by Alan Lee
Manny didn’t reply. He walked a circle around his Camaro, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “That easy, huh.”
“Easy? Jeez, Sinatra, you’ve been half killed the past few days. Several times.”
“Catalina gets in a car, lets the feds watch her the whole way, and waltzes into a trap. It’s that easy?”
Beck raised her hands, palms up. “There will be a shoot-out or standoff. Make you feel better? I should be there, you know—participating, instead of rescuing your impetuous behind from solitary confinement.”
“I’m embarrassed the Marshals are being duped. The FBI? Sure, fine. But not us. She’s not in the caravan.”
Beck didn’t respond. Watched him pace, hands on his hips. It was hot; she started to sweat in the July bake.
He said, “It’s a decoy. A distraction and it worked. Every cop, marshal, and agent in three hundred miles is at that damn airport.”
“What do you want—”
“Are there any airstrips nearby?”
“Out here?”
“Check. On your phone. Mine’s long gone.”
She punched her screen with her thumbs. Sighed. Waited for the poor reception to catch up. “Yes, there’s a tiny airstrip called Powell Valley, five miles away.”
“Too close to the jail. Too risky. Zoom out.”
“Okay, fine…one sec…right, yes, Lonesome Pine. It’s more like a private airport than a mere landing strip. Probably for dusting crops and recreational flights. Guys with prop jets and pilot licenses to impress their friends, I bet.”
“How far?”
She squinted at her screen. “Twenty-two miles. Get this, geographically it forms an elongated triangle with the Palace and the prison.”
“That’s it.” He banged his palm on the Camaro’s roof. “Get in.”
“We’re going to Lonesome Pine Airport?”
“El Gato might be there. Got something better to do, Beck?”
“Marshal Warren wants us back in Roanoke. Pronto.”
“Catalina’s not at Lonesome Pine? We’ll go back.”
“What about my car?”
“It’s a government issue. Someone else will come get it. You’re too valuable to fret about things like that. Let’s go.” He opened his door.
She did too. Pleased.
Halfway there, as Manny screamed tight around country roads, Beck said, “Penis.”
“Say again?”
“I saw your penis.” Her eyes were closed and she rubbed at her forehead. “In the basement.”
Manny grinned. “Uh oh. Your faith in Mormonism wobbling?”
“No. But I’ve never been good at it.” She lowered her head into her hands. “My local LDS congregation is…flexible. I didn’t even do the eighteen-month mission out of college.”
“You just shot a guy in the leg, señorita. Shouldn’t that bother you more?”
“I was saving a life. Somehow I’m feeling more conviction from the Heavenly Mother about seeing…I need to confess it and move on.”
“No can do, Beck. Gonna remind you every morning. You’re a virgin, aren’t you. I’m impressed cause you’re kinda hot.”
She said, “That doesn’t matter. What matters—thank you—what matters is my internal convictions. And I choose to wait. So this is a loss of innocence moment, because I don’t have much experience with naked men.”
“You picked a good one to start with.”
“I confessed it to you. I cleared the air. Now we move on, as professionals.”
“Are you thinking about it right now?”
“Focus Sinatra.”
36
Beck stayed quiet the rest of the trip, listening to chatter in her earpiece. Five miles from the Lonesome Pine she said, “El Gato’s caravan has reached Roanoke’s airport. They’re surrounding it on the tarmac.”
Manny nodded. He wanted her arrested. He wanted her to be in those cars. But he doubted it.
“No shots fired yet,” she muttered. “That’s good.”
A mile from the Lonesome Pine, roaring up 644. Manny moved it over a hundred on the straightaways.
She caught her breath. Listened. Said, “Oh crud.”
“What?”
“The Marshal’s Special Operations Group just turned infrared and parabolic mics on the windows. Cars are empty except for the drivers.”
“Damn it,” said Manny. But he knew they would be.
“…team moving in. …drivers stepping out of cars. …you’re right, it was a decoy.”
