Jet (31 page)

She squinted and wiped salt water out of her eyes, then saw the telltale flashing lights of a French police boat off in the distance, headed in her direction from the marina on the far side of the airport.

There was no way she could take the jet ski all the way without the French intercepting her. She would have to cut inland and beach it, then steal a car.

Jet turned and headed towards the shore, and a few minutes later, she was flying through the rolling surf and sliding up the sand. Once on land, she took off at a run, wary of the inevitable police presence once her position had been pinpointed.

Traffic on the frontage road was still heavy, and as she sprinted up the beach to the long promenade she searched around for any target of opportunity. A woman walking a Pomeranian recoiled when she saw Jet, dripping wet in her soaked black leather, puddles of water pooling with each high-heeled step. She gave the woman a demented look and shouted, “Boo!”

The woman nearly fainted.

A man pushing an old BMW motorcycle was preparing to climb on at the curb. Without thinking, Jet ran to him and wrenched the handlebars out of his hands, knocking him to the sidewalk when he started screaming at her. She threw her leg over the seat, fired up and revved the motor, then slammed it into gear and shot between two cars into the night traffic.

The wind buffeted her as she slalomed around the slower-moving vehicles, the warm air blowing the worst of the salt water from her outfit. Horns honked in protest as she ran a red light, narrowly missing a sedan before running up onto the sidewalk to get past a taxi that had double-parked to pick up a fare.

Sirens howled from a block behind her as a squad car gave chase. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see the flashing orbs on its roof, and she gunned the motorcycle around the promenade benches as she raced down the pedestrian walkway. She could still hear the horns blaring from the police car as she swung down a side street and disappeared.

Two minutes later, she pulled onto the frontage road that circled the airport, and she twisted the throttle, urging the old motorcycle to give its all. As she approached the far end of the runway, she spotted the distinctive shape of the Russian’s jet near one of the low buildings – no doubt the private plane terminal. Her heart sank when she saw the landing lights illuminated – it looked as though it was ready for takeoff.

Jet skidded to a rolling stop near a security gate, the guards astonished to see a Valkyrie in leather riding an antique. She saw her opportunity – a three-foot gap between the gate and the fence. As they stood gawping, she dropped the clutch and hammered on past them and onto the airport grounds. They yelled at her as she flew by, but she ignored their warning and headed for the maintenance vehicles parked at the side of the terminal, her anxiety mounting as the jet’s door closed and it began rolling to the taxi area.

An airport truck rolled along a hundred yards in front of her, a mobile passenger stairway mounted on its chassis. She sped towards it, and after overtaking it, she cut it off, forcing it to a stop. In a fluid motion, she reached around and unzipped the backpack, whipping out the P90 and pointing it at the driver.

“Out. Now. Don’t make me shoot you,” she yelled in French.

The open-mouthed driver raised his hands and quickly complied. She jumped behind the wheel, jammed the shifter into gear and floored it. The heavy vehicle lurched forward with a roar as the bewildered maintenance worker stood with his hands still raised above his head, trying to make sense of what had just taken place.

~ ~ ~

The pilot smiled as the tower gave him clearance to taxi. With a curt glance at the instruments, he reached forward, toggled the transmit button and confirmed. They were number one for takeoff and would be airborne in minutes.

Grigenko sat in the oversized reclining chair nearest the cockpit, his legs up on the footrest, a glass of vodka in his hand. Oleg peered through the window, absently watching the terminal. The pilot’s voice came over the speakers.

“We are cleared for takeoff, sir. Please fasten your seatbelt. We will be in the air shortly.”

A map popped up on the large flat screen TV on the forward bulkhead, a red line charting their planned flight path to the United States.

Grigenko felt for the remote control in his seat arm and switched it to television, thumbing through the channels until he found live news coverage of the fire in the Monaco marina. His beloved
Petrushka
was ablaze and looked like it would be a total loss. The newscaster’s excited voice recited statistics on the boat’s cost and then launched into a measured description of the reclusive Russian oligarch who owned it.

