Flight to Destiny (A Samantha Starr Thriller, Book 2) Page 4

  “Howdy, Sam, or should I say, Your Knightship?” He bowed and grinned.

  I smiled. “Cut the crap, Bart. It’s good to see you.” I handed him my helmet and glanced around the empty room.

  “Someone took a shot at me on my way here. I can’t guarantee they won’t come looking for me. Would you rather book another flight instructor?”

  Bart reached below the counter and pulled out a Remington semiautomatic shotgun.

  “I can handle my end of things. No need to leave.”

  “Alrighty. Matt says hello. He’s arranging for armed men to meet me when I return from the lesson. Ask them for the code words, Danger Magnet.”

  Bart laughed. “I love your brother’s sense of humor, even in tense situations. His twin acts the same way.”

  “Yep, they’re a barrel of laughs. So where’s the student with the big emergency?”

  “Well, now, here’s the thing. He has a private pilot license and way too much money.”

  “Let me guess, he bought an airplane that exceeds his piloting ability by a country mile, and he’s too rich and arrogant to accept his limitations. Sounds like a dangerous guy.”

  “Now don’t go gettin’ your panties in a bunch. I convinced him to take spin training with you so he doesn’t kill himself when he plays fighter pilot.” Bart hesitated and cleared his throat.

  “Uh, there’s one other thing. Sometimes he freezes on the controls in sticky situations. I had to punch him in the face once. Almost broke his jaw. He’s afraid to fly with me now.”

  “Geez, Bart. I thought we were friends. What the hell?”

  “Sam, I wouldn’t have asked you to train him if I thought for one second you couldn’t handle him. Besides, I knew you’d get a major charge out of flyin’ his airplane. Truth be told, we’re all wanna-be fighter pilots at heart.” He grinned and winked.

  “He’s waitin’ by his airplane right out there.” Bart pointed out the window.

  A shiny black Italian-built SIAI Marchetti SF260, like the one in the Bond movie, Quantum of Solace, glistened on the tarmac in the bright sunshine.

  A middle-aged man of average height and thinning hair stood next to the fighter/attack/trainer airplane. He wore a gray flight suit with important-looking patches sewn on the upper front and sleeves. The one-piece jumpsuit was unzipped halfway down his chest, revealing three heavy gold chains on bare skin.

  I focused on the airplane. “Do I see machine guns mounted on the hard points under the wings?”

  “Yep, he spent a fortune on that airplane,” Bart said. “A U.S. senator buddy helped him get the permits so he could keep the wing-mounted guns. It’s that plane from the 007 movie. He bought two thousand acres in Southern Florida so he can play military pilot and blast away at ground targets. I figured you’d want in on that deal.”

  “You figured right. Sign me up.” I headed for the door. “Come out and introduce me.”

  A few minutes later, we stood by the sleek Italian fighter known as the Ferrari of reciprocating engine aircraft. Underneath the glass canopy, side-by-side seats featured dual controls with sticks. Unlike most airplanes, the instrument panel was designed for the pilot to fly from the right seat with the copilot or instructor pilot on the left side.

  Bart turned to me. “Sam, meet your student, Grant Garrison.” He looked at the man. “Grant, this here’s Samantha Starr. She’ll give you spin training.”

  “I saw you on TV. You look even better in person.” Grant ran his eyes over my curves and paused a bit too long on my breasts. “Whoa, Bart, how am I supposed to concentrate on flying with a gorgeous babe like Samantha sitting next to me?” He flashed his million-dollar smile at me.

  “You’re not a playboy when you’re on my clock. I expect you to obey rule number one of Sam’s flight instruction.” I looked into his eyes with a don’t-mess-with-me frown.

  He stopped grinning. “What’s rule number one?”

  “Never touch the flight instructor.”

  “Any other rules?”

  “If I tell you to do something in the airplane, do it immediately and ask questions later. Handle the controls as if you’re playing a rare Stradivarius or making love to a sensitive and delicate lady. In other words, learn to have what is known in the pilot world as good hands. That pretty much covers it.”

