Stealing Gulfstreams Read online

  When the entire wonderful Malone family is finally on board and their chauffeur has turned the Escalade around and driven away, Cole and I take our seats in the flight deck. We run through our final system check and prepare for takeoff.

  “What is taking so long?” Rick calls to us from the cabin.

  I look back to see that he’s reclining in a plush leather seat with his feet up. He’s also cracking open a tiny bottle of Grey Goose from the minibar—probably not his first drink of the day.

  “Any time now, if you two don’t mind. Aren’t you guys supposed to be pros?”

  I can tell Cole is about to lose his cool, so I touch his arm.

  And give him the look. It’s time.

  My brother whips out the black SIG Sauer P229 tucked into his belt.

  “We are professionals,” Cole says to Rick, aiming the pistol right at him. “Now, get the hell off our plane.”

  Chapter 5

  Rick gasps in total shock, spilling the vodka all over his expensive leather jacket.

  When Cynthia sees the gun, she starts shrieking like a hyena.

  Emily and RJ are too stunned to make a peep.

  “You heard the man,” I say. “Malone family? Time to deplane. This flight’s leaving without you. We’re taking your Gulfstream.” I open the door.

  “Bullshit you are! I’m not getting off this fucking plane. This is bullshit!”

  I look at the source of that exclamation—not Rick but little RJ. The cojones on this kid.

  “Now, let’s…let’s all j-just…” Rick stutters, his swagger replaced by fear. “RJ, be quiet. Of course we’ll get off, nice and easy. Plane’s all yours, guys. No problem.”

  “Dad, no!” RJ says again. “It’s our plane, not theirs!”

  Cole cocks his gun’s hammer. He’s running out of patience.

  “If you know what’s good for you,” my brother says, “you’ll listen to your old man.”

  “He—he’s just kidding!” exclaims a panicked Cynthia, growing almost frantic with concern. “Aren’t you, RJ? Tell him. Now, let’s go. Quickly.”

  Cynthia, Rick, and Emily scramble to their feet and head for the hatch.

  But RJ tightens his seat belt and defiantly crosses his arms.

  “We don’t have time for this shit,” Cole says—as much a command to the Malone family as a warning to me.

  He’s right. Every second we sit on the tarmac, we’re pushing our luck.

  But pinching a plane is one thing. Kidnapping a spoiled boy is another.

  Part of me wants to deck the little brat and knock him out cold for delaying our plan. But then I get another idea.

  “Come here, kid,” I say, standing up and marching right over to RJ. In a single move, I unbuckle his seat belt with one hand and yank him to his feet by his arm. He squirms in fear and discomfort, and as I twist his arm behind his back, I note the tears coming into his eyes.

  “Please, don’t hurt my son!” Rick pleads.

  “Just teaching him a lesson.”

  Before RJ realizes what’s happening, I drag him to the door, ready to eject him with force.

  “Oh!” Cynthia cries.

  RJ yelps—not from pain but from shock and humiliation.

  “Now, let’s try this one more time,” I say. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes…yes, sir,” RJ whimpers, his eyes filling with tears. I release him, and he scrambles down the steps.

  Part of me feels bad for embarrassing him. But the little twerp had it coming. And I’d do anything to make sure we get away with this plane.

  Without another word, the Malone family shuffles off. As they stand on the tarmac, the pneumatic stairs automatically folding back into the craft, Rick’s pudgy face flushes with rage.

  “You bastards!” he bellows. “You aren’t going to get away with this! You can’t just steal somebody’s freaking airplane! Are you nuts? You’ll never—”

  But his ranting is cut off as the hatch closes with a click.

  His voice is drowned out even more by the rumble of the Gulfstream’s twin engines as Cole and I fire them up.

  “Flight transponder?” Cole asks me, flipping switches and turning knobs, making the final preparations for takeoff like a good copilot should.

  I locate the piece of equipment he’s talking about. It’s about the size of a shoebox and looks like a fancy car radio.

  First I turn it off. Then I literally yank it right out of the console, wires and all. No way anyone on the ground is going to be tracking this flight.

