Stealing Gulfstreams Read online

  The time stamp tells me it arrived around two a.m.

  The subject line informs me I have yet another unread note from him.

  This is the third notification I’ve received in the last week—and I’ve ignored each and every one of them. The guy just can’t take a clue!

  I’ve decided to lay low for a while. Let the heat we’re getting from the San Francisco debacle cool off. Let the FBI investigation lose some steam. I am not stealing another plane for that madman anytime soon. I don’t care how badly I need his money. Cole and I—and maybe even Natalie, too—will think of something else.

  After pouring myself a cup of sludgy joe, I unlock the hangar and slide under my Buckeye. The national air race is around the corner, and she’s still not ready to fly.

  Let me clarify. She can fly just fine. Better than fine. I took her for her first test flight in months just a few days ago, and she did great.

  She’s just not ready to win.

  I glance at my watch in between tightening the bolts under the crossflow duct. I’ve been at this for almost an hour now. My employees should be arriving soon.

  A few minutes later I hear the hangar door open, followed by footsteps.

  “Arturo, buenos días,” I call. “Hey, can you pass me a five-eighths spline socket wrench when you get a—”

  “Buenos días, Señor Flynn.”

  That’s definitely not my employee.

  I quickly slide out from under the plane—and immediately get grabbed by two brawny, burly bodyguards, each a good foot taller than me. They yank me to my feet and hurl me against the metal fuselage. They release my arms and step aside…revealing León.

  He’s aiming his silver Desert Eagle handgun again.

  Directly at my forehead.

  “You have become a very hard man to get a hold of,” he growls.

  I do everything in my power not to tremble, not to appear weak—even though I know full well that León has probably come here to put a slug or two in my brain.

  “You should have called,” I reply. “You have both of my numbers. Hell, I was in Vegas last weekend. You should’ve tried to hit me with your car again.”

  “You do not tell me what to do,” León replies. “It is the other way around, yes? And you have been ignoring my orders. Why?”

  I can’t play it cool anymore. I just can’t.

  “Why the hell do you think?” I exclaim. “Between you and the feds up my ass, I’m surprised I’m still—”

  “The federales?” León asks sharply. “The FBI, they have talked to you?”

  “Yeah. Twice. I kept my mouth shut. I don’t snitch on business associates. But you’re starting to make me reconsider that policy.”

  León scowls, as if he’s reconsidering his next move as well.

  He lowers his weapon to his side, still thinking.

  Then he quickly raises it again—to fire. I hear three deafening cracks.

  “No!” I shout, flinching in absolute terror.

  When the gunfire ends, I realize I’m unharmed.

  But I see León has completely shot up my Buckeye’s left engine and cockpit.

  No!

  All those months of work, all those thousands of hours, all those hundreds of thousands of dollars—gone.

  “I am sorry about your little plane,” León says, snickering. “And about this.”

  Before I can get another word out, León marches up to me and hammers the butt of his gun against my skull. Crack! I cry out in pain and stumble to the ground, but León strikes again—crack! Then a third time—crack!—clocking me right in the jaw. Then a fourth time, crushing the bridge of my nose—crack!

  In blinding pain, I slide down the Buckeye’s fuselage and collapse in a heap onto the concrete…right in a puddle of jet fuel leaking out of one of León’s bullet holes. My head is pounding. My vision is tunneling.

  “I sent you three messages, Señor Flynn,” I hear León say, although he sounds distant, fuzzy, almost like he’s under water. “You owe me three planes.”

  I stay conscious just long enough to see him and his goons walk out.

  Then—darkness.

  “Jack? Jack! Wake up!”

  As I groggily regain consciousness, I realize that Natalie is kneeling beside me, frantically tapping my cheeks.

  “I called an ambulance, it’s on its way,” she says. “What the hell happened?”

  Roiling with humiliation and rage, I struggle to get my bearings and sit up. My clothes are soaked with a mixture of engine fluids and blood. My tongue finds a gap where two bottom teeth used to be.

