The first thing Lake had done when he bought the Gulf- stream was get the registration number changed and get it repainted, which guaranteed both that it would look different and would be out of sight until he needed it. He didn’t recognize the plane himself when they drove up to it, and he was about to question the driver when the chief of his security detail, a big, football-player tight-end-looking guy named Mantooth, emerged from it when the sedan pulled up..
The sedan stopped several yards away from the plane until it was quickly searched, then it pulled up right to the foot of the open airstair door. Mantooth stood in front of the sedan’s door, blocking the view of anyone from the main commercial air terminal, but he did not open it himself—‘Lake and Fell had to open their own doors. According to Mantooth, the bodyguards’ job was to stay on the lookout with their hands free to reach for their guns or subdue an attacker, not open doors or carry luggage. “Everything’s ready, Mr. Lake,” Mantooth said. “We’re ready to go.”
“Then let’s go,” Lake said and quickly stepped aboard the aircraft. The doors were closed as soon as Fell stepped aboard. The big, roomy VIP interior of the Gulfstream already made him feel safe, and the increasing snarl of the bizjet’s two big turbofans and the sweet, husky smell of jet fuel helped to soothe his jangled nerves. Lake met the ship’s stewardess, a brunette named Diane, who led him to the big, light-gray-leather, fully reclining master’s chair on the right center side, buckled him in, and fixed him a Bloody Mary as the jet began to move. Ted Fell busied himself at the desk behind Lake, checking that the phone and fax machine were working. “Forget all that, Ted,” Lake said. “No one is going to call or fax us — that stuffs not even hooked up.”
Fell looked at Lake as if he were surprised at his boss’s words; then, realizing he was right and that these phones had never been activated, fearing that Cazaux could easily find out about their escape plans that way, he averted his eyes to the richly carpeted floor and put his hands on his lap. “It… it doesn’t seem real,” Fell said. “We’re on the run. We’re never coming back.”
“At least not as long as Cazaux, Townsend, or Ysidro are walking the earth — which hopefully won’t be for too long,” Lake said. “Just think of it as an extended and very, very secluded vacation, Ted. We’ll start developing our offshore banking and brokerage ties in a year or so, making sure that everything is numbered and convoluted enough so no one can trace the trading activity to us. We’ll be back in the trading pits before you know it. Meanwhile we work on our tans while—” Just then the big Gulfstream came to a stop, the engines wound down to low idle power, and the intercom phone beeped. Fell reached for it, but Lake picked it up. “What’s going on…?”
“Orders from the tower, sir,” the pilot said. “Takeoff clearances have been canceled for all flights. They’re ordering everyone back to the ramp.”
“Why the hell are they doing that?”
“Don’t know, sir,” the pilot responded. “I don’t see any police activity.”
Lake knew why. He shot a murderous glare at Fell and said, “Damn it, Ted, the fucking FBI tracked us down.” “But how? I made the call from New York. No one knows about this plane or its location, Harold. Maybe we were followed from the city. What are we going to do?” “How the hell should I know? Let me think,” Lake said angrily. He searched out the large oval window near him, looking to see if any police were converging on them, but he was facing away from the main terminal. The Gulfstream was on the parallel taxiway approaching the end of the runway, with a United Airlines MD-80 the only plane ahead of them. On the intercom phone, Lake asked, “What are your instructions, pilot?”
“All aircraft were told to back-taxi on the runway back to their original locations, sir,” the pilot responded. “We’ll be back-taxiing shortly and be back on the ramp in about five minutes.”
“Are they blocking the runway?” Lake asked. There was a rather long, uncomfortable pause as the flight crew was obviously considering the possible ramifications of this question. Lake shouted, “Well… ?”
“No, sir, nothing is blocking this runway,” the pilot finally replied.
“Good. When that United Airlines plane gets out of the way, you will ignore all instructions from the tower and make the takeoff,” Lake said. “That’s an order.”
“Sir, I can’t follow an order like that.”
“If you don’t, I’ll come up there and shoot you in the back of the head,” Lake said as calmly and as truthfully as he could. He carried a gun, but he had fired it only once, several months ago, and wasn’t even sure if it was loaded. Mantooth, who was sitting in a seat near the airstair, heard Lake’s words but did not register any surprise at all — it looked as if it was okay with him if his employer shot the pilots.
“Then I hope you can fly this plane, sir,” the pilot said, “without a windshield. If you shoot or try to open the cockpit door, we’ll stomp on the brakes, bust open the wind-, screens, jump out, and run like hell.”
Lake obviously wasn’t very good at threatening anyone with bodily harm. “Okay, let’s try it this way,” Lake said. “Make the takeoff and I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars.”
“Fifty thousand,” the pilot immediately responded.
“Each,” the copilot chimed in.
“Carter, Luce, you boneheads are getting paid plenty to fly this machine — do as Mr. Lake instructs you, or I’ll shoot you myself,” a deep, menacing voice said behind them. It was the chief of the security company, the bodyguard named Mantooth. “Take your seat, Mr. Lake.”
“Are we taking off or not?”
“My job is to protect you, Mr. Lake,” Mantooth said. “You’re assuming it’s the FBI or some other law enforcement agency out there, but I’ve seen no evidence of that. This airfield has obviously been compromised — whatever’s going on, I think you’ll be safer in the air than on the ground. We’ll deal with the FA A later. Now sit down and strap in. And if there’s a problem, let me know — there’s no reason for you to talk to the pilots. Is that clear, Mr. Lake?” Lake was very unaccustomed to taking orders from anyone, but he could do nothing else but nod silently at the big bodyguard — he obviously knew what he was doing.
The Gulfstream moved up into the hammerhead, poised for takeoff as soon as the airliner ahead pulled off. Lake could just barely see the MD-80 leave the runway when the pilot lined the Gulfstream up on the centerline, spooled up the engines to takeoff power, and released the…
… but suddenly Lake could see a bright light shining on the wing’s leading edges and on the pavement beside his jet, and even before the pilot again chopped the power to idle, he knew they weren’t going to make it. On the intercom, he heard, “Emergency vehicles on the runway, sir. We’re blocked.”
Mantooth had drawn the biggest, meanest-looking automatic pistol Lake had ever seen from a shoulder rig, but Lake said, “Put it away, Mantooth, it’s the FBI out there. You have a permit for that, I assume?”
“Of course, Mr. Lake, but you’d better let me—”
“Put the gun in your holster and take off your jacket so they see your gun first thing,” Lake said. “Everyone stays. calm, everyone does as they’re told, no one resists, and no one, I repeat, no one says anything. Not a word. If they tell you you’re under arrest, you immediately say, ‘I want to speak with my attorney right now.’ Got it?” To the pilots behind the closed cockpit doors, Lake shouted, “Shut ’em down right here,” then he undogged the entry hatch.