  “Deactivated. We’re flying dark.”

  “Roger that, Captain,” Cole replies with a wide grin. “Now, how’s about we blow this joint?”

  “Brother, I couldn’t have said it better myself. Prepare for takeoff.”

  Chapter 6

  Taking charge of the controls, I carefully taxi the Gulfstream into the center lane of the runway. Through the windshield, I glimpse the Malone family. I can’t help but snicker. Sorry, suckers.

  Slowly I ease the throttle forward, and the plane starts gaining ground speed. I begin to pull up on the control column. Gently at first, then a bit more…a bit more…

  At last, I experience my favorite feeling in the world. I’ve felt it hundreds of times in my life, but it never, ever gets old.

  The freedom, the thrill, the pure joy of liftoff.

  “And this bird is ours!” Cole exclaims, slapping his knee with excitement. “Steady climb to fifteen thousand, heading two-nine-zero, then it’s straight on home.”

  Cole loosens his seat belt, shuts his eyes, and clasps his hands behind his head. He looks so relaxed I almost expect him to crack open a cold one.

  Me? I’m not kicking back quite yet.

  I’ve flown practically every kind of aircraft you can think of, including military during the years I spent in the Navy. Still, every plane handles a little bit differently, even identical models and years, so I want to take a minute to get a feel for this one’s controls. I tilt the yoke forward and back a bit, noting how the craft responds. I flutter the ailerons. I flap the rudder.

  “I still can’t get over that snot-nosed kid back there,” says Cole. “But that arm twist? Just painful enough to be effective. How’d you think of that?”

  I debate whether to answer honestly. I don’t want to dampen the cockpit’s celebratory mood. But since my brother asked…

  “It’s what Dad used to do to us sometimes. Remember? Like that day we found his old flight suit in the attic and played dress-up, then spilled Kool-Aid all over it.”

  I notice the smile on Cole’s face fade. It’s a bittersweet memory.

  For him, at least. Me? Growing up, I idolized our father. A few months after he died in that championship race crash in Reno, I enlisted in the Navy to follow in his footsteps. I wanted to achieve in his honor what he died striving for.

  Cole saw things differently. My brother spent the next five years bouncing from one grim Nevada foster home to another. He dropped out of high school and got into all kinds of trouble. Yet, despite his own wild streak, I don’t think he ever forgave our old man for being so reckless. For turning two kids—whose mother was already out of the picture—into orphans, all because he was chasing some crazy dream.

  A dream that’s now become my own.

  It’s the whole reason I’m doing any of this.

  Maybe I am a little crazy.

  “Look starboard,” I say to change the subject. “Gorgeous, huh?”

  We’re flying north by northwest. Through the distant fog, Puget Sound comes into view. It looks like a sheet of dark glass stretching on forever.

  Then I ask, a little mischievously, “How close do you think I can get to it?”

  Cole opens one eye and looks at me, knowing exactly what I mean.

  Before he can respond—or retighten his seat belt—I push the throttle and pitch up into a steep arc. Leaning on the yoke hard, I execute a grueling “rolling scissor.”

  A series of looping barre
l rolls.

  Cole whoops with excitement as we twirl upside down, again and again, the Gulfstream groaning and rumbling as I push it to its limits. It’s just a boring old transport jet, not built for such punishing tricks.

  But when the Flynn brothers are behind the controls? Any aircraft can be a stunt plane.

  I level out and see we’re just a few miles away from the water now. So I push the throttle even more and dive-bomb directly toward it—shedding hundreds of feet of altitude per second.

  Cole and I break into thrilled laughter as we soar over the verdant woodlands northeast of Seattle. Soon we’re flying even lower, over its outer suburbs. Then lower still, over beachfront properties and commercial ports.

  I angle directly toward the water now. It’s getting closer and closer.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cole white-knuckling his armrest—not something my cocky copilot normally does.

  “Watch your descent rate, man,” he says sharply, barely hiding the concern in his voice. “We’re coming in a little steep, bro. Ease up!”