  “Y-you…you were…right,” I manage to stutter.

  “About what?”

  “I think I am gonna need your help.”

  Chapter 28

  Some say Southern California is a paradise. Perfect weather year-round. Lush palm trees as far as the eye can see.

  Not this slice of SoCal, that’s for sure.

  It’s been hours since the sun went down, but the inland desert air is still as hot and thick as gravy. And every palm tree I see is dry, brown, dying.

  Let’s hope that’s not some kind of omen.

  “All clear,” Cole whispers, lowering a night-vision scope from his eyes. “This is gonna be like stealing candy from a baby—about forty million bucks’ worth of candy.”

  Dressed completely in black, we’re crouched in some bushes a few dozen yards away from the rear service entrance of Flabob Airport, a quiet airstrip in the middle of suburban Riverside County some sixty miles east of LA. According to public flight records, it’s home to a nice little cache of corporate jets.

  Sure, the airport has a control tower. Plenty of security cameras. And a fair amount of daytime flight traffic. But at three o’clock in the morning? The tarmac is deserted, and the surrounding neighborhood is a ghost town.

  Which is exactly the way I want it.

  Because we’re about to pull off our most daring plane heist ever.

  “Ready to roll?” I ask, mentally psyching myself up as well.

  “Damn straight I am” comes the reply—from Natalie. She’s in the shrubs with us, too, readying a giant pair of bolt cutters.

  My little run-in with León a few weeks ago put me in the hospital for two days, then laid me up in bed for nine more. Which gave me plenty of time to think.

  That son of a bitch not only shot up my precious Buckeye, but now he is demanding a trio of new birds—or else. When I finally went back and read all the messages he’d sent me that I’d ignored, I saw he’d specified three different planes from three different airports in three different states.

  Yeah, right.

  I knew I had no choice but to give León what he wanted, and fast, but I was going to do it on my terms. Especially with the FBI still on my ass, the last thing I needed was to wander into restricted airspace again. Even a tiny slipup could ruin me.

  So I did research. Found three similar-model planes tied down at Flabob. Made a plan to steal them all simultaneously. And asked Natalie to pitch in.

  Time will tell if that was a stroke of genius…or suicide.

  I slip a black ski mask over my face, prompting Natalie and Cole to do the same. “All right,” I say. “Let’s do this.”

  We scurry from the bushes to the outer chain-link fence. While my brother uses his night-vision scope to keep lookout, I hold the fence steady as Natalie cuts a small section open. When I bend it back, I scrape my gloved hand on one of the jagged metal edges. It hurts, bad, but nothing compared with the beating I got a few weeks ago.

  The three of us slip through the fence and dash across the tarmac to our respective planes, just like we’d planned.

  Cole heads to a Learjet 75, a recent-model eight-passenger craft, its body as white as fresh snow.

  I go for a Gulfstream G280, a slightly larger plane, a workhorse. Its fuselage is aquamarine, with swooping green and pink trim—an unusual corporate livery that León will probably have to repaint to avoid drawing undue attention. (B
ut hey, that’s his problem.)

  Natalie’s plane is a Bombardier Challenger 300. Built in 2001, it’s the oldest craft we’re lifting by almost a decade. But I figure if she’s used to flying stunts in vintage bombers from the 1950s, she can handle a cushy business jet from the early aughts.

  I reach my Gulfstream, kick the wheel chocks out of the way, then quickly set to work breaking in. Using a pair of lock-picking tools, I jimmy the hatch open in seconds.

  I’m already sweating under my wool ski mask—from both the heat and nerves—as I hurry up the stairs and into the cockpit. Normally, I don’t even like to fly a kite without doing a safety inspection first, but tonight I’m making an exception. We all are.

  After setting down the encrypted two-way radio receiver I’ve brought along—the same one as Cole and Natalie, so we can communicate away from official aviation channels—I disable the GPS transponder and start up the twin engines.

  Then I mutter a quick prayer.

  Natalie’s voice crackles from the radio: “Mustang is hot and ready to fly, over.”