  “So, if I’m good in bed, I’ll be a good pilot?”

  “You can learn to apply the same skills to flying, but there’s a vast difference between thinking you’re good in bed and being good in bed. I’ll know the truth as soon as I see how you handle the airplane.” My smug smile warned him he couldn’t fool me.

  Grant looked worried. “Damn, Bart, what are you trying to do to me?”

  “I’m tryin’ to keep you alive so you can enjoy your new toy. Swallow your pride and do what the lady says.” Bart nodded in my direction, turned, and walked to the building.

  “One more thing, Bart said your wing-mounted weapons are operational. Is that true?”

  “Don’t worry, I have federal permits for them. My firing range is southwest of here.”

  “Great, but the weapons aren’t loaded now, are they?”

  “I keep the system fully loaded, but there’s no danger of accidental firing. The arming switch has a safety cover. I’ll show you where it is.” Grant pointed at it.

  We did the preflight inspection, climbed aboard, closed the canopy, and taxied out for the engine and control checks before takeoff. During the takeoff run and climb, it became obvious Grant was no Don Juan in the boudoir.

  He yanked back on the stick, and the Marchetti leaped into the sky at too steep an angle. He over-corrected with forward stick, and my body rose up against the five-point harness. The turn away from the traffic pattern felt jerky and abrupt. I noticed his fingers had turned white from his firm grip on the stick.

  “I have the airplane.” I took my control stick and rudder pedals as Grant released the controls on his side.

  Flying the airplane gave Grant a break and distracted me from the SUV incident.

  “Sit back and relax while I fly us to the practice area. If you’re tense on the controls, the airplane will respond stiffly. Close your eyes and pretend you’re a world champion Formula One driver. Every move you make in your race car is accomplished with a smooth, fluid motion as you finesse your way around the race course. The car becomes an extension of your body as you speed over the pavement and hug the corners.” I watched his face as the tension melted away.

  He smiled and opened his eyes. “I feel calmer. What would you like me to do now?”

  “We’re at 4,500 feet, so we have plenty of recovery room if you mess up. I’d like you to practice turning right and left so smoothly that I won’t be able to feel the turns.”

  I surrendered the controls to Grant and closed my eyes. “Don’t forget to check for traffic before you turn. Start with shallow-banked turns. Increase the bank angle after you get the feel of it. Remember to ease back the stick to maintain altitude in the turns.”

  I tried to focus on the sensations transmitted to my body by the airplane’s movements and forget about the men hunting me.

  Mike’s SEAL buddies will protect me.

  I felt the familiar vibrations at the moment of stall from loss of lift, opened my eyes, and watched the nose fall through the horizon. The monoplane entered a spin to the left.

  The ground spun beneath us as we corkscrewed downward at 1500 feet per minute. My student froze with a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. Every second brought us closer to death.

  I pulled the throttle back to idle. Unable to wrest the controls from him, I employed my virtual sex flight instruction method.

  I slid my right hand along the inside of his left thigh—better than dying or stabbing him with my great-great-grandmother’s giant hat pin—and yelled, “Grant, stop! You’re squeezing me (the control stick) too hard, and I’m falling off the bed. Quick, let go and stretch out your right foot (full right rudder) to catch me. Good. Place
your feet on either side of me (neutral rudder). Much better. Relax your hands. Good. Slide your left hand up over my right breast (full throttle) and pull me close to you with your right hand (stick back). Ummm, much better.”

  We were out of the spin and regaining altitude. Disaster averted with no bloodshed.

  I glanced at Grant. His mouth and eyes were wide open.

  I squeezed his knee. “Level off here and throttle back to cruise power.”

  “What happened? I remember tensing up when the airplane stalled. Must’ve passed out. I dreamed we were having sex.” He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants.

  “It wasn’t a dream. You froze on the controls during a spin. I had to do something drastic, or we would’ve died.” I pulled out a large antique hat pin from my bag. “If my virtual sex method had failed, you’d have been screaming and pulling this out of your thigh.”

  He looked horrified.

  “Hey, it’s better than our airplane becoming a dirt dart.”

