He lifted his feet off the counter and took a closer look at the nearest computer monitor. “Yeah, I think we’re good to go.” He reached for his cell phone.
Timmy sprang to his side and halted him after he’d made only a few taps on the screen. “Who are you calling?”
“Flight Service in Atlanta.”
“What for?”
“To file my flight plan.” He held up the form he’d already filled out.
Timmy snatched the sheet from him and scanned it. “What’s all this mean?”
Rye pointed out the various blocks. “Type of plane. Aircraft ID. These letters stand for this airport, place of departure. Destination. You heard Lambert give me that. Estimated time of departure, 1930 Zulu. Two-thirty, to you. Estimated time of flight, one hour. Airspeed, altitude, amount of fuel. Number aboard, four souls.”
“Souls?”
“Industry speak. You know, in case you crash and die.”
He’d determined that Timmy had a fear of flying. He planned to milk it. Petty revenge, maybe, but he would derive some enjoyment out of making him squirm.
Timmy looked over the form again, then handed it back to Rye and chinned toward his cell phone. “Okay, call. But I want to hear who answers.”
Rye shrugged, tapped in the toll-free number, and held out his phone to where Timmy could hear. A male voice answered, “Leidos Flight Service.”
Rye raised his eyebrows inquisitively. Timmy nodded another okay, but carefully monitored everything Rye said as he repeated exactly what he’d printed on the flight plan. When he got to the end he said, “Total souls aboard, four. Three normal. One lost soul named Timmy.”
Timmy gave him the finger.
The man on the phone wished Rye a nice flight. “Nice?” Rye said. “I’ll say. Private strip. Being met by a personal aide, maybe even a red carpet. This is tall cotton for a freight dog like me.”
The guy chuckled. “I recognize the identifier. Tall cotton for anybody. Have fun.”
Rye looked at Timmy. “I can hardly wait.”
2:27 p.m.
Rye put the plane through its preflight check, then motioned the others out of the building. They filed across the tarmac. As Rye handed Brynn in, he whispered, “Brady didn’t make it out of surgery.”
The news was another blow to her, and she reacted to it as such. He would have postponed telling her, except that it was crucial she understand that Brady’s dying had been a turning point for him. He murmured, “I’m all in.”
“What’s going on?” Timmy said from behind them.
“Her seat belt’s stuck.” Rye fiddled with it as he whispered, “I won’t bail on you again. Not until this is over. One way or another.” He pressed her hand. He wanted to kiss her. Badly. Instead, holding her gaze, he gave the seat belt a tug. “That should do it.”
He pointed Lambert into one of the other passenger seats. After he climbed aboard, Rye closed the double doors. “I have to go first,” he told Timmy as he stepped onto the wing.
“No way in hell.”
Rye stepped back down. “Pilot’s seat is on the left. So either I go in first, or I have to crawl over you, or you take the pilot’s seat and fly the plane.”
Grudgingly, Timmy stepped aside. As soon as Timmy boarded, Rye reached across him.
“Hey!” Timmy whipped out a knife.
“I have to make sure the door is shut properly,” Rye said. “Unless you’re okay with being the first one to fall out if you didn’t do it right.”
Timmy leaned back so Rye could reach the door, but he kept the knife unsheathed, tapping the flat of the blade against his thigh. After making sure the door was secure, Rye strapped himself in.
Timmy said, “Don’t try anything tricky.”
“Or what? You’ll knife me? Killing the pilot wouldn’t be a very smart move, would it?”
“No, which is why I would knife your girlfriend instead. Not kill her. Just make her bleed a lot.”
Rye didn’t respond to that. But as the plane lifted off the runway, he said, “Oh, hell.”
Timmy looked at him with alarm. “What?”
“I forgot to take my meds.”
4:04 p.m.
As Rye had predicted, he had to dodge several storm cells, which had added time to their flight. Their descent had been bumpy, but he executed a smooth landing and was now taxiing toward the far end of the runway, where, through the window of the plane, Brynn could see a vehicle waiting. It looked like something used by the Secret Service.
Nate lamented the sad state of his designer suit, which was only semi-dry after having been rained on. “I hate to arrive in this soggy condition.”
Brynn couldn’t stomach Nate’s vanity in light of her defeat, which was a solid and unrelenting pressure against her heart. Throughout the entire ordeal, she had clung to the premise that until the drug was coursing through Richard Hunt’s bloodstream, there was still a chance for Violet to get it. Her optimism now seemed incredibly na?ve. How could she possibly have succeeded against such a juggernaut?
Even worse than being vanquished was knowing that Violet felt abandoned by her.
When they reached the end of the runway, Rye turned the plane around, so that the right side, on which they would deplane, was facing the long, black SUV. Goliad was standing beside it. As soon as Rye killed the engine and the propeller began to wind down, Goliad approached the plane. He opened the doors to the passenger cabin from the outside, looked in, and motioned Nate out. He alighted with a bounce in his step.
Brynn ignored the hand Goliad extended to assist her down, and climbed out on her own. Timmy walked down the wing from the copilot’s seat.
Rye came last. When he reached the ground, he squared off with Goliad.
After assessing the damage he’d done to Goliad’s face early that morning, he said, “I hope that hurts as bad as it looks.”
Goliad withstood Rye’s goading with characteristic stoicism. “I would enjoy repaying you, but Senator and Mrs. Hunt are waiting.”
“Then let’s get going.” Rye took only one step toward the SUV before Goliad flattened his hand firmly against his chest. “You’re not coming.”
Brynn’s pulse spiked. She looked at Rye with alarm and could tell that he didn’t like that arrangement any more than she did. “Lambert said the Hunts were looking forward to meeting me.”
“Lambert was wrong.”
“I beg your pardon,” Nate said. “Delores told me herself—”
One baleful look from Goliad shut him up. Going back to Rye, Goliad said, “This runway is private property. The Hunts reported your landing to the sheriff’s department, who reported it to the local FAA office. Turns out, the agency is already familiar with you. You’re meeting with an investigator tomorrow about that crash up in Howardville. Add this trespassing matter, and you have a lot to answer for. Starting now.”
He tipped his head. They all looked in that direction. A police car was speeding up the intersecting road toward them, lights flashing.
Rye whipped off his sunglasses and took a step toward Goliad. “You gotta be kidding.”
“Kidding? No. The FAA didn’t think it was funny, either. You can’t charm, trick, or talk your way out of this one, Mallett. You’re over.”
The squad car, with the sheriff’s department seal on the side, came to a halt beside the SUV. Two uniformed deputies got out. As they approached the group, one said, “Rye Mallett?”
“Me.”
“We’ve been looking for you since last night. Had people chasing all over the city, running down cell phones in trash cans and such. And here you are, landed in our backyard.”
The second deputy said. “More accurately, the senator’s backyard. He’s filed a formal complaint of trespassing.”
“And I filed a flight plan,” Rye fired back.
“We know. We called the flight service ourselves soon as we saw you touch down. The guy you talked to remembers you bragging about the red carpet treatment you’d get upon arrival.”
“My point exactly. The Hunts knew I was coming.”
“But without invitation,” the deputy said. “They’ve got their own jet and two pilots on staff.” He gave Rye a scornful once-over. “Why would they resort to using your services?”