  As if on cue, a warning alarm sounds in the cockpit. Shit—Cole was right!

  I realize I overshot the dive and know I only have a few precious seconds to fix it. I carefully ease up on the throttle and pull up, trying to time it just right.

  At the last second, the plane levels out, zooming barely one hundred feet above Puget Sound, churning up wild waves in our wake like a flying Jet Ski.

  “Hot damn!” Cole exclaims with a nervous chuckle as I lift us back into a safer cruising altitude. My brother is white as a sheet. All his earlier bravado has vanished. “You kinda scared me there, Jack.”

  “That was the plan,” I answer.

  Which is the truth. Cole can get cheeky sometimes. Or sloppy, like when he snapped at Cynthia Malone back on the tarmac. So I wanted him to feel some real fear. I love my little brother more than anyone, but sometimes what he needs is tough love.

  “We’re in a no-margin-for-error business,” I remind him. “Don’t ever forget it.”

  Cole rolls his eyes. He’s irritated with me but contrite, too.

  Point made.

  I bank left and start to head back toward our original flight path.

  Cole touches my shoulder, his eyes wide with worry again.

  “What now?” I ask.

  “We got company. Nine o’clock. Look alive, bro.”

  I glance over my shoulder and see it.

  Oh, shit.

  Chapter 7

  A green and white Bell 206B3 helicopter—KING COUNTY SHERIFF emblazoned on its tail—is hurtling straight toward us on a direct intercept course.

  “We gotta lose it, now!” I say, pitching up into a temporary evasive maneuver.

  Sure, that chopper’s max speed is only about a hundred fifty miles per hour. This Gulfstream could top three times that, no sweat, even in a gale-force headwind.

  But the Bell is a lot quicker and more nimble than we are, able to stop and spin on a dime. And you can bet its pilot is going to use that to his advantage.

  Because he doesn’t need to beat us in a chase. All he needs to do is “buzz” us—do a quick flyby, close enough to see our faces or, hell, just read our tail number.

  If that happens, our plane will be ID’d and our cover blown. We’ll be tracked by every radar tower from here to Denver. There will be no escape. We will be totally, royally screwed. Everything we’re working for—lost.

  “He’s closing in fast, Jackie,” says Cole with growing concern. “Heading one-nine-zero, matching our ascent rate spot-on. What’s the play here?”

  That’s a damn good question. And I don’t have an answer.…

  Until I notice the sun just peeking over the eastern horizon.

  And I get an idea.

  Hammering the yoke down and to the right, I send the Gulfstream plummeting into a “split S”—a visually confusing half-loop roll. I grit my teeth as the g-force slams Cole and me against the sides of our seats, hard.

  As I pull out of it, I watch the chopper—just as I’d hoped—changing course, wrongly anticipating where we’re going to end up.…

  Until it’s just where I want it.

  My wild maneuver complete, the Gulfstream has flipped around completely and is now flying due west, facing the helicopter straight ahead, with the sunrise at our back. Even if he’s wearing aviators, that pilot has to be squinting like crazy right now. No way he can read our tail number or see our faces or even make out our livery.

  Just to make extra sure we’re safe, I quickly pull up on the control column so our plane climbs steeply into the clouds—then keeps going. Up, up, and away.

  “Suck it!” Cole shouts, waving his middle finger at the chopper now a thousand feet below us. “Nice job, bro. That was close.”

  “Too close, if you ask me,” I say. “See what I said about getting cocky? Guess it applies to both of us.”

  Neither of us speaks as we head toward a comfortable cruising altitude and reset our course to our original destination.

  Until we land, no more tricks.

  Just business.

  There’ll be plenty of time for speed and danger soon enough.

  Chapter 8

  Big crowds make me nervous. Always have.

  Maybe it’s because they’re prime targets for terrorist attacks. Maybe it’s because I crave the solitude of flying. Or maybe it’s because I was standing in a massive crowd fifteen years ago when I watched my father die.

  Whatever the reason, parades, concerts, sports arenas—they’re just not my scene.

