Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

What did Moran think, that there’d be a big white line painted on the ground, one side saying “America,” the other “Mexico” in big bold letters? It’s all desert out here. How in hell would I know when we crossed the border? But one thing was certain: Moran knew less about navigation than I did. He couldn’t read the compass either.

“No tricks. If we’re not in Mexico in an hour, your cute little partner is going to be a dead little partner.” Cocky old bastard; the gun that he held against Rita’s side gave him a sense of control.

Fishing around in a pouch attached to the door, I found an aeronautical chart. I unfolded it and held it up with one hand, pretending to examine it.

“Mountains ahead,” I said over my shoulder. “Might hit a few air pockets, some turbulence.” I brought the nose up and climbed steadily at several hundred feet per minute. One of Moran’s borax mines was below us now. I could see trucks coming and going, nothing unusual. We were about ten miles west of where we’d started.

I shouted again over my shoulder: “Right on course, Moran. Why don’t you take a little nap? I’ll wake you when we get there.”

“Funny, O’Brien. You’re a regular riot.”

After I got free of Moran-and a plan was unfolding in my mind-I wanted to be close to the facility. I for sure didn’t want to get lost out here in the middle of a billion square miles of desolate wasteland.

I glanced at Rita, who sat quietly with her back ramrod straight, her eyes opened wide. She was scared, and it was going to get worse. I wanted to let her know to be ready, but Moran’s eyes stayed fixed on me and he would have caught the gesture. I faced forward.

The Calico Mountains weren’t that tall, just a pile of gray granite and rocky ledges a few thousand feet above the ground. But when the hot wind racing across the desert floor hit the mountain slopes the air above them whipped into a turbulent fury. Susie had explained how turbulence was nothing to be afraid of-provided it wasn’t severe. But if I flew real close to the mountaintops, the little plane would be tossed about violently.

“Hang on, the wind is blowing hard. We’re going to hit turbulence.”

“Just get this goddamn plane to Mexico,” Moran snapped.

I headed straight for the small mountain range, aiming just below the top of the ridge.

A few heartbeats later we were close to Calico Peak, and just as I figured, the airplane rose, lifted by the upsurge of wind flowing up the mountain’s side.

At first the little plane just bounced in the air, like a boat in rough water. Then as we neared the peak, it got worse. The plane jumped and fell, whipped from side to side, dancing in a hard, violent rhythm with the wind. The left wing pointed toward the sky, then the ground. I thought it would roll. The nose lifted and we soared higher, pinning me in my seat, before dropping back in a freefall.

Moran was bellowing, but I couldn’t understand his words. The Cessna shook and shuddered, ten-point-zero on the Richter Scale, but we continued to move forward, bouncing furiously; I prayed that the wings wouldn’t rip off from the utter force. Then, a moment later, we shot up like an elevator and skimmed over the top of the mountain. In a matter of minutes we caught the downdraft on the mountain’s backside. We sank fast. My stomach jumped into my throat. The nose dropped due to the air current, but I pushed the yoke in some more. The wind roared over the wings, sounding like a hurricane.

The plane was almost vertical, speeding to the ground. We screamed down the face of the mountain for a couple of seconds, just long enough for Moran to fall forward, losing his equilibrium.

I eased back on the controls, the throttle and yoke, and the Cessna stabilized. We were through the worst of it, flying level now, five hundred feet above the ground.

“What the hell are you doing? You got too close to that goddamn mountain!” He struggled to get back in his seat.

I leaned forward.

“What’s going on? Why are you bending that way?”

I pulled the gun from my belt and put it in my lap. With my other hand, I reached down next to the seat and turned off the gas valve. Any second the engine would quit.

I held the Beretta low in my right hand, where Moran couldn’t see it.

The engine coughed once and quit. The silence was eerie.

“Goddammit! What the fuck!”

I slipped the gun barrel in the gap between the seat backs, turned, and faced Moran. Our eyes locked.

“We are experiencing a little momentary difficulty,” I said.

He swung the gun away from Rita. “Get the engine started, now! Goddammit! I’m going to blow your brains-”

I shot Moran in the head.

“Goddammit, Rita! Quit kicking theseat. I gotta get the engine started.”

Holding the yoke with one hand, I quickly reached down and flipped the gas valve to open with the other. The plane was losing precious altitude, gliding with the propeller windmilling, but almost instantly the engine caught.

The seat back jumped; Rita had kicked it. It jumped again-hard. “Hang on a minute. Let me get this thing under control.” Her muffled cries competed with the howl of the engine. But right then I had other things on my mind-like how to keep us from flying into the ground.

I added backpressure to the elevator control and the little plane, with its nose high, soared into the air. It climbed smooth and serene. It was as if the Cessna sensed that Moran was dead and no longer an infection festering in its belly.

I knew I wouldn’t lose any sleep over his death. The guy was evil, a greedy bastard, sacrificing others for his own gain. I did what I had to do to save Rita and myself from being killed, either during the flight or when we landed in Mexico. The only remorse I felt was that Moran wouldn’t stand trial and be punished for his crimes: kidnapping, torture, and murder, to name just a few. It seemed to me that he got off easy.

The seat thumped firmly against my back. Rita’s legs were like spring-loaded battering rams. I turned. She leaned forward; I hesitated, but only for a moment, then reached back and tore the tape from her mouth.

“Ouch! Damn , that hurt.” She squirmed and turned until her bound wrists were thrust toward me. “Here, untie me quick, Jimmy. I can’t stay back here with… him.” She nodded at Moran’s corpse slumped in the seat next to her, its head lolling to the side. He had died instantly, so only a small amount of blood trickled from the bullet hole that had replaced his left eye.

I trimmed the plane so that it would fly straight and level without too much effort from me. Fishing in the glove box, I found the small emergency kit: matches, beef jerky, and a hunting knife. I cut the cords binding Rita’s wrists.

One leg came over the seat back, exposing a lot of thigh, and then her fanny appeared. I tried not to gawk. Finally the rest of her followed. She plopped down in the passenger seat with a stern look on her face, as if trying to hold her dignity intact.

“What are you looking at?” she demanded. “Concentrate on the flying, buster.” She had a nice figure, but oh my, I’d never seen it from that angle before.

“Hey, were you scared?”

“Scared!” Rita exclaimed, her brown eyes flashing. “No, it’s been a picnic. I love being tied up with a big gun stuck in my ribs. And it’s so much fun flying around with a guy at the controls who’d ask such a stupid question.”

I tried to lighten it up. “Just another day in the life of an O’Brien Law Firm associate. An associate who wants to be a partner someday, I might add.”

“Don’t give me that crap. I had no choice, did what I had to do.”