“So, the insurance company is going to be pissed,
nyet
?” Grigenko said with a harsh laugh, then took another swallow of vodka. Oleg smiled in obligatory amusement.

Grigenko glanced out the window, movement having caught his eye.
Just a maintenance vehicle
.

“Once we’re in the air, I’m going to get some sleep. It’s been a long day,” he said, stretching his arms overhead with a yawn. He pushed a button on the seat, and the windows went opaque, blocking out the glare from the runway spotlights.

The pilot inched the controls forward, increasing power to the engines as the Gulfstream started its takeoff run. It began crawling forward and then quickly accelerated, pushing him back in his seat.

The copilot saw the truck heading towards them just before the pilot did.

“What the hell does he think he’s doing? Go, get out of here, idiot. We’re taking off,” the pilot said, waving with his hand at the window, talking to himself. “Do you see this fool? Must be dru–”

The truck swerved and then veered towards the jet, and the pilot screamed as the vehicle’s stairway clipped the right wing, tearing the tip off and jolting the plane. The pilot cut power and struggled to manage their trajectory, but the jet was going too fast, having hit the truck while moving at almost a hundred miles per hour. Fluid streaked from the damaged wing, a part of which dragged on the tarmac, sparks flying in a long bright trail as he fought to control the skid. A fragment of wreckage bounced off the runway and then hit the left rear engine, smoke belching from it as the metal chewed through the turbine blades. A warning lamp illuminated on the instrument panel, and the engine died. As the plane slowed, flames began to ignite the liquid pouring from the wing and fuselage.

~ ~ ~

“What the hell–” Grigenko screamed in the cabin as the plane veered out of control, his drink flying from his hand, the glass crashing against the burled walnut interior.

The jet careened sideways with a sickening yaw, then tilted as if in slow motion before slamming back onto its wheels, the deceleration straining the restraining belt that held him in place.

The din of the alarms screeching was the only sound in the cabin for a few moments after they stopped. The pilot burst from the cockpit, his expression panicked.

“What happened?” Grigenko demanded as the pilot pulled on the emergency lever to open the door and lower the fuselage stairs.

“A truck hit us. We have to get out. We’ve got a full load of fuel, the hydraulic fluid is on fire, and one of the engines is damaged. We need to move, now,” he warned as the door swung open.

Grigenko looked at Oleg.

“Get your weapon out. Do you have another gun?” he barked.

Oleg nodded, pulled a small pistol from an ankle holster, and handed it to his boss.

“Go.”

Oleg stood and moved to the door, Grigenko behind him. The pilot and co-pilot descended the stairs and, after one look at the damage, took off at a full run, trying to put as much distance between them and the jet as possible before it blew.

The bodyguard stepped out of the fuselage, pistol at the ready, and was halfway down the stairs when a red dot appeared on his forehead, and the top of his skull disintegrated.

Jet stood on the tarmac a hundred and forty yards in front of the plane, feet apart in a classic military stance, the P90 pointed at the Gulfstream, the red emergency light of the truck illuminating her with an eerie, oscillating glow.

Grigenko stepped out of the plane and took in his fallen bodyguard, then squinted to get a look at his attacker. His eyes widened in disbelief when he saw Jet in the middle of the runway, the headlights of the truck behind her framing her silhouette in harsh white light.

She waited as he pushed Oleg’s corpse down the stairs and leapt over it onto the ground. The Russian cursed, then raised his gun and squeezed off two shots. At that distance, he didn’t have a chance of hitting her. They both knew it.

Flames licked at the jet engine and engulfed the damaged wing. It would be just a matter of seconds until the fuel blew.

She sighted and squeezed the trigger of the P90 again. Grigenko’s shinbone shattered. He continued to fire at her as he collapsed onto the runway, but the bullets went wide, missing Jet and ricocheting harmlessly away from her.

He caught himself as he fell forward, the skin tearing off his hand as he stopped the momentum, and then he struggled back up onto one knee, peering down the barrel of the pistol in an effort to improve his aim.