  Too bad our biggest “client” always insists on meeting in crowds.

  “It looks smaller in person, wouldn’t you agree?” asks Cole.

  We’re walking through Space Needle Pavilion in downtown Seattle. It’s our first time in the city, and my brother is staring up at the massive structure like a little kid.

  But my focus is at ground level. I’m scanning the hundreds of people all around us—tourists, picnickers, bikers, dog walkers—looking for our contact without looking like I’m looking. I’m trying to control my jitters, too. It’s been more than twenty-four hours since we lifted the Malone family’s plane, and I’m getting anxious to unload it.

  “They said one o’clock, right?” I ask Cole.

  We switch off from job to job, but this time, I made all our flight arrangements while my brother liaised with our “buyers” to set up this little rendezvous.

  “Yup,” he says, cool as a cucumber. “Relax, Jackie. They’re never late.”

  I check the time on my iPhone. The screen says 1:01 p.m. My brother’s right; these guys have always been as reliable as an atomic clock.

  Which is precisely why I’m getting nervous.

  We continue walking along the grass. We pass some teenagers goofing off and taking selfies. A nerdy tech type blotting a coffee stain on his shirt. An Indian woman covered in henna tattoos plunking out “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on a sitar, an odd homage to Kurt Cobain here in his last home.

  “Hola, pilotos.”

  A man’s familiar voice behind us. So deep and gruff it makes even that simple greeting sound ominous.

  Cole and I spin around to face him. He’s Hispanic—Colombian, we think, but we aren’t sure. He’s about fifty, average height, a little stocky, with a thick, flowing mane of salt-and-pepper hair.

  The name he gave us is simply Mr. León. Which is pretty much all he’s told us, about himself or his operation.

  And that’s A-OK with me. Stealing and reselling private airplanes isn’t like boosting car radios; it’s the big leagues. With big players. Some buyers strip the birds for cheap parts, and others export them around the world, selling them under the table to shady foreign business tycoons or dirty government officials.

  Cole and I have our theories about what Mr. León does with the crafts we lift. But we don’t dare ask. He exercises discretion, and he always pays on time, in person, in cash. The less we know about each other, the be
tter.

  And oh yeah. He never goes anywhere without half a dozen beefy bodyguards encircling him.

  Even more of a reason to keep our mouths shut.

  “Hello, Mr. León,” I say. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

  “Yes. A shame our visits are always so brief. Do you have it?”

  I look over at Cole, who produces a single Post-it note from his pocket.

  On it are written two numbers: 48.258163 and -121.609573.

  These are the latitude and longitude coordinates of Darrington Municipal Airport, a secluded runway about eighty-five miles to the northeast, where we parked the Malone family’s stolen Gulfstream late last night. The keys, as always, are tucked behind its rear left wheel.

  León nods contentedly, then says simply, “Two fifty. Final offer.”

  Cole grows instantly enraged. “What? That’s bullshit!”

  “Easy,” I mutter. This isn’t the time or the place for tempers to flare, especially not with seven heavily armed thugs staring us down.

  “Mr. León,” I say calmly, “as I’m sure you’re aware, on the open market its value is closer to—”

  “Then feel free to sell it on that market,” he replies with a smug smile.

  He knows he’s got us over a barrel here. But what choice do we have?

  “Cheap bastard,” Cole mutters, taking a step forward. “Trying to screw us like—”

  I grab my brother’s arm and give him a vicious look to stand down.

  “We’ll take it,” I say.

  León nods at one of his goons, who plucks the Post-it from Cole’s hand and replaces it with a thick sealed envelope. It looks a little light to be holding that much cash, but again, I’m not going to argue.

  “Gracias, Mr. León,” I say, but the man and his entourage have already disappeared back into the teeming crowd.

  Once we’re alone, Cole exclaims, “Can you believe that piece of shit?”

  “Cool it,” I tell him. “Not here. Not now. Don’t make a scene and blow it.”

  As we walk calmly out of the park, I notice Cole subtly tear open a corner of the envelope and peek inside.