Irene was paralyzed with fear. She couldn’t even bring on a scream when Cherries turned to her. Irene took a step back, her hand shielding her mouth.
Cherries still held the gun. “I need assurances,” she said smoothly.
Irene’s voice cracked. “A-Assurances?”
Cherries stepped closer. “Can you assure me that Brad English is dead.”
Irene nodded dully. “Please. Yes. He’s dead.”
“You saw his body?”
“Yes. Your people asphyxiated him. I rolled him in a blanket and burned the remains.”
The girl’s expression revealed nothing. “My people?”
“Yes. The Colombian drug cartel. They came to recover the cocaine. They killed Brad.”
Cherries remained stoic. “Over one shipment? One shipment means nothing to my people. Not worth the effort.”
Irene felt blind-sided. “But who then?”
Cherries pursed her blood-red lips and turned. “Primo. He was the one who sent the mercenaries.”
Irene’s knees buckled. She was still alive and she watched the girl stride back toward the Casino. The gun still in her hand.
Irene didn’t check on Toby. The pool of blood that haloed his head was enough and she diverted her eyes. Irene moved around to the boarding-steps and sat with her head between her knees.
A moment later, she pulled out her phone. “Linda. Where are you?”
“Just headed back. I got what I needed.”
“Change of plans,” Irene said. “We’re getting outta here.”
“What? Now? But how?”
“I’m at the airstrip. Meet me. We’re taking the Gulfstream.”
Irene went aboard and made her way forward to the flight-deck. She got herself positioned in the left-hand seat and hit the breakers. The instrument panel glowed. She checked fuel, hydraulics and the computers, then her watch. Where the hell was Linda?
She double checked the brakes and went back outside to pull the chocks from the wheels. She was ready to fly, but still no Linda. Back in the cockpit, Irene checked fuel pressure and hit the ignition switches. One engine caught and then the second. She revved up. Everything was good and she dropped the brakes and the executive jet rolled forward into the sunshine.
Irene taxied to the end of the runway, reapplied the brakes and waited.
She saw the golf-cart and her world tumbled. There were three people huddled under the canopy. Irene went back to drop the boarding-steps.
“Going somewhere?” Scirocco held a gun in Linda’s ribs. “I hope your itinerary includes a stop in the Cayman Islands.”
He was trying to sound like a tough guy but there was no deigning he was rattled. His skin looked sallow and he was sweating like a pig. He had lost his suit jacket and his tie hung loose. Not at all the Charlie Scirocco Irene knew. Sandro stood behind with a metal case in each hand.
Irene didn’t argue. “Cayman? Sure. Thanks from bringing my co-pilot.”
Scirocco looked surprised. “You fly?” he asked Linda.
Linda nodded weakly.
Scirocco lowered the gun. “Son of a bitch. So why did I hire this old broad.” Linda wasn’t about to tell him. She un-shouldered the backpack she carried. “Okay,” Scirocco said. “Let’s get the fuck outta here. The sooner we’re in the air, the better.”
Irene and Linda went forward. “You’re computer in there?” Irene pointed to Linda’s backpack. When Linda nodded, Irene pointed to a small locker. “Put it there and jam some towels around it.”
“We expecting rough weather?” Linda asked.
“With a bit of luck. Now belt in and tell me what the hell happened?”
“Not exactly sure,” Linda shouted over the sound of the engines. “There was some kind of commotion in the lobby of the Casino. Scirocco spotted me and I had to tell him I was with you. They grabbed the cases and forced me into the golf-cart.”
Irene pulled on the headset. “Here we go.” And she notched the throttle controllers forward. The pitch of the engines increased and Irene released the brakes. The executive jet sprang forward and a moment later, leapt to the air. “Figure out a course to Cayman and punch the coordinates into the nav-computer.” Irene pulled back on the yoke and the plane lifted effortlessly. She leveled off at thirty-eight thousand feet and let the autopilot take over.
Irene gave it a few minutes for the plane to steady before releasing her seat-belt. “I best go see how the passengers are doing.”
Irene made her way back and looked along the center aisle. Sandro sat opposite the door looking pale and fitful. He was stiff, unmoving, like any shift in his weight would throw the plane into the ocean. His eyes were locked on the seat in front. He sat on the aisle, clearly afraid of the window seat where he might chance to look down. He was deathly afraid.
In the rear, Scirocco was pacing. Desperately trying to get his cell phone to work.
“You look like you could stand a drink,” Irene leaned over and noticed that Sandro was still strapped into his seat. “Scotch?”
“God, please. A big one.”
Irene found a bottle in the service area, filled a tumbler and took it back to him. “Here.” She put the glass into his hands and parked her buttocks on the armrest opposite. “You okay? You look like a heart attack.”
Sandro held the glass of scotch in two hands and was sucking at it like a baby-bottle.
Irene eyed the two metal cases parked on the floor near the door. “What are you hauling?”
Sandro paused mid-gulp and jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Enough money to keep him happy for a lifetime. But it won’t be enough. Never is for guys like him.”
“So what happened? I’ve never seen Scirocco rattled.”