Manny nodded. Catalina was at the airport coming into view. Had to be.
“And just like that, our government is humiliated. Once again.”
Manny said, “Not if we catch her. Marshals still got time to save the day.”
“I’m not a marshal. I’m NSA.”
“You’re deputized, señorita. You ride with me.”
“Why’re we doing this, Sinatra? Because it’s our job? Or because you love her?”
“I do not love Catalina García.”
“I mean, is it business or personal?”
“It’s deeply personal. She’s not getting on another plane to destroy a country.”
The last time, she’d left his personal life in shambles. This time, she’d be leaving his professional life wrecked.If he caught her he felt both could be salvaged somehow.
But what would he do with her? Send her to jail for the rest of her life? Kill her? He hated both options.
Lonesome Pine rests in a vast field hidden by thick forests. They came up 723 and the airport opened—a terminal the size of a large house, cracked parking lot, and the unmistakably flat land of a long runway.
Three cars sat in the parking lot—one was a black Lexus. Manny’s heart skipped a beat. The Camaro slid to a stop in a stink of brakes, perpendicular to the Lexus, pinning it in. He got out, Glock drawn, and shouted for Catalina.
The car remained still. Not a tremor.
He came around his door and banged on the window.
“Ay! Open the door!”
“Careful! What if they shoot?” called Beck.
“Bullet proof glass. They can’t.”
The window then buzzed smoothly down. Manny pointed the barrel of his pistol into the widening gap and pinned himself to the rear door. He peered into the exposed driver seat.
The handsome face of Hubert.
He removed a pair of tortoiseshell wayfarers and smiled. “Mr. Martinez. Watching you get out of the Camaro, a loud and preposterous machine, and you, dressed with obvious relish and class, well, the juxtaposition is amusing. Though at the moment your face and shirt match the vehicle.”
“Good hell, Hubert, you’re too big with us.”
“You mean ubiquitous, I think. My profession requires it.”
Beck came around the car, gun trained on the Lexus’s open window. “Hubert? This is the Hubert?”
“Good morning, Noelle Beck,” he said. “The pleasure is mine. A gun? The rumors are true; you’re promoted to 1811.”
Her face paled; he knew her name and profession.
Manny cast a glance at the terminal. “You’re here, hombre. Which means Catalina’s inside.”
“Once again, Mr. Martinez, you’re a minute too late.”
Hidden behind the terminal, a plane’s engine coughed to life. A lonely sound, soaked by the forest.
Beck asked, “We’re arresting this guy, right?”
“For what, my dear?”
“Aiding and abetting a felony. Not to mention the massacre—”
“Come, come, Ms. Beck. You’re in the big leagues now. That’d be a waste of both our time. Your inspection of my establishment has been fruitless. Plus, will they accept the testimony of disgraced US Deputy Marshal Manuel Martinez? No, I’m afraid in this case it’s either shoot me or I leave.”
The pitch of the airplane’s engine roar changed. The sound bounced off different surfaces as it taxied.
Manny lowered his Glock. “C’mon, Beck. He’s right about one
thing—we’re not after him, a mere hotel manager and delivery driver.”
Hubert laughed and slipped on his glasses. “Ouch, Mr. Martinez. And here I thought we were even. Good luck to you both.”
“He killed five deputy marshals,” Beck reminded Manny. “We let him leave?”
“He was following orders. Plus, we know where he lives. Another day, we’ll get him. Vamonos!” He started jogging around the terminal, toward the sound of the engine. Toward Catalina. The security gate stood open near the large fuel tanks. Beck followed him.
The lane opened into a wide lot, mostly empty. At the far end of the parking lot a white and yellow King Air 90, a twin-engine plane used by skydivers, glinted in the sun. Manny jogged the distance, his vision centered on his gun’s sight and the plane.
But that wasn’t Catalina’s ride, he realized. She wouldn’t fly away on a jump plane. Plus, the propellers weren’t turning.