  “Damn, woman, I hope you never have to stab me with that thing. Sex talk is a much better way to go.” Grant leaned away from my hat pin against the right siderail.

  “Relax, Grant, I only stab students as a last resort.” I gave him a friendly jab with my right elbow. “I’d hate to get blood on the Italian stallion.”

  He grinned, straightened, and puffed out his chest. Then he looked confused and turned to me. “I’m not Italian.”

  “I’m talking about the airplane.”

  “Oh.” He slumped down.

  I checked my watch. When would the security team arrive at the airfield? “Don’t worry, we’ll practice stalls, spins, and recoveries until you overcome your fears and feel comfortable with the maneuvers.”

  I put the hat pin in the map compartment.

  Grant covered his left thigh with his hand. “First, I think we should deal with my fear of giant hat pins.”

  A muscular man in his thirties walked into the flight school and smiled. “Good afternoon, my name’s Rick Brown. I’m interested in flying lessons. What kind of airplanes do you use?”

  Bart moved from behind the counter and extended his hand. “I’m Bart Branson. I own the place. We use four-seat Cessna Skyhawks for primary instruction. Are you looking to get a private pilot license?”

  “Yes, but I have some questions. Which side does the student sit on?”

  “Licensed pilots normally sit in the left seat, so that’s where the student sits to get used to it.”

  “I’d like to see what the trainers look like. Can you show me one?”

  “See that blue-and-white high-winged airplane over there?” Bart turned to a window and pointed at a Skyhawk parked about sixty yards to the right on the ramp.

  Rick snuck behind Bart and clubbed him on the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. After Bart collapsed, Rick dragged him behind the counter and zip-tied his hands behind his back. He stepped over Bart and scanned the flight lesson schedule until he found the entry for Sam’s lesson with Grant in the Marchetti.

  Three burly men joined Rick in the flight school.

  “Good thing we’ve been monitoring her calls all week. She’s here, teaching a student in his SF260, whatever that is. They’re due back in five minutes,” Rick said to the men.

  “I’ll google it. We need to know what the airplane looks like.” He tapped it into his smartphone. “Here’s a picture of it.” He held it out for the men to see.

  Sam’s voice came over the UNICOM frequency on the radio behind the counter. “Marchetti Two-Six-Zero-Golf-Golf is on short final for Runway Two Seven.”

  Since the airport lacked a control tower, the flight school monitored the radio frequency used by all the air traffic at their uncontrolled airport. The pilots announced their positions and intentions so that everyone could operate safely in an uncontrolled environment.

  Rick pointed at one of the men. “Get the SUV and be ready to pick us up on the flight side. She’s landing now.”

  He racked the slide on his silenced pistol and waited by the window. The two men behind him did the same.

  “I’ll shoot her in the right shoulder. We’ll leave after we confirm I hit her.” Rick watched the Marchetti taxi to the parking ramp near the flight school.

  I scanned the ramp as Grant taxied from the runway. Where were the men Matt had promised? Maybe they were luxuriating in the cool air inside the flight school.

  “Grant, I’m expecting a security team to meet me here. Approach slowly and park well back from the building, just in case.” I strained to see inside.

  “Just in case what? Why do you need a security team?” Grant looked worried.

  “On my way to the airport, someone shot at me. They didn’t follow me here, but I want to be prepared anyway. Just in case.”

  “Are they your security people?” Grant pointed at three men exiting the flight school as he shut down the engine.

  The lead man drew his weapon and fired. The bullet pierced the Plexiglas windshield and slammed into Grant’s right shoulder.

  I started the warm engine, pushed in the throttle, turned away from the building, and aimed for an open area west of the main ramp.

  “I’m bleeding. The bastard shot me! Sonofabitch, my windshield!” Grant’s face was ashen.

  The gunmen jumped into a SUV and raced after us.

  “Grant, I hope to hell your wing guns really work!” I lifted the safety cover and armed the weapons.

  I looked over my shoulder, spun the airplane into firing position, and peppered the SUV with bullets. They swerved, and I kept turning so the guns would remain on target. The firing angle was only a few feet above the ground, but it was good enough to destroy their tires and hit the gas tank.