  “Copy that, Mustang,” Cole answers. “So is Freebird. Over.”

  I review my instrument panels. Fuel and fluid levels look good. All systems go.

  “So is…Mama Bear,” I say with a grimace.

  At our final planning meeting, Natalie joked that this should be my call sign since I was being so meticulous and protective, so maternal. I protested, but the name stuck.

  Now I hear them both chuckling on the other end.

  “Hey, quit messing around,” I snap. Our plan is going smoothly so far, but we’re a long way from celebrating. “Gimme a rapid one-two-three takeoff to the northeast. Bank hard, heading one-zero-niner, then it’s straight on home.”

  “Roger that, bro,” says Cole. “Coast looks clear. See you two on the ground.”

  We all start taxiing toward the runway, but I let Cole arrive at the top first, followed by Natalie, again just like we planned.

  As soon as he’s in position, my brother slams the throttle. His Learjet’s landing gear screeches as the plane races along, getting airborne in a flash.

  Before he’s finished banking out of her flight path, Natalie guns it and takes off in her Challenger, timing her ascent perfectly. I’m relieved—and impressed.

  Once she’s clear, I maneuver my Gulfstream onto the runway and accelerate briskly. Within seconds, I get that familiar awesome rush of flight.

  “Wahoo!” Cole cries over the radio. “Three planes, no waiting!”

  As I fall in line behind him and Natalie, I rip off my ski mask to get a better view of the two other jets in front of me, climbing higher and higher into the clear night sky.

  I finally let myself relax a bit. And smile.

  “Not bad, team,” I answer. “Once we reach eighteen thousand feet, increase speed to—”

  “Shit, shit, shit!” Natalie suddenly exclaims.

  I’ve never heard such panic in her voice. It sends a chill down my spine.

  I look over to see her plane slowing a bit and wobbling precariously.

  And puffs of black smoke are trickling out of her left engine.

  Chapter 29

  “Natalie!” I scream into the radio. “Jesus Christ—port side—you got smoke!”

  The first rule of any emergency flight procedure is to stay calm.

  Right now, I’m breaking it. Miserably.

  “No shit!” she barks back. “Probably a blown fuel pump, maybe a compressor surge.”

  “Well, cut the fuel line!” I exclaim. “Seal the air valves, shut off the—”

  “You don’t think I don’t know protocol?”

  I bite my tongue. Of course she does.

  Which means she also knows she should be looking for a spot to set her flaming plane down right about now.

  Except we both know there isn’t any.

  For miles.

  Before pretty much every flight—from a commercial 767 to a one-seater biplane—pilots are taught to chart out a viable emergency landing site in the direction of takeoff, in case there’s trouble and they have to abort below ten thousand feet, an altitude considered too low to safely turn back to the airport.

  When Cole, Natalie, and I plotted the flight path we would all take tonight, we decided to throw that safety measure out the window.

  We chose to turn sharply and fly almost immediately over a dense residential area. And skip the preflight safety inspections, too. We figured the chance of catastrophic engine failure in well-maintained corporate jets was so slight the risk was worth what we’d gain in stealth and speed.

  I’ve never regretted a decision more in my life.

  “Shit, Natalie, it’s spreading!” I cry, watching in horror as her old Challenger’s engine belches more and more smoke. “You gotta land!”

  “Great idea. How about on that busy freeway over there? Or that quiet cul-de-sac? Or the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department goddamn parking lot?”

  I read her loud and clear. She’s got nothing but awful options. And even if, by some act of God, she did land safely, she’d have a wave of cops on her in seconds.

  “Doesn’t matter!” I exclaim. “I’ll take all the heat, say I masterminded this whole heist, forced you to be an accomplice. Look, if you don’t land soon, you’ll crash!”

  “Wrong,” Natalie answers, stabilizing her burning craft and tipping its nose upward. “If I don’t put out this damn fire, I’ll crash. I’ve gotta blow it out!”

  Oh, no.

