I smile, genuinely touched by his passion, and his unique insight into my state of mind.
“It’ll be fine, Josh. I promise. I’m not the person I used to be.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” he says, like he didn’t really want to say it but had no choice. “You’ve been out of the game for so long… I’m just concerned you won’t know how to handle something so personal when it comes down to it.”
“I think the remains of twenty NSA agents would disagree…”
“That wasn’t personal, that was business. You weren’t emotionally involved in that situation; you just reverted to your instincts. Clara’s the only one left on your shit list, and she’s kidnapped the only woman, other than your wife, you’ve ever loved. I’ll bet every penny of your fortune that when you see that with your own eyes, you’re going to struggle. And we all know hesitation will get you killed, Adrian.”
We fall silent. I know what he’s trying to say, and I appreciate the concern. But he’s wrong. Despite spending this road trip catching up, he ultimately missed over two years of my life. I’m not angry about that or anything, but it’s a fact. He hasn’t seen me start over since Pittsburgh. He’s basing his assumption about my state of mind on the person he knew two years ago. I don’t want to offend him, but I absolutely need him here, coordinating my efforts over there.
I stand and walk to the back. I open my bag and place my guns inside before closing it again and slinging it over my shoulder. Then I turn and hover by the door for a moment, looking at him.
“I need you here,” I say, matter-of-factly. “I’ve got a phone, so I’ll call you when I make contact with your operative in Belarus. Meantime, keep in touch with Clark and see how much of this puzzle you can put together while I’m gone.”
He sighs heavily, and then silently waves his hand at me, acknowledging what I’ve said while seemingly disagreeing with my thinking. Without another word, I step out of the Winnebago and walk across to the hangar. Halfway toward the plane, I hear the engine start up and him drive away.
I approach the hangar, and a guy appears from around the other side of the plane.
“You must be Adrian?” he says, extending his hand and smiling. “Jim Daniels… nice to meet ya.”
I quickly look him up and down. He doesn’t look much like a pilot. He’s probably around five-eight or five-nine in height, with a large stomach resting on a broad frame. His face is round and red, with an overly bulbous nose. I’d put him somewhere north of fifty-five.
I shake his hand. “Any relation to Jack?” I ask with a humorless smile.
He laughs, which is deep and booming, and comes from the bottom of his sizeable gut. “I wish!” he says. “Would be earning a helluva lot more than I do flying this thing.” He gestures to the jet with his thumb.
I look at the plane with very little interest. “You know where we’re going?” I ask.
Daniels nods. “Mr. Clark rang ahead and gave me the details. You just need to get comfortable and enjoy the flight.”
I smile again and walk over to the door, which is halfway along the right side of the fuselage, opened and revealing stairs. As I step onto them, I glance to my right, out the other side of the hangar at the long runway.
“You a nervous flier?” asks Daniels.
I shake my head. “Not at all,” I reply. “Just looking around. Can’t be too careful nowadays.”
He frowns at my answer, confused, but he just smiles politely and walks off around the other side of the plane. On my left, the man with the fuel disconnects the piping, gives the plane a final check, and then climbs aboard the small truck with the tank on it.
“Everything’s good to go, Mr. D,” he shouts.
“Thanks, Al.”
He drives off without a word, and I board the plane without another thought. Inside is much narrower than the Leah jets I’ve been on recently, but the seats still look comfortable and spacious. The white leather has been well looked after, and I sit down on the first seat on the right side, resting my bag at my feet.
Compared to the paint job on the outside, the interior is definitely in better condition. There’s not much in the way of luxuries, but I only need it to get me from A to B, and for that, I’m sure it will do just fine.
After a couple of minutes, Daniels climbs aboard and closes the door behind him, locking it in place.
“Just be another few minutes, then we’ll be in the air,” he announces.
I nod. “Thanks, Jim,” I reply.
I sit back and relax as best I can. I feel pretty good about this. It’s a positive step toward sticking it to the bad guys — the first for a good while. I just want to get Tori back. That’s more important to me than killing Clara, if I’m honest. I know there’s still a terrorist threat to worry about, but I’ll deal with that later.
True to his word, just over five minutes later, we’re screaming down the runway about to takeoff for Belarus.
“Here we go…” I mutter to myself.
25
So, let me explain to you why I no longer like flying.
In the past week or so, I’ve been on more planes than I have in the ten years before that combined. I’ve never traveled via private jet before all this, and I’ll admit they are nice and comfortable. In another life, I could afford to buy ten of the damn things if I wanted. But the first plane I went on took me to New York, where I ended up jumping out of a window with terrorists shooting at me. Not the flight’s fault, I know, but the circumstances surrounding why I had to get on the plane led to me having a bad experience, so it’s all relative.
A CIA black ops squad hijacked the second plane, and I was taken to Colombia, where I was almost killed. Twice. Once by the CIA, and once by a cartel.
The third plane, I’ll admit, wasn’t actually too bad — got me home in one piece, but overall, after the first two, I think I could be forgiven for thinking flying wasn’t really the way to go.
Which brings us to my most recent flight… a private charter, flown by Jim Daniels — someone GlobaTech has apparently used in the past for things they don’t want to keep a record of.
We left a small airstrip in Pleasant View, Tennessee, and have flown for around ten hours until we passed over Minsk, which is the capital city of Belarus. At this point, the delightful Mr. Daniels announced we were about twenty minutes away from Gomel, which was where I was to meet the GlobaTech operative who would take me over the border, into Ukraine.
In keeping with the tradition of everything going against me nowadays, at this exact moment, the cockpit of the Cessna Citation 500 decided to explode. No warning, no explanation, no nothing. Just… gone. We were at a decent altitude, so I had a little bit of thinking time, but I admit, it was something of a shock.
The plane was blown in half and began plummeting vertically, and I was doing everything I could not to get sucked out of the damaged fuselage. But nevertheless, I managed to slide my bag over my arms and shoulders, at the front, against my chest, before getting the parachute out of the security compartment just outside of where the cockpit used to be, and putting it over my shoulders and onto my back. After a moment to compose myself and think about just how shitty my life has become, I crawled over to where the door used to be and rolled myself out of the flaming wreck that was once my airplane — something I’ve not done for many years, and even then, only a handful of times. Luckily, there’s not much skill to it. You quite literally step out of the airplane. Or, in this case, kind of flop out of it. Ideally, with a parachute attached to you.
Freefalling through the air, I counted to six and pulled the cord, deploying my ’chute and settling into a nice, almost peaceful glide.