John Gilstrap - Damage Control

Please, God, she prayed silently, deliver me from this place soon. Please make it end.

Even in the diminishing light, the heat remained oppressive as she scurried across her yard toward the front door. On Felix’s suggestion, she’d long ago taken out all the shrubbery from around the single-story structure, in theory eliminating places for attackers to lie in wait.

But dusk brought shadows-nature’s own hiding places.

As was her habit, she had her keys out for the entire walk, the longest of them-the one for the padlock on the security gate-extending between her fisted fingers. In the past few years, attacks against women-once unthinkable in Latin cultures-had skyrocketed. Thousands of rapes and murders, most unsolved because they were never investigated. The police knew who the offenders were, but to investigate would be to confirm those suspicions, thus prompting an arrest that would cost the police officer and his extended family their lives.

With her key deployed, an attacking rapist would have to sacrifice an eye to earn his prize. And after the first eye, his second one, and then whatever else she could destroy until the attack resolved itself one way or the other.

The wrought-iron gates over the door and the matching ones over her bulletproof windows had been Felix’s idea, as well. In fact, he’d had his own people install them. That was how much he cared for her. And while they gave her some sense of peace while inside, it always felt like too many locks while she was trying to get in.

Tonight, as her paranoia spiked beyond desperation, Maria’s hands trembled and made the operation of the keyway that much more difficult. Finally, with the massive padlock freed from its hasp, she pulled the hundred-pound gate away from the solid core door. Two more keys turned two more dead bolts, and then she could finally see into her home. She pulled the gate closed next, and slipped the padlock into a hasp on the inside that was protected from bolt cutters by a heavy steel plate.

With the door closed and those bolts thrown again, Maria allowed herself to relax just a little. With her hands pressed against the door, she leaned forward and touched her forehead to the cool wood. With her eyes closed, she tried to imagine what the future could be like for her if the FBI would only come to her aid. And how short it would be if they did not.

She’d given them so much. She’d fulfilled her promises, every one. Yet they always wanted one more. Maybe now Her head jerked up and her eyes shot open as she whirled to confront the darkness of the house.

“Who’s there?” she shouted.

“What do you think, Big Guy?” Jonathan whispered. “Is it airworthy?”

The three of them crouched in the undergrowth just on the edge of the makeshift runway. Ahead about fifty yards and to the left, a high-wing Cessna sat bathed in dim white light under a pole barn. It looked as if it was lighted by a single incandescent lightbulb. The rest of the area shone silver in the light of a nearly full moon.

“Does airworthiness really matter at this point?” Boxers asked. “One way or another, that’s what we’re flying out on, right?”

“Way to make the PC feel confident,” Tristan said.

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Boxers said. “I’ll be able to get it off the ground.”

“Yeah, but will you be able to land it?”

Boxers smiled. “Takeoffs may be optional-”

“-but landings are mandatory,” Jonathan finished. With his night vision in place, Jonathan could see the look of concern in Tristan’s face, and he slapped his knee. “We’re kidding, Tristan. We’ll be fine.” Say it with enough conviction and maybe it will come true.

“How do you want to handle it?” Boxers asked.

“You’re the pilot,” Jonathan said.

Boxers brought a night vision monocular to his eye and scanned the area more closely. “Well, I see a gas pump,” he said. “That’s a bit of good news. I’m not sure that a thorough preflight makes a lot of sense at this point, but we’ll want to make sure we have gas.”

“How long will take to fill it up?” Jonathan asked.

“Kinda depends on how empty the tank is and how fast the pump pumps.” Boxers’ tone said that he thought it was a stupid question.

For good reason, Jonathan thought. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do,” he said. “We’ll stay in the weeds until we’re even with the aircraft, and then we’ll move in.”

“Do you want me to stay here?” Tristan asked.

“No,” Jonathan said. “I want you to stick to me like a shadow. You should be able to see well enough in the moonlight.”

“Is your safety on?” Boxers asked. Jonathan heard the teasing in his voice, but Tristan evidently did not.

“Yes!” the kid hissed. “I’ve got the freaking safety on. I’ve never taken it off.”

“Just checkin’,” the Big Guy said.

Jonathan led them forward more quietly now. Clearly, they were in somebody’s yard, and the last thing he needed now was a blown cover. Whatever complication the bright moon threw at them was compensated for by the white light in the pole barn. The light was bright enough, in fact, that Jonathan pulled his NVGs out of the way to surveil the scene unassisted. The area beneath the pole barn looked like any other mechanics’ workshop. Chests of tools served as a surrogate wall on the far side-the western side-and there appeared to be a waste oil drum in the far southwest corner. The gas pump looked like something for a 1980s gas station, but with a long hose to accommodate the fill spout on the upper surface of the wing.

Jonathan’s stomach fell when he saw that the engine cowling was open. He pressed his mike button. This close, he was less likely to be overheard whispering loudly enough to be picked up by his ear mike than he was whispering loudly enough to be heard through the air. “Looks like they’re in the middle of a repair.”

“Movement,” Boxers said.

As the announcement registered in Jonathan’s brain, the Big Guy brought his weapon to his shoulder. Jonathan followed the line of sight and saw a twentysomething young man wandering through the night back toward the pole barn from the direction of the outhouse on the far side. He wore the uniform of kids the world over: T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops.

“I can take him,” Boxers whispered.

“Negative.”

The Big Guy’s rifle didn’t move as he turned his head to look at the boss. “Negative?” he said through the air. “Really?”

Left to his own devices, Boxers would cut a much wider path of destruction than Jonathan. You don’t kill an unarmed mechanic just because you need his airplane.

“What are we going to do, then?” Boxers asked.

“We’re going to negotiate.”

The Big Guy’s shoulders sagged. “Ah, shit. Talk is how little wars get big.”

Tristan asked, “Suppose he has a gun or something?”

“Yeah,” Boxers said. “Or something.”

Jonathan thought it through for a few seconds just to make sure his plan wasn’t stupid, and then he said, “Keep an eye out, and keep your sights on the mechanic. If a weapon appears in his hand, take him out.”

Tristan raised his own rifle to his shoulder.

“Put that down,” Boxers said. “And check the safety.”

“You stay with the Big Guy,” Jonathan instructed. “If there’s any shooting, hide behind him. He’s thicker than any tree.”

Boxers flipped him off.

Jonathan stood to his full height and started walking. He kept his NVGs on his head, but tilted up out of the way, and he kept his strides long and even. In a few seconds, the mechanic was going to see him coming, and if Jonathan kept his bearing just so, the kid would know that any aggressive move would be fatal. Those were the kinds of revelations that kept kids like him alive. He also took care to stay out of Boxers’ firing lane. It made no sense to have someone cover you from behind if you put yourself in the way of the covering fire.