“What a mess.” He paused to catch his breath after another long draw on the glass.
Sandro didn’t look up but the scotch was helping. At least he was breathing again. “What a fuckin’ mess,” he repeated. “We had just stepped off the elevator, Scirocco and the bodyguard. I was in back. The elevator doors opened and she was standing there waiting for us. Christ, she couldn’t have been more than fifteen. She wiggled her little tushie at the guard and he just grinned. She shot him in the face. Bang! Just like that. The ass never even reached for his gun.
“She killed him?”
“Oh yeah. Big time. And then she swung on Scirocco. Luckily he had the dog. Brutus went for her, knocked her down, even. But she was quick. She shot Scirocco’s dog, for christ-sake. We scrabbled back into the elevator and called security to get us out of the building.”
“And you ran into Linda and she told you I was waiting with the plane.”
“Yeah. Anymore scotch?”
“Shall I bring the bottle?”
“Maybe an idea. Can’t stand these fuckin’ small planes. I feel like the walls are closing in.”
Irene went forward and got the bottle.
“Anything else I can get you?”
Sandro took the bottle. “Sure. How ’bout a blow-job. That always makes me feel better.”
Irene stiffened. The man’s impertinence was beyond belief but Irene needed to get him out of his seat-belt. “Sure. I could do that for you. Slide over so I can sit down.”
Sandro immediately forgot he was thirty-eight thousand feet above the deepest part of the Caribbean Sea. “You will?” He brightened.
“If that’s what you need.”
Sandro fumbled with the buckle on the seat-belt.
Irene reached down. “Here let me.” And she patted the front of his suit trousers before easing the catch open. “Slip next to the window and make some room.”
He pushed the seat-belt aside and slid across. Irene slipped into his vacated seat and reached across to squeeze his penis. “How about pouring me a drink first?”
Sandro smiled. “Go grab yourself a glass, sweetie.”
Irene ran forward, straight across the service area and ducked through the bulkhead door. “You buckled in?”
“Yes,” Linda shot back noting the urgency in Irene’s voice. “What’s happened.”
Irene jumped into her seat, glad of the five-point harness designed to keep her in place no matter what. “Hold on!”
Irene jammed the controllers forward and twisted the yoke. The left wing dipped and she threw the plane into a high-speed barrel roll. Alarms started screaming and Linda yelped as she saw the horizon dizzily spin end over end. The blast of noise from the back sounded like a beer truck going over the edge of a cliff.
The plane leveled but Irene wasn’t taking any chances. Two more screeching barrel rolls followed with the engines shrieking for relief. As soon as Irene had the plane on an even keel she hauled back on the yoke. With the throttles wide open, the jet took off like a lunar mission from Cape Canaveral. She climbed to forty-five thousand feet, did two loops, back to back, and threw the plane into a screaming nose-first dive. Linda, with eyes still jammed tightly closed, folded her arms to keep them from flailing about.
Something, sounding like a bag of cement, hit the bulkhead behind Irene’s head. “I hope that was Sandro,” she shouted.
Irene drove the plane toward the churning water, as close as she dared, before pulling up. She grabbed her radio mike. “Mayday– Mayday– Any station. This is November-two-seven-six-Alpha. I’m going down. Mayday…”
Irene banged the mike against the console, hard, several times, then switched the radio off.
“Christ!” Linda was breathing again. “You could have killed us.”
“I hope I killed somebody,” Irene retorted with a bitter laugh. “We’ll have to go back and find out.”
Linda was watching the ocean waves that were cresting just below the wings. “Why so low? You’re freaking me out.”
“Sorry. Have to stay below the radar sweeps from Jamaica and Cayman. We’ll outdistance them shortly but for now I want to fly undetected.”
Linda began to see the logic in what Irene was doing. She had faked a plane falling from forty-five thousand feet into the ocean. There could be no survivors.
Irene slowed the plane and let the autopilot take over. “Let’s go back and have a look at the mess.”
Irene was right. It was a mess. Sandro lay arched over the back of a seat. His back was broken. In the rear of the plane, Irene found Scirocco laying on the cabin sole between the seats. Unbelievably he was still alive but very unconscious. Irene checked to see if Linda was watching. She wasn’t. Irene pinched Scirocco’s nostrils closed. It only took a moment.
“Help me pull him to the door,” Irene was struggling to drag Scirocco along the aisle by his heels. When she was satisfied, they rolled Sandro off the seat and got him next to his boss.
“I’ll go forward and fly the plane. When I’m ready, I’ll let you know over the intercom. You open the cabin door. You think you can manage it?”
Linda pushed sweaty hair from her eyes. “Just tell me when.”
Irene slowed the plane and it dropped close to the ocean. Flirting with stall speed and skimming a mere forty-feet above the waves, she hit the intercom. “Now Linda. Quickly.”
Linda slid back the door and ignoring the alarm, she tipped Sandro over the sill. Scirocco followed. Linda leaned out and watched the body cartwheeling down. There was a splash, water catapulting thirty-feet into the air and Scirocco disappeared beneath the deluge.