A second plane came into view, distant, beyond the white hanger. A turboprop, a little red Cessna, already on the runway, propeller a humming blur. At this range he saw no details inside the cabin but Catalina and Rafael had to be inside. The Cessna paused in pre-threshold and throttled up. Brakes released and it rumbled up the center line. Manny ran and he shouted but it was worthless—the Cessna was a quarter mile away. He raised the Glock…absurd.
The plane accumulated speed, faster, faster, lifted at the touchdown, and plunged into the blue.
There she goes. Again.
“Hey, hey, hey, what’s a matter?” shouted a man, coming round the King Air 90. He had the rangy confidence most skydivers possess. Face and hair permanently windblown. He noted their firearms and raised his hands. “Whoa.”
Manny pointed. “Who’s on the plane?”
“Eerrr, I forget the names.” His hands were still up. “Spanish names I can’t remember, no offense. What’s a matter?”
“A man and a women? Both Hispanic?”
“That’s right. Gorgeous people, too,” said the man. “What’s going on?”
Beck flashed her credentials. “Federal agents. You rented a plane to international terrorists.”
“Gotta be kidding me. His pilot’s license checked out. Jezz, well, I’m sorry, but they’ll be back soon. Only reserved it an hour.”
“They aren’t coming back,” Manny said. His ribs hurt him and his facial contusions pulsed.
“They aren’t coming back?” repeated the man. “Where do you reckon they—”
Manny slapped his hand against the King Air’s tail fin. The structure thudded. “Get this plane moving, señor. We need to follow.”
“Follow them? Gotta be kidding me,” said the man again.
“What’s your name?”
“Keith.”
“Move your ass, Keith.”
“But—”
“No time, amigo. We got a minute or two before that plane is out of sight.”
“But what will—”
Manny raised his pistol into the air and fired it.
That’s one. Eight bullets left.
“Gee-sus!” Keith ducked. “Okay, okay!”
“Skip the checklist. I want to be wheels up.”
Keith moved quick. He had been halfway through his pre-flight warm up for a jump next hour. Manny and Beck boarded. He fired the engine cold, mixed the fuel, flipped on the master switch, throttled the engine, checked the oil pressure, and toggled the flaps up. He taxied them to the runway, which seemed to stretch to infinity.
“Okay, good to go, agents!” He shouted at them over the pulsing propellers. “Good luck! Try to bring her home in one piece, you hear? Else I’m a dead man.”
Beck and Manny were in the back. Her mouth fell open.
Manny called, “Hombre, you’re flying us.”
“Hah! I ain’t a pilot! I’m a jumper! They just let me do the pre-flight stuff for fun. You’re on your own.” He opened the pilot’s door and jumped out.
“Ay dios mio! Carajo!” Manny swore. “You’re up, Beck.”
“I’m up? What’s that mean, I’m up?”
“You were in the Air Force.”
“I wasn’t a pilot!”
“You never flew a plane?”
“Not really, no. I didn’t get that far. My motion sickness worsened.”
“You did the simulators,” said Manny.
“That is not the same!”
“Did you crash?”
“No, but—”
Manny pointed out the cockpit windshield, at the dot in the sky. “She’s getting away, Beck.”
“Sinatra—”
“Okay, I’ll fly. Tell me before we crash.” He made a motion to the pilot’s chair.
“No! Okay. Sweet Jesus, okay, I’ll try.” She climbed forward and buckled in. Clamped on a headset and handed him one too. The terminal was chattering in the speakers—she switched off the radio.
Manny’s voice pumped into her ear. “Let’s go!”
“Zip it! I need a minute! I have to find…” She touched the controls like a blind woman familiarizing herself and locating certain dials. “Okay. Okay. I can get us airborne. Okay.” With shaking hands she increased power, watching the RPMs climb. The engine roared, the fuselage shook.
“You took off in the simulators?”
“This is much different. Keep your mouth shut, Sinatra.”
The tachometer reached green. She took a deep breath. Said a prayer. Released the brake. They lurched gracelessly and she overcorrected with foot pedals, keeping the King Air centered. The runway put on speed.