  “Natalie, I know what you’re thinking—and it’s insane! It only works on small fires, as a last resort. Natalie, don’t…Natalie!”

  But my pleas are ignored. I can barely watch as Natalie pulls back the yoke, jams her throttle to the max, and, using her one good engine, rockets skyward.

  Her ascent is dizzying as she climbs thousands of feet in just seconds.

  Next, she sharply dives—and it’s absolutely terrifying.

  Hurtling toward the ground at full blast, she’s trying to use thrust to burn up any remaining carburetor fuel, with rapid airspeed to cut off the fire’s oxygen supply. It’s a wildly risky maneuver with a blaze of that size. She could blow her second engine or lose control of her descent or go too slow and worsen the fire—or…or…

  “Got it!” Natalie exclaims triumphantly, leveling off at the last possible moment. From the looks of it, she’s just a few hundred feet above the suburban sprawl below.

  When I finally refocus on her Challenger…son of a bitch, her engine fire is out.

  “God damn, girl, you’re crazier than me!” Cole says, laughing.

  I’m not entertained, but I’m certainly relieved.

  “Glad you snuffed it, Mustang,” I say. “You good to keep going on just one engine?”

  “No, sir. I’m great. Over and out.”

  The remainder of our three-hour journey is beyond dull, and I’m thankful for that. The sun is starting to rise when we fall into a tight formation for our final approach into Cochran County Airport, a barely used, tumbleweed-choked strip of asphalt right across the New Mexico/Texas border. Cole lands his Learjet, Natalie sets down her hobbled Challenger, and I follow right behind in my Gulfstream.

  We all taxi over to the side, shut off our planes, and climb out. It’s only when I’m this close to Natalie’s bird that I see the full extent of the fire damage. Her left turbine isn’t just burned to a crisp, but a good chunk of her fuselage is also badly scorched and warped. It’s a small miracle she survived. I guess asking for her help was a smart move after all.

  “Jesus, you could set your watch by these bastards,” Cole says, gesturing with a lit cigarette to the airport entrance. “Here we go, gang.”

  A familiar convoy of silver BMWs is racing toward us.

  It’s our good pal León, of course.

  Right on time—for the last time.

  At least, I hope so.

  Chapter 30

  With a mini-tornado of West Texas dust swirling all aro
und them, the shiny cars come to a stop right in front of us.

  Multiple doors swing open, almost perfectly synchronized.

  A horde of gruff-looking men step out, unarmed but very intimidating.

  They form a semicircular perimeter around Cole, Natalie, and me, our backs to the planes. No way out.

  Only then does León exit. He takes a few steps toward us. A simple cloth backpack is slung over his shoulder.

  “Good morning, Señor Flynn,” he says. “You are looking…better.”

  Then his gaze turns to Natalie, and the corner of his mouth curls into a chilling smirk. His eyes focus on her like a predator stalking its prey. He looks like, well, a lion.

  “And good morning to you, señorita. I don’t believe we have been—”

  “León,” I interrupt, maybe more brusquely than I should, “this runway opens to the public in half an hour. We’ll do introductions another time.”

  Instead of being offended, León seems to get a kick out of my new attitude.

  “Ah. Finally, you are focused on business. So am I.”

  He partially unzips the backpack and shows us the contents: stacks and stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills.

  “One-point-three million. Sound fair to you?”

  It doesn’t. Not by a long shot. Together the three planes we lifted are worth about forty-three million.

  Still, that’s a ton of cash. It’s life-changing. So I’m not going to complain—and I’m not going to let Cole complain, either. I simply nod, trying to stay as cool as possible, but on the inside I’m jumping for joy.

  Until León takes out a blue Bic lighter and flicks the spark wheel a few times.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Cole exclaims, taking an ill-advised step forward.

  “These are not the planes I asked for,” León answers darkly. “And look at that Challenger. You burned it to a crisp! It’s only right I should return the favor, no?”

  Once he’s sparked a tiny flame, he holds the lighter under the backpack.

  Is this guy serious?