Killer Summer

42

Kevin scrambled down out of the pilot’s seat. He pushed her back into the body of the plane.

“What?” she said.

“Three guys heading this way.”

“No,” she said. “To a different plane. Chill, dude.”

“I swear.”

She eased into the cockpit and sneaked a peek.

“Not us,” she whispered but not convincingly. “First, it’s not William or Jack. Second, we don’t have three crew with us.”

But as they drew closer, she stepped back alongside Kevin.

“I don’t get it. They are not our crew.”

“I don’t think that really matters at the moment. What the hell do we do?”

“The power’s still on!” she said, diving forward and crawling on her knees to toggle the switches.

A loud electronic clunk came from the cabin door as it began to open.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Kevin said. “My mother’s going to kill me!”

Summer hurried him up the aisle and into the storage area over the toilet. She slid the partition shut behind her but not all the way, her eye to the crack.

Both jammed into the small space; his heart was beating too hard and too fast.

The cabin door came fully open.

Summer pressed her index finger to her lips, as she whispered at him, “I don’t know these guys. It can’t be anything much. Prep for tomorrow’s flight maybe. Who knows?”

She returned her attention to the passenger area.

As the three men came on board, they barely said a word to one another, which struck Kevin as odd. He could hear noises up in the cockpit. They were doing stuff.

Lights came on, the air system hissed.

When he finally heard the mumble of a voice, it was someone reading.

Summer’s hair tickled his face. “That’s the checklist!” she said. “I think they’re starting it up.”

“What? They can’t do that!”

“Shut up and let me think.” For the first time, she looked as scared as he felt.

Cantell read off the checklist just as he and McGuiness had practiced dozens of times. McGuiness had nine months of training invested in the next twenty minutes of flight, and though he ran through the run-up with authority his anxiety permeated the cockpit.

Cantell’s responsibilities were limited to the radios and GPS navigation. He set the proper frequencies, double-checked the destination he’d keyed into the GPS, and held his index finger over the transponder switch.

“Transponder off, yes?” he said.

“Off,” McGuiness said, busy with other switches.

Cantell’s action prevented the broadcast of a radio signal that would allow ACT, air traffic control, to track the Learjet’s flight. Above fifteen thousand feet, the Lear would be visible on most radar. But McGuiness had no intention of flying above fifteen thousand feet. He’d keep it at ten thousand or lower, once out over the desert. It was only mountain flying that presented problems. That, and the fading light.

“Nice and easy,” Cantell said. “No rush.”

“Call the tower.”

Cantell had practiced his few lines to the point of impatience. McGuiness had warned him that it wasn’t just a matter of saying the right words-there wasn’t all that much to say-but it was the cadence, the indifference, that would sell the call to the Hailey tower.

Cantell announced their tail number, then requested, “Taxi to takeoff.”

The unusual wind direction meant a northbound takeoff. The tower reminded TA959 that noise abatement was in effect.

Cantell acknowledged.

McGuiness shook his head in disbelief. “We would have preferred three-one,” he said, meaning the southbound runway.

“C.C.?” Salvo stood in the gap behind them. He’d been instructed by Cantell to keep back and allow them to do their jobs.

“I told you to stay out of the way!” Cantell looked over his shoulder.

Salvo was holding a Heineken.

“Jesus, Salvo, throw that thing out… Not now!”

“It’s not mine!” He raised the can.

The Lear jerked into a taxi.

“Pre-takeoff checklist,” McGuiness said to Cantell, ignoring Salvo.

“It was in the cup holder, C.C.,” Salvo said.

“What do I care where it was?” Cantell complained, grabbing for the laminated checklist. “Toss it, and take a seat.”

“It was in the cup holder,” Salvo repeated, “and it’s cold.”

That won looks from both pilot and copilot.

Cantell reached out and touched the beer can. He glanced over at McGuiness.

“It’s not like we can back up,” McGuiness said. “We’re cleared to taxi.”

“Search it,” Cantell whispered to Salvo.

“Let’s roll,” he said to McGuiness.

One of those guys sounds so familiar,” Summer whispered into Kevin’s ear, “but I can’t place it. Maybe… I think…” She didn’t complete her thought. With the jets rumbling, she had to press her lips to his ear, contorting them both in the small place and causing Kevin to practically lay atop her.

“I’ll take care of it,” she said. “It’s probably better if you stay here until I get it straight.”

Kevin reached to stop her but she shook him off, as she slid the partition open and slipped out of the storage compartment. Kevin blocked her from shutting it completely, wanting to see out.

“Excuse me!” she then called out.

She was met with three dumbfounded expressions. The copilot pulled off his headset. In five quick steps, she was standing behind the short guy, her back to Kevin.

“Where’s William?” she said, getting a look at the pilot’s face and realizing she didn’t know him. She stood erect, trying to assert her importance. “Who are you guys, anyway?” She then addressed the copilot, having identified him as the one with the familiar voice. “I know you, right? I’m Summer. You know me. You’ve got to take me back to the FBO.”

“We’ve not met. What are you doing on this plane?” the copilot said. “You can’t be here.”

“You think? My father owns this plane. Take me back to the FBO, please.”

“Can we turn it around?” the copilot asked the pilot. It seemed an odd question for the copilot to ask. Of course they could turn around, and would, right now.

“You can and you will,” she said, reminding them who she was.

The pilot shot a confused look over at the copilot.

“Where’s William?” she repeated.

The pilot didn’t seem to hear her, but then he hadn’t pulled off a headphone cup as the copilot had.

“We’d have to explain things to the tower,” the pilot said. “You really want to do that?”

“I need to go back. I can’t fly with you, even if it’s only a short flight!” Summer said. “I don’t have the time, okay?”

The copilot checked her out. Then he looked out the plane’s windshield at the blue lights of the runway to their left.

“Is anyone listening?” she said.

“Step back a moment, miss, would you please?”

The copilot’s demeanor had changed. He was suddenly the one in charge, which was not the way a cockpit crew worked.

She kept her feet firmly planted. She wasn’t going anywhere.

“Take me back,” she said.

The copilot had been ignoring her, but now he faced her and raised his voice. “TAKE A SEAT!”

The reprimand turned her stomach. “I… am… not going with you. You will turn the plane around now!”

The copilot flicked his head, and suddenly a pair of arms wrapped around her. The third guy had her.

“Go!” the copilot instructed the pilot.

The jet rolled forward. It swung left, taxiing north onto the runway.

The engines screamed up to a high-pitched whine.

“No!” she said, kicking and trying to break free. But the man holding her was seriously strong, and his hands were all over her.

Kevin caught pieces of the confrontation. At first, it appeared that, true to form, Summer had taken charge, or tried to. Hands on her hips, back arched, she’d tried to come off older than she was.

He heard her ask-demand, was more like it-to be taken back to the FBO.

But then it went wrong. The small, wiry guy had grabbed her, and Kevin’s first instinct was to run to her defense. The man pinned her arms behind her back and held them at the wrist with just one hand, pushing her to the floor with the other. He did it like he’d done it a hundred times before. He tied her hands with a seat belt, then touched her face in a lecherous, disgusting way. He glanced hotly toward the pilots, saw they were occupied, and ran both hands over her chest.

Kevin sat up furiously, thumping his head against the plastic ceiling.

The guy looked back. Kevin hoped he’d backed his eye away from the opening in time. He reached for his cell phone as the jets screamed louder, his thumb searching out the correct string of numbers.