Manny muttered, “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
“I quit the JFIC. Hear me? After this, I quit.” She scrutinized the dash. “Flaps, where are the flaps…”
Manny closed his eyes and said a prayer too. The floor jostled under his feet. Dulce Maria, where are the flaps?
“Here,” she said, setting to takeoff position. “Okay, we’re doing good.”
“What else? What can I do?”
“We should be okay.” Her voice stayed strong despite the advancing forest. “Landing’s another story.”
The oncoming trees rose like a wall. He said, “But…should we be in the air now? Because…”
“Waiting on rotation speed. I don’t know what it is so we’re playing it safe.”
“Yeah, but…” He closed his eyes again. “Never mind, I trust you.”
“Bad idea.”
They shot over the touchdown zone, reached the aiming point, and she pulled back on the yoke. Her heart nearly stopped—nothing happened. She pulled harder and the ground surrendered, dropping beneath the nose.
Manny’s stomach dropped into his throat.
They were airborne. She aimed at the clouds.
“Okay,” she said and she took turns wiping her palm on her pants. “Okay, we’re up.”
Manny wiped his hands too. Then pointed south west at the speck. “There she is.”
“What if we can’t catch them? They’ve got several miles on us.”
“Sure we can. Hit the gas, Beck. Our Beechcraft King Air is made in America.”
“What’s that matter?”
He shot her a withering glance. “It matters. Plus, we have two propellers and they only have one. Simple math.”
“You’re lucky you’re handsome,” she said, keeping the throttle open wide and packing on altitude. She knew there were details she should check—the fuel mixture, the engine gauges, the oil pressure—but her hands felt glued to the yoke, her eyes to the horizon. Like they’d fall out of the sky otherwise. “What’s the plan? Tail them to their destination?”
“Get right above. I’ll jump on top and force them to land.”
“Jump? On top of what?”
“Of her airplane. The Cessna.”
“That’s…” She took a hand off the yoke long enough to rub her eyes. She needed sunglasses—the vibrancy hurt. So did Manny’s logic. “Are you joking? That’s absurd, Sinatra. What’s the real plan? Use my phone, call Weaver.”
“Weaver? She can’t help! We call Señora Weaver after I have them in custody.”
“I should have left you in prison.”
“Besides,” said Manny, looking behind at the jump plane’s cargo. “There’s like a hundred parachutes in here. I’ll wear one. Hit the gas.”
“Hit the gas,” she grumbled.
37
Manny found extra chutes in the aft lockers. He donned a harness and cinched the straps tight until his ribs screamed, making sure the webbing cocooned his firearms.
“We’re too low for parachutes,” she told him. “Even if you release immediately, you could still fracture your spine.”
“I know this, Beck, I jumped in the Army. Better than nothing, though.”
“This is not a thing. This is not something people do. Not even special ops groups transfer planes mid-flight.”
“We’re not going fast, Beck. You’ll get close and there’ll be no danger. If I fall, you tail them and call Weaver.”
Each retreated into their thoughts as the King Air made up the distance on the Cessna. A high speed chase in slow motion. At a quarter mile out, Beck throttled back to 75%, matching the Cessna’s velocity. Catalina was fifty yards below their feet.
“Two hundred knots,” she said, eyeing their speed. “Fairly slow. At least the air won’t kill you on impact.”
Manny, hugging the co-pilot seat from behind, said, “They don’t know we’re here. Take us in.”
Her stomach flip flopped. “This is asinine.”
“No, it’s charcuterie.”
“Shut up, Sinatra.” Her voice shook as the distance between planes shrunk. The red spine of the Cessna swelled from a miniature toy to life-size. The King Air wobbled and jumped as she lowered and corrected.
Manny threw wide the plane’s jump door and the world rushed in. Order opened into chaos. The earth tilted below, hazy forest and farmland churning passed. Wind filled the cabin. Beck shouted and fought for control.
