The Last Family

50

The Falcon landed successfully though very hard, due to a sudden downdraft. The engines reversed with a loud whine, and the pilot taxied off the runway as soon as he could, stopping just off it in a perpendicular attitude. Emergency and security vehicles were coming down the runways and taxiways, washing the mirror of wet asphalt with their yellow and red flashing lights. The vehicles rolled up to the Falcon and stopped in a semicircle, halting the airplane’s forward progress. Men climbed down from the fire truck and out of the other vehicles. Paul dialed a number and put his phone to his ear.

“Thorne, where the hell are you?”

“Coming from the terminal. A taxiway, I believe,” Thorne Greer said, sounding out of breath.

“Well, hurry. This is looking like a lynching party.”

Paul stood and moved to the door with the cane pinned to his stomach by his left wrist. He held the telephone in his right hand like a weapon. He slapped the pilot on the shoulder and noticed sweat running down the faces of the two men in the cockpit. “Damned good landing, boys,” he said. “You’ll get a big bonus for this.”

The pilot looked at Paul through his red-ringed crystalline eyes. “You’ll go to jail for this,” he mumbled, his hands still trembling. “You’re fuckin’ insane. What you did was air piracy, and I’ll make sure…”

Paul frowned. “Let me do the talking, and maybe I can save your licenses.”

Rainey opened the door, and he and Paul stepped down onto the taxiway’s pavement. Thorne Greer’s car pulled up in front of the men who had advanced on the two passengers. Thorne jumped out and ran to Paul.

A large man in a cheap suit who was sopping wet held up a badge. “National Transportation Safety Board,” he growled. “What the fuck’s going on here? You nuts? You were warned off… you could have made several alternate fields that are open. You’ve put a lot of innocent lives in jeopardy.” Paul assumed he was referring to people in the homes around the airport, certainly not theirs.

Paul held up his own badge. “DEA. We have a national emergency, and I don’t have time to explain it to you. Don’t speak to my crew, or you’ll all be in debriefing for weeks.”

“DEA, so fuckin’ what? I never heard of anything that would allow you-”

“National emergency, I said!” Paul yelled to be heard by all in earshot. “We’re operating on direct orders from-”

The necessity for Paul’s explanation ended when the western sky suddenly turned a brilliant red-orange once and then almost immediately three more times. When the sound arrived, it was as if lightning had struck a few feet distant. Boom! BaBoom, boom, boom. The shock wave was a wash of air pushing through, which fluttered the men’s wet clothes like flags. “Holy fuck!” the NTSB inspector said, his fat face orange, his mouth like a crater.

“Yacht basin. Must be fuel tanks,” someone said.

“Bombs,” Rainey yelled in alarm. “It’s going down!”

Paul, Rainey, and Thorne jumped into the car, leaving everybody standing beside the plane, staring off at the red pulsing sky. The DEA Chrysler fishtailed off silently and, when the tires caught purchase, shot straight down the center of runway eighteen, leaving a crowd of confused personnel standing with their mouths agape, sharp shadows dancing behind them, and the light of the great fire reflecting in their eyes.