“You bitch. I’ll ki–” he screamed, then a blinding flare of orange shattered the night as the Gulfstream detonated in a massive fireball.

Jet spun away and sprinted for the truck as flames rolled towards her, then the force of the blast knocked her off her feet. She rolled under the vehicle as the wave of molten fuel roared past her and held her breath so it wouldn’t scorch her lungs. Her damp hair crackled as she clenched her eyes shut, and then the explosion faded, and the searing heat diminished.

Rubbing the soot from her face, she crawled out from under the vehicle and surveyed the blazing wreckage, pieces of the Gulfstream scattered well clear of the fuselage, the jet now mostly unrecognizable. Grigenko’s charred remains sizzled on the runway, an oily, unrecognizable smudge with bones wedged haphazardly amidst the smoldering chunks.

A droplet of moisture rolled down her cheek, cutting a trail through the grime as she watched the inferno. She took a last look at where the Russian had met his end, and then she turned and walked back to the truck, the dim skirl of fire trucks and emergency vehicles sounding from where they were pulling onto the far end of the field.

Epilogue

Two toddlers, little boys, chortled with glee as they chased each other around the seats in the passenger departure area of Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris. One of the tots clenched a blue plastic airplane in his hand and was tormenting his sibling by making
vroom vroom
sounds and holding it over his head, just out of reach of his smaller brother.

The harried mother looked up from her magazine and rolled her eyes, then called for them to come back to where she was sitting, their carry-on bags gathered around her seat like circled wagons. The boys cheerfully ignored her, and she exhaled a noisy sigh of frustration before catching sight of her husband, who was returning from the bathroom.

“Steve, could you please control the boys? They’re making me crazy,” she said in a loud, whiny voice, simmering annoyance just under the surface as she emphasized the last word.

Steve moved to the older of the pair and grabbed his shoulders, then brought him close and said something in his ear. The little boy nodded and gave him the toy, and Steve wandered back to his wife, the children trailing him. The smaller one swatted the older one in the back of the head, triggering an inevitable response – a half-hearted kick, and then the two were scuffling on the floor, their screams drawing ugly looks from the assembled travelers. Steve looked defeated and helpless, and the mother slapped down her magazine and marched over to the boys, dragging them apart and holding them, separated, as she read them the riot act.

A woman with fashionably cut dyed black hair watched the episode unfold from the coffee stand across the waiting area with a barely concealed smile.

The overhead speakers clicked on, and a distorted female voice announced the commencement of boarding for flight 41 bound for Chicago, initially in French and then in mangled English. First class was invited to board at its leisure, and in a moment, passengers traveling with small children.

Jet shouldered her large purse, drained the last dregs of her coffee and tossed the cup into the trash before approaching the podium, a small suitcase rolling behind her.

“Yes, may I help you?” the attendant asked in heavily accented English.

“I’m checking in for my flight. It’s two hours late, so I was wondering if you could confirm that I can still make my connection in Chicago?” she replied in French.

The woman took her ticket and tapped in a long string of numbers, backspacing to correct entries made in error as her fingers flew over the keys. She eventually pressed enter, and her brow furrowed as she concentrated on the results.

“Mmm. Yes. Well, it will be close, but you should still be able to make it. Do you have any checked bags?”

“No, just my carry-on.”

“Then I would say no problem. Assuming customs isn’t too bad, you should make the connection to Omaha with half an hour to spare.”

“Thanks.”

Jet made her way to the jetway and submitted to the last-minute security baggage check, then moved down the ramp and into the plane. The stewardess greeted her as she boarded and looked at her boarding pass, then pointed to the left.

“First class is right up there. 2A. Window.”

She slid her bag into the overhead compartment and fell gratefully into the oversized seat, relieved to be leaving France. She had ducked into the casino the following day and claimed her winnings and nobody had batted an eye – as if a young woman walking out of the building with nearly three hundred thousand dollars was an everyday occurrence. The management had even offered a security guard to see her to her bank, which she had politely declined.