  The men jumped out the far side of the vehicle moments before it exploded. I turned on the radio while I waited for their next move.

  “Sam, Team Danger Magnet has arrived. Hold fire while we flank the shooters. Acknowledge.”

  “Roger, Team Danger Magnet, hurry! Marchetti will hold fire. Call for paramedics. My student is wounded.” I looked back at the flight school and saw a black Hummer racing toward the burning SUV.

  Grant’s face was pale and sweaty, and blood soaked his shirt. I pulled off my shirt and folded it into a square to press against his wound.

  He looked at my bra through dilated eyes. “Nice.” He passed out.

  The gunmen were left with no cover and surrendered to the team in the Hummer. I secured the Marchetti’s weapons and taxied to the flight school.

  A fire truck and an EMT vehicle rounded the building as the propeller stopped turning. I secured the cockpit and waved to the paramedics.

  Soon Grant was on a stretcher with an IV bag plugged into him. He woke and looked at me.

  I stroked Grant’s hair. “I’m so sorry you got hurt, but thank God your badass airplane saved our lives. I’ll pay for the damage.” I kissed his cheek.

  “That was my first time in combat. You were so calm.” Grant’s voice was weak.

  “Probably because I experienced plenty of combat in Scotland two months ago. Besides, I always remain calm in dangerous situations when my brain defaults to airline-pilot mode.”

  The paramedics loaded him into the truck and drove away. I turned and faced Bart and six military-looking men. The prisoners were cuffed and corralled against the Hummer nearby.

  I saw blood on Bart’s shirt. “Are you okay?”

  “Just a goose egg on the back of my noggin. Shouldn’t have let him get the jump on me.” He rubbed his head.

  I smiled at the team. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming to my rescue.”

  “You made our job easy, pinning them down with those wing-mounted weapons. Matt didn’t mention you’d be armed with heavy artillery.” A team member grinned.

  “My brother didn’t know about the Marchetti’s guns.”

  A tall dark-haired man stepped forward. “I’m Tim Goldy, team leader. We’re waiting for the FBI to arrive and take custody of the kid
nappers. Notice I said kidnappers so the feds will have jurisdiction.” He winked. “I suggest you go inside and get a nice new T-shirt from Bart, not that I’m not enjoying the view.”

  The mid-afternoon heat, fire fight, and explosion had jarred me into forgetting I was shirtless. My body still vibrated from fear.

  I was in too much shock to be embarrassed, and my floral satin bra resembled a bikini top anyway.

  Now that the shooters were in custody and Grant was in good hands, I craved a big glass of Opus One with a chocolate truffle.

  Three

  Two days had passed since my encounters with the gunmen. After double-checking the exterior doors and windows in my Palm Beach condo, I sat up in bed with a Joseph Badal thriller on my lap and a Glock 26 under my pillow. Was Nicolai coming for me?

  The Bonnie Banks O’ Loch Lomond rang out on my cell. Ross was calling.

  “Sorry, lass, I was out on a mission and just got your messages. Are you all right?”

  I gave him an update. “The kidnappers refused to talk to the FBI, but they were overheard arguing about shooting the wrong person. The shooter expected me to be in the right seat where instructors sit on most training flights.”

  “Sounds like he aimed to wound, not kill. Is your student expected to recover?”

  “Grant will be fine, no permanent damage. He’s already bragging to his buddies about his aviation combat experience.”

  “I doubt real combat pilots, like your brother Matt, would appreciate that.”

  “No kidding! There’s an old aviation saying: Piloting a fighter does not a fighter pilot make.”

  “Aye, so true. Now what about the man who hired the shooters? Have they identified him?”

  “Yesterday, my attackers were being transferred to a federal prison when their transport vehicle was forced off the road. A heavily armed assault team shot the guards and escaped with three prisoners. The man who shot Grant was left behind with a double tap to the heart and head.”

  “Whoever hired him doesn’t tolerate mistakes. Nicolai or Sweetwater may have been behind the attack.”