Ridley Pearson - Killer Summer

His finger deciphered the dispenser’s front panel and he opened it, slipping his phone inside.

The challenge was to think like his uncle. For all he knew, these guys were planning a 9/11-style suicide flight into some skyscraper in Seattle or Salt Lake. Or maybe they were hijacking the Lear to pick up some criminal, like on Prison Break.

He relived all that he’d seen on his brief tour of the jet: a fire extinguisher next to the galley, knives and a corkscrew in the drawer, a flashlight above the toilet, a first-aid kit.

He assumed there would be cleaning supplies, possibly beneath the sink or in one of the larger drawers in the galley.

The wiry guy had taken down Summer with one hand. Kevin wasn’t going to let that happen to him. He’d seen enough movies to know the good guy never got a second chance. He’d get one shot, if he was lucky. He was Bruce Willis in Die Hard, Matt Damon in Bourne, Daniel Craig as 007. He had plenty of reference material to draw upon.

But could he actually stab a guy? He convinced himself not to think about it. Just do it, all the Nike ads told him.

One factor in his favor was the element of surprise. His Uncle Walt was not a hunter but was an expert marksman and one of the best trackers in the country. Kevin had been on overnights with Walt when he would locate an animal or herd and then see how long and how far he could stay with them. Hours, sometimes days, and many, many miles. What he’d learned on those outings came less from watching his uncle track-although he picked up some pointers-and more from the late-night stories told around the campfire. It was then that Walt had talked about Kevin’s father. And he learned about the use of the element of surprise.

Remaining hidden made him feel like a coward. What would Bruce or Matt or Daniel do?

He pictured himself going through each motion. Then, with some sixth sense alerting him, he sneaked a peek out into the plane’s main compartment.

The wiry guy was coming up the aisle straight for him.

Trapped, Kevin thought it better to show himself than to surprise a guy like that.

He reached to push the partition back just as the creep stopped and opened one of the window shades that was pulsing yellow and orange. The man pushed his face against the window, turned around, and ran toward the cockpit, shouting, “WE’RE ON FIRE!”

Kevin slid open the partition. He climbed down into the galley, his back to the emergency exit. The door’s small window revealed the source of the guy’s anxiety: the engine was on fire.

Kevin’s heart leaped into his throat.

He peered around the panel to see Summer looking back at him. Her face was blotchy. He wasn’t sure she saw him. She was staring off into space. She seemed to be in shock.

He undid the clasp that secured the fire extinguisher and pulled the ring pin. To him, it felt like pulling the pin on a hand grenade. Time began counting down in his head.

If Kevin was going to take a run at the wiry guy, it was now or never.

What if he was the last line of defense between them and another 9/11? What if these guys planned a suicide dive into the Sun Valley Lodge or the wine auction? A guy once had tried to bomb the Cutter Conference. Anything was possible.

The cabin went dark, and the jet banked to the left. His eyes adjusted to the green glow from an LED on the flashlight.

His inner ear crackled, telling him the plane was descending rapidly.

He had to get himself strapped into a seat. He had no choice about that. He raised the fire extinguisher, rounded the corner, and charged.

The guy, facing forward, was swearing a blue streak at the top of his lungs. The pilots didn’t seem to hear him. Kevin continued down the aisle. The guy looked much bigger up close, strong and dangerous. He had a birthmark or tattoo on the side of his neck.

“Ahhhhh!” Kevin shouted.

The guy’s head came around, his hands lifting defensively.

Kevin pulled the trigger.

It took Walt three minutes to reach Sun Valley Aviation. Pete was already there, speaking to a woman that a counter plaque identified as REBA.

“No kids,” Pete said as Walt entered. “Just a flight crew of three.”

“T-A-nine-five-nine?” Walt said.

“Yes,” the woman said. Her upper lip was moist. “It wasn’t the same flight crew that flew it in, but that’s not all that unusual.”

“Video?” Walt said, pointing to a camera high in the corner.

She led them into the back office, where a dedicated computer screen showed four camera angles. It took her only minutes to match a time stamp on the fuel receipt with the time stamp on the video and play back the images of the flight crew.

The first two guys wore crew caps down low, obscuring their faces. The third guy wore a baseball cap backward, and managed to stay off camera most of the time. Finally, he happened to look up.

“That’s Salvo,” Walt said.

The receptionist froze the image. Matthew Salvo was looking right at the camera.

“And Salvo is…?” Pete said.

“A person of interest,” Walt answered.

Cantell was no longer after the wine. He’d stolen Sumner’s private jet worth seventeen million dollars.

“I want to confirm T-A-nine-five-nine is not on this ramp,” Walt said.

He walked briskly to the FBO’s door and pushed out into the cool evening air, taking in the large number of jets and the gaping hole in the back line where Reba was pointing.

“See?”

But Walt didn’t see. His eyes were fixed on the beat-up Subaru parked outside the chain-link fence.

Aspray of noxious yellow powder huffed from the fire extinguisher’s nozzle, coating the man’s face. Kevin swung the extinguisher at him, striking him with the butt end in a roundhouse blow that sounded like a ripe melon hitting concrete. The man went down, bouncing off one of the seats and convulsing to the carpet.

Freed, Summer kicked the man twice, before Kevin pulled her away and wrapped her in his arms.

The pilots, consumed with the complexities of landing a damaged jet, were unaware of anything going on in the back.

Kevin and Summer stood there several long seconds, their uncertain faces flashing green and orange, frozen in place, unable to speak.

Kevin finally blurted out, “We’ve got to get buckled. This thing’s going down.”

“His cap,” she said, bending down and feeling around in the dark. She found it and handed it to Kevin. “In case they look back here…”

Kevin moved the man so his legs didn’t stick out in the aisle. Summer took her seat again, while Kevin donned the cap backward and sat in the unconscious man’s seat. Facing toward the back of the plane meant the pilots wouldn’t see his face, if they bothered to check.

Kevin glanced over at Summer in the inconsistent light and caught her looking back at him inquisitively. He had no answers for her, wondering if he should make a move for the galley’s knife drawer. But the jet was losing altitude fast, wobbling as if dangerously out of control.

White light washed the cabin when the landing lights came on at the last moment. Kevin bent forward and grabbed his knees. Summer followed suit.

In a flash of absolute certainty, he knew what came next. It was as if his uncle were telling him what to do. He signaled Summer, motioning aft and to the left, to the emergency door.

She nodded.

He pointed at her.

You go first.

She nodded again.

Progress, he thought. Now, the knife, the flashlight, the phone-in that order- while we’re still moving.

He and Summer could do this.

The Learjet landed hard, bounced, bounced twice more, then shook hard as if about to break apart.