Greg Iles - 24 Hours

Geautreau did; the number was correct.

“You cannot screw this up.”

“Don’t worry, Doctor. A pleasure doing business with you.”

Will hung up, threw the Tempo into DRIVE, and headed for the airport.

“Do you really think that will work?” Cheryl asked.

“I’m way past thinking.”

The sign beside the chain link gate read:

WELCOME TO GULFPORT-BILOXI REGIONAL AIRPORT PRESS INTERCOM BUTTON FOR APPROVAL AFTER GATE OPENS, PROCEED TO STOP LINE WAIT FOR GATE TO CLOSE BEHIND YOU

The sign on the gate itself read:

FAILURE TO STOP AND WAIT FOR GATE TO CLOSE IS PUNISHABLE BY A $10,000 FINE.

Will pressed the button on the post beside his window and waited.

“Good morning,” said a male voice. “Welcome to U.S. Aviation Corp. How can we help you?”

“This is Dr. Will Jennings. I flew in yesterday in Baron November-Two-Whisky-Juliet. I have a serious emergency. My daughter has been gravely injured in a traffic accident in Jackson, and I must get airborne as soon as possible.”

There was a brief delay. “Understood, Doctor. We are contacting the tower. Be advised that-”

The voice was drowned by the thunder of jet engines.

“Sorry. The Air National Guard has flight operations progress, and that might cause some delay. Please wait at the gate, and we’ll get back to you ASAP.”

Air National Guard operations. Will didn’t like the sound of that, but it explained all the activity in the sky as they had approached the airport.

“How long will they make us wait?” Cheryl asked.

“Shouldn’t be long. They do all they can to help you in an emergency.”

The speaker on the post squawked with a sound that made Will think someone had held a telephone up to a radio.

“Dr. Jennings, this is Gulfport Tower. We understand your situation and will do everything we can to expedite your takeoff. Please be advised that the Combat Air Readiness Training Facility is in the middle of a combined operations exercise. We have F-18 Hornets taking off from runway thirty-two, and Army C-130s landing on runway thirty-six. This is a timed exercise, and it cannot be stopped. However, we should have a brief window during which you can depart. We estimate that window to be eleven minutes from now.”

Eleven minutes. They could be halfway to Hazlehurst in eleven minutes. But he had to be careful. If he sounded too upset, they wouldn’t open the gate for him.

“I understand, Tower. I contacted ATIS by phone on the way in, and I have the wind conditions. I also have sufficient fuel to reach Jackson. What do you suggest?”

“When the gate opens, proceed to the white line and stop. An employee of U.S. Aviation Corp. will escort you to your plane and assist with your preflight walkaround. We’re sorry about your emergency, and will do all we can to expedite. When you reach your aircraft, contact us on 123.7.”

“Thank you, Tower. Much appreciated.”

The gate slid open.

Will pulled up to the white line and put his foot on the brake. He could see his Baron about seventy feet away, parked between a Bonanza and a KingAir.

“We just sit here?” Cheryl asked.

Eleven minutes. Evidence of military operations was all around them. The roar of the departing F-18s shook the nearby buildings like a hurricane, and two more of the sleek fighters were taxiing past only a hundred feet away, on their way to the primary runway. The Hornets lifted into the sky one after another, every thirty seconds. It was hard to believe there were enough fighters at the Gulfport airport to eat up eleven minutes doing this, but perhaps the tower intended to bring them back in just as fast. Will also saw two C-130 transports hanging in the sky to his right, preparing to land on the shorter, general aviation runway.

Ten minutes. He didn’t know exactly where he planned to go, but he needed to get there fast. There was no way Hickey was hiding inside the Jackson airport, as Zwick had suggested. Hickey would want to be moving toward the money. And whether he was bound for the cabin near Hazlehurst, the motel in Brookhaven, or the house near McComb did not matter. All three towns lay on a straight line south from Jackson. Hickey was almost certainly driving south on Interstate 55. At the speed limit, he could reach Hazlehurst in thirty-five minutes, and he could have left the Jackson airport up to twenty minutes ago. By flying northwest at max cruise-and factoring in a delay for automobile traffic in Jackon-Will could probably reach Hazlehurst before him, but it would be a matter of minutes, perhaps even seconds. How he would find Hickey and Karen-or Huey and Abby-once he got there was something he’d have to figure out on the way. What mattered now was getting airborne.

He looked toward the U.S. Aviation Corp. building on his right, but saw no one coming his way. “Listen,” he said to Cheryl. “When I give the word, I want you to get out of the car and follow me on foot.”

“Where are we going?”

“To my plane.” He pointed at the Baron. “It’s right over there. If I drive past this white line without permission, all hell will break loose. But if we just walk away, they may not notice a thing.”

“You go,” Cheryl said in a tight voice. “I’m staying here.”

“What?”

“You don’t need me!”

Will started to pull the Walther, but a simpler idea struck him. Cheryl would not separate herself from the money now. He took the briefcase off her lap, got out, and walked briskly toward the plane. Before he was halfway there, he heard the door of the Tempo slam, and the sound of running feet behind him.

“Change your mind?” he said without turning.

“You bastard.”

He opened the Baron’s double-wide door, tossed the briefcase between the cabin seats, then turned and helped Cheryl into the plane. She slid between the aft-facing seats and settled into the righthand seat up front. Will sat down in the left seat, scanned the control panel, then switched on his avionics and started his engines. The twin Continentals rumbled to life with reassuring ardor.

“What’s that?” asked Cheryl.

A high-pitched sound was cutting through the engine noise. A siren. Will looked up and saw a boxy airport security vehicle bearing down on them, its red light flashing.

“Shit.” He throttled up and pulled forward before the guard in the Cushman could blockade the Baron in the line of parked aircraft. Turning right, he started down the taxiway that paralleled the general aviation runway. The Cushman was following, but it couldn’t hope to keep up with the rapidly accelerating airplane.

“Beechcraft November-Two Whiskey Juliet,” crackled the radio. “This is Gulfport Tower. You are in violation of FARs. Return to the ramp immediately.”

Will increased speed. He had thought he might take off from the taxiway, but he saw now that was impossible. A giant C-130 Hercules transport sat astride the taxiway ahead of him like an alien spacecraft, its four props slowly turning. He would have to taxi beneath the wing of the Hercules and turn onto the next taxiway, which intersected the main runway at 90 degrees.

“Baron Whiskey-Juliet,” said the tower, “you are endangering the lives of military aircrew and ground personnel. Cut your engines immediately.”

Cheryl braced in her seat as they rolled toward the Hercules. The sight of the huge spinning props was sobering, but Will held his collision course.

“You’re going to hit it!” she shouted. “Stop!”

He swerved left, buzzed under the left wingtip of the C-130, then slowed for the turn that would carry him onto the next taxiway.

“Tower, this is Delta-Seven-One,” said the radio. “Who is that crazy son of a bitch?”