway in the distance.
The “agent” is Arturo. One of my many loyal mechanics, all of whom I’m jubilant to see.
I told you these guys are like family, didn’t I?
My crew is all dressed in aviator sunglasses and navy-blue windbreakers we bought at Walmart, then used a stencil and yellow spray paint to write FBI on the back.
They’re armed not with standard-issue assault weapons but with a hodgepodge of pistols and shotguns and even sport rifles we acquired and stashed away over the years.
They’re driving not typical GMC Suburbans but a mix of SUVs that look similar enough from a distance—like a Ford Explorer and a Jeep Grand Cherokee—which we reinforced with steel-plate siding and wheel covers for added safety and equipped with strobing red disco lights we picked up at a party store in Lubbock.
And the “helicopter” that started the assault? I have to give Cole credit for that idea: nothing but a Hollywood sound-effects MP3 file he downloaded, played through a set of powerful wireless Bluetooth speakers bolted to the rear of the lead vehicle, aimed in opposite directions to throw off the source of the sound.
“Damn, are you pricks a sight for sore eyes!” I exclaim, wrapping Arturo in a giant bear hug as if he really were another brother, nearly lifting him off his feet.
“Pulled it off without a hitch,” my actual brother adds. “Bravo, guys. Bravo.”
There’s much more embracing and laughing and backslapping—especially after I make a show of picking up León’s discarded backpack, brimming with cash.
Then I walk over to Natalie, who is finally starting to accept the fact that this was all a setup, all a ruse to get some extra stolen-plane parts, make off with a million-dollar payday, and scare the pants off that jackass León.
“Incredible,” she says, throwing her arms around me and burying her head in the crook of my neck. “I mean, I hate you and Cole right now, don’t get me wrong…”
“But you kind of love me, too?”
Natalie shakes her head and chuckles but doesn’t disagree. Then she pulls away and gazes at me with her piercing green eyes.
“What happens now, Jack Flynn?”
“Maybe I’ll see you in Reno. If you feel like cheering on a winner.”
Chapter 33
“Gentlemen, find your formation.”
Those four little words, spoken by the pace pilot in my headset radio, tell me the start of the race of my life is just seconds away.
It’s the moment I’ve dreamed about—and had nightmares about—for years.
This. Is. It.
I let out a long, slow breath, trying to slow my jackhammering heart.
I readjust my helmet and retighten the straps of my safety harness, aware that neither will provide any real protection in the event of a catastrophic crash.
I scan the instrument panel of my T-2C Buckeye, my pride and joy. It was completely rebuilt from the ground up with León’s dirty money—along with our team’s blood, sweat, and tears. Its souped-up engines are purring like an army of kittens. Music to my ears.
Satisfied that all systems are looking good, I maneuver my plane into the flying starting line alongside my competitors, wing to wing.
There are just eight other pilots I have to beat to win the Reno national championship, all of whom are among the top in the world.
There are two I have to impress, watching from below: Cole and Natalie.
There’s another I need to make proud, watching from above: my father.
But really, there’s only one pilot I consider my true competition.
Myself.
“Gentlemen, prepare to engage.”
Okay, here we go. Gotta focus. Gotta push. Gotta win.
I tighten my grip on the throttle lever with one hand, the yoke with the other.
I go over the challenging aerial course in my mind one final time, picturing every blind twist and hairpin turn, visualizing the risky path to victory that I plan to take.
I can barely hear myself think over all the wind and engine noise, but still I whisper out loud: “I love you, Dad.”
“Gentlemen, you have a race!”
I slam the throttle forward, and I’m off.
Careening through the air—at two hundred fifty miles per hour…two seventy-five…three hundred…three twenty-five…the g-force excruciating…
I’ve made it into the middle of the pack—good but not great—when I enter the start of the actual racecourse. When we pass the first guide pylon and I’m allowed to switch lanes…
I bank hard toward the innermost one, getting hurled to the side of the cockpit as I cut off two very angry pilots. But screw ’em, I’ve just moved into third place.
The three of us whip past the first turn, neck and neck. These guys are good! I try to pass one at the next pylon, but I can’t find an in and have to ease up on my speed.
I recover and try again at the next bend, but I still can’t find an opening. Damn it!
The first lap is nearly over already, and I’m nowhere near the lead.
So I decide to go higher—earlier than I wanted to, but I have no choice.
Pushing the throttle, I yank back on the yoke and soar upward.…
Which is when I notice a jet below me pulling ahead, knocking me down to fourth place. Shit!
But that’s okay. Still plenty of track left. And I have a plan.
Instead of leveling out yet, I get even more altitude. My Buckeye is starting to groan. My head is starting to throb. I’m pushing both of us to our absolute limits.
Once I’m higher than every other plane on the course and with just a few turns remaining…
I dive-bomb.
I tip my nose almost straight at the ground and plummet downward at three hundred seventy-five miles per hour…four hundred…four twenty-five.
The Nevada dirt is coming up fast and blurry, but I see that I’ve overtaken the fourth-place jet, then the third-place jet. I gotta keep going.…
But the g-force is like nothing I’ve ever experienced in my life. My peripheral vision is closing in. My stomach is doing loops. I can barely tell up from down.
No, don’t black out, Jack! Keep it together! Almost there!
As soon as I move into second place, I jerk back the yoke, violently leveling my plane out so close to the ground that I feel a brief bounce as my exhaust strikes it.
I’m riding the ass of the lead jet now, but there’s only one turn left.
So I hammer the throttle to the absolute max. I flood the engines with fuel. I trigger the afterburners. I grip the rumbling control stick steady with all my muscle.…
Then a cockpit alarm starts to beep. Huh?
My engines are in the red. That means they’re dangerously close to overheating.
I know I should back off. One little spark and I’m toast.…
But I don’t.
Not when I’m gaining on the first-place pilot as we approach the final turn.
Gritting my teeth, I bank sharply up and out. I flip my Buckeye totally horizontal. I nearly lose control as I whip back down and try to get around him, our wings so close.
Shit, did I mess this up? Is this it?
But with just inches to spare, I pass him!
Pulling into first place, I whip by the final pylon.
I won! Son of a bitch, I did it! I really freaking did it!
I honestly don’t remember the next few minutes. It’s all a happy haze.
Somehow I land my Buckeye. Without thinking, I unbuckle myself and climb out.
Amid all the chaos on the ground, I see Arturo and the rest of my crew rushing over, carrying industrial fire extinguishers. They quickly engulf both my engines with thick white foam. Apparently, my plane had begun to smoke. I didn’t even notice.
Then I feel two sets of arms wrapping tightly around my trembling body and icy, bitter liquid running down my face.
It’s Cole and Natalie. Shouting their heads off. Jumping up and down like kangaroos. Dousing me with bottles of Dom Pérignon.
As we all scream and laugh and celebrate, I happen to glance up at the sky and notice a tiny spec disappearing into the wispy clouds.
It looks like a plane. An older-model T-2 Buckeye, actually. The same jet my father crashed on this very track all those years ago.
It’s probably just the pace pilot. Or maybe a drone filming the race. Or a bird.
Or maybe it’s my dad, finally flying away into the heavens.
About the Authors
James Patterson has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.
Max DiLallo is a novelist, playwright, and screenwriter. He lives in Los Angeles.
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Stealing Gulfstreams Page 9
