Jackson Ford - Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air

“Right. You don’t know who anybody is.” I point to the crew. “That’s Africa. Reggie. Annie. Mia, who isn’t really part of China Shop but is kind of helping us out…”

“A pleasure.” He bows his head slightly. “China Shop… I assume this is the name of your spy outfit?”

Shit. I don’t think I mentioned our outfit’s name before. I should slow down.

His gaze lands on Reggie, who is still being carried by Annie. “You are hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m a quadriplegic – happened before the earthquake.”

“Dude,” I say to Schmidt. “Kind of a life or death situation here. Does your plane have power at all?”

He looks at the bright light coming from the open door, then back at me. “Yes.”

“You know what I mean. Do you have comms? Radio, sat-phone, anything like that?”

“Again, I believe we have discussed this before. There is limited local radio contact, and a satellite phone.”

It takes everything to stop my legs from just collapsing. Finally. Fucking finally .

“Perhaps this is a conversation best carried out on the plane.” He strides over to Reggie. “May I take you on board?”

“Annie can carry me.”

“Please, I insist.” To Annie, he says, “You must have been carrying her for some time. Allow me.”

“We’re fine. I’m fine.”

“My grandmother occupied a wheelchair for the last decade of her life. I am used to assisting in situations like this.”

“I’m not a grandmother,” Reggie mutters. But she lets Schmidt scoop her out of Annie’s exhausted arms.

“Mikhail!” he shouts. “ Wir brauchen hier Hilfe .”

I’m about to follow him when a sudden thought stops me in my tracks. I grab Mia’s arm – she’s mid-stride, not expecting it, and as a result nearly falls on her ass.

“He doesn’t know,” I hiss.

“What?”

“He doesn’t know about my ability. The psychokinesis.”

“Isn’t it telekinesis?”

“No – psycho . Trust me, I’ve been through that before. But look, I don’t have time to explain this right now, but he doesn’t know. And you cannot tell him.”

“Uh… sure.” She looks towards the plane, a strange look dawning on her face. “Wait – Jonas Schmidt?”

“Yep.”

“As in, the Jonas Schmidt?”

“Again, yep.”

“As in, CEO of—?”

“How many other Jonas Schmidts with private planes do you know?”

“Oh my God.” She tugs at a strand of hair, as if trying to neaten herself. “I follow him on Twitter! I—”

“Good for you.” I jog towards the stairs leading onto the plane, trying to bite down on a sudden burst of jealousy. Mikhail appears in the doorway, blinking in astonishment as he sees me. I flip him a salute.

“Thought you were planning to help out survivors and stuff,” I say, as I catch up to Schmidt.

“And we have been waiting to offer it. Our last radio contact with the National Guard was over six hours ago. They said they would be sending groups here. Gerhard and the others have gone to see if they can find any in the immediate area.”

“Nobody’s come through?”

“ Nein .” He ducks into the plane’s body. “It is of no consequence. We will remain at their disposal here, if we are required.” He lowers Reggie into a seat, barking more orders at Mikhail, who starts fetching pillows from around the cabin.

The inside of the plane is a mess. Empty food containers, a lot of beer bottles, a messy stack of what look like first aid kits. Blankets bundled up on the seats, as if Schmidt and company have been catching Zs when they can. From the snoring in the cockpit, it appears the pilot is doing just that. Annie and Africa have entered behind me, and Mia is goggling at the luxurious cabin.

“You get used to it.” I say to her, like it’s no big thing.

“Thank you,” Reggie says, as Mikhail props a pillow under her head. “Herr Schmidt: your satellite phone, please.”

Schmidt looks over at me. Again, like he’s weighing up whether or not to trust us. Then he nods, spitting a barrage of instructions at Mikhail. In a few moments, the bodyguard is pressing a chunky sat-phone into Reggie’s hand. I feel like there should be angelic choirs right now. Maybe Schmidt will let me dick around with the plane’s sound system…

With Schmidt’s help, Reggie manages to get the sat-phone working. A few minutes later, a crackly, monotone voice that reeks of government spook shit says, “Operator.”

“Department H-2,” Reggie says.

“Clearance?”

“A-409-D77.”

“Party?”

“Goldfinch.”

Goldfinch? I mouth at Reggie. She ignores me.

Whatever. We did it. We fucking did it. The government can take over, and I can go to sleep for a very, very long time.

“Connecting you,” the operator says.

Reggie looks up at Schmidt. “As grateful as I am for your hospitality, I’ll need some privacy. What I have to discuss with my commanding officer is some way above top secret.”

Schmidt nods. “Of course. I will see to refreshments.”

Booze. Yes. Booze good. Then a very comfortable leather seat, and a thick blanket. Those things good too.

“I’ll come help,” I say.

“That is really not necessary.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. The less I have to hear the voice of Goldfinch , the better. Besides, I want to make sure you aren’t hiding any more of that amazing champagne.”

Africa and Mia move to follow, but Reggie calls after them. “Mia, you stick around. You may need to tell our boss what you told us.”

“Um… OK? I don’t how much help I can—”

“I need you to explain your data. You stay too, Annie.”

I look over my shoulder, surprised. Annie is on one of the leather seats, blinking at Reggie in confusion.

“Annie?” Reggie says, pointedly.

Annie nods, then drops her eyes. “Whatever,” she murmurs.

The rest of us make our way to the tiny galley at the back of the plane. On the way, Schmidt pulls me aside briefly.

“I have your word this will not change our agreement?” he murmurs.

I come round to face Schmidt, looking him in the eyes, keeping my voice as low as his. “Jonas: I couldn’t give the tiniest shit about the list. None of us could. There are way, way bigger things happening right now.”

There’s a moment where it looks like he wants to ask me about that last bit – about the bigger things. And he must want to know, because what could be so major, in the middle of a huge earthquake, for us to specifically track down him and his plane?

But of course, I forgot who I’m dealing with. Schmidt understands how this all works. He understands the world that we – that I – live in.

“I have your word?” he says quietly.

“Yes. My word. Nobody touches you, or the list.”

Africa gives us a curious look over his shoulder, probably wondering what the hell we’re doing. Schmidt straightens up, squeezing my shoulder before continuing down the aisle. Part of me kind of wishes he would have squeezed a little longer.

“Hey,” I say to his retreating back.

“ Ja? ”

“My name’s not Jay. It’s… it’s Teagan.”

He nods slowly. “Then I suppose it is a pleasure to meet you, Teagan. Again.”

There’s a small galley at the back. Schmidt ambles over, then crouches down, rooting around in a low fridge. “It appears we have no more Krug,” he says. “Perhaps some bottled beer will suffice. Budweiser?”

I look down at the line of red labels. “You’ve got a billion-dollar plane and Budweiser in your fridge?”

“A man must have his vices.”