Dave Barry - Big trouble

"CALL 911," Eliot shouted at them as he went past. "PLEASE. THERE'S A MAN SHOOTING BACK THERE."

The passengers stared as Eliot disappeared down the concourse, with Anna, Puggy, and Nina behind him. One passenger went to a pay phone, dialed 911, and told the operator what Eliot had said. The 911 operator said the police were aware of the shooting at the airport and had the situation under control. The passenger reported this news, and the herd relaxed.

Monica hauled herself to the top of the folding stairs and wriggled past the heavy suitcase partially blocking the doorway, keeping low. She peered around the last row of seats on the left and saw Snake standing in the middle of the plane, his back — thank God — to her. He was watching the pilots.

The pilot on the left yelled something to Snake, which Monica thought was about the door. Snake yelled something that Monica couldn't make out, and he pointed his gun at the pilot. The pilot shrugged and turned back to the controls.

Monica crawled across the aisle and into the last row of seats on the right side of the plane. Matt crawled in and went to the left side. He gave her a look that said, Now what? Monica held up her hand in a gesture that said, Wait. She had no idea what for.

The plane had reached the end of the taxiway and was turning onto the runway. The engines were very loud now. They were taking off.

As they turned into Garbanzo Street, the couple in the Lexus was arguing. They had been arguing for two hours now, since the start of their dinner at the Italian restaurant in Coral Gables. The issue was whether to stay in Miami, where the husband had been transferred by his bank a year and a half ago, or move back to Cedar Rapids, where they were both from. He thought that, for career reasons, they should stay; she wanted to go.

They were arguing so heatedly that the husband almost ran into the large man standing in the street, waving his arms. The man seemed to be wearing a uniform, but it was filthy and drenched in sweat, and there was blood running down his arm, which was… handcuffed to some big, mangled piece of metal, which was… my God, it was handcuffed to another man, a strange-looking man, off to the side there. With a big dog.

"I think we should get out of here," the husband said.

"They look like they need help," the wife said.

"OK," said the husband, "but we stay in the car."

Keeping the car in gear, the husband pressed the power-door-lock button and lowered his window two inches.

"Listen," said the large man. "I'm a Miami police officer, and I need you to…»

"GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN!" said the strange-looking man.

"SHUT UP!" said the large man. Turning back to the couple, he said, "I need you to…»

"SHE WANTS YOUR SOUL!" said the strange-looking man. He was pointing at the dog, who sniffed his finger, then barked.

"I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP GODDAMMIT!" said the large man, shoving the big metal thing hard, knocking the strange man over. 'THAT IS NOT ELIZABETH FUCKING DOLE!"

The husband pressed the accelerator. The car shot forward, tires squealing.

"NO!" screamed the large man. "COME BACK!"

The husband drove three blocks before speaking.

"OK," he said. "You call the movers."

"You know this guy?" Baker asked Greer. They were standing with Henry, who was watching three police officers and two paramedics unwrap Daphne from Leonard, who had regained consciousness. So had Daphne's owner, who was being formally taken into police custody and had already been handed business cards by four personal-injury attorneys who happened to be on the scene.

"Oh yeah," said Greer, "I know Henry from the old days, in Jersey. I used to interrogate him alla time, back when I worked organized crime."

"Wasn't that organized," said Henry. "Which is why I got out of it."

"You're saying you're retired now?" asked Greer. "Workin' on the stamp collection? Drinkin' Ensure?"

"More or less," said Henry.

"Sure," said Greer. "Listen, much as I would enjoy hearin' you explain to these officers why you come to their airport wearin' a piece on your ankle, I got important federal business, OK?"

"Real good chattin' with you," said Henry, turning back to Leonard.

"OK," said Greer, to Baker and Seitz. "These are assholes, but not the right assholes. I need to talk to somebody in charge."

"That guy there, I'm pretty sure he's the head airport cop," said Baker, pointing to a white-haired man in a shirt and tie, talking on a cell phone and holding a walkie-talkie, which was emitting a drumbeat of messages and static. Greer walked over.

"No, nobody got hit," the white-haired man was saying. "Just the snake." He listened for a moment, then said, "I don't know what kind. A big snake."

Greer was holding his badge wallet in the man's face.

"FBI," he said.

The man waved the wallet away.

"We don't need any help," he said. "We got this."

"No," said Greer, "I need somethin' from you."

"Well, it's gonna have to wait," said the white-haired man, turning away.

Greet stepped a few paces away. He pulled the odd-looking phone from his pocket and pressed a button on it. He waited for two seconds, then spoke for about twenty. He pressed another button and put the phone back in his pocket, then walked back and stood next to the white-haired man, waiting. The white-haired man, ignoring him, continued talking on his cell phone for about thirty seconds, then stopped and listened.

"What?" he said. He looked up at Greer. Greer showed him his badge again.

"Yes," said the white-haired man, into the phone. "He's right here." He listened some more, frowning.

«But…» he said, then listened some more.

"OK," he said. "I got it." He shut off his phone, looked at Greer.

"My name's Arch Ridley," he said. "Tell me what you need."

"I need you to find out if anything else unusual has happened in this airport in the last thirty minutes," said Greer. "Besides this mess here."

"Lemme call the security office," said the man. He dialed a number, waited, and said, "Doris. Arch. Listen, is there… What? Oh, Jesus. When?"

"What?" asked Greer. Ridley raised his hand, indicating wait a sec.

"No, that's not your fault," he was saying, "all this radio traffic. So what else did they… OK… OK… shit. OK. Keep the phone line open. I'll call right back." He shut off the phone.

"What?" said Greer.

"Five minutes ago," Ridley said, "the tower here got a message from a pilot on the ground, saying he had a guy on his plane, with a gun, telling him to take off."

"Oh Jesus," said Greer.

"The tower tried to get more, but they're not responding," said Ridley. 'The plane taxied out and just took off, just now."

"Shit," said Greer. "For where?"

"It's an Air Impact! flight," said Ridley. "Prop plane. It's supposed to go to the Bahamas."

"OK," said Greer, "listen. Call the tower, tell 'em to watch the plane, keep trying to raise 'em. Which way is the Air Impact! counter?"

"That way," said Ridley, pointing, "little over halfway around the concourse. I can…»

But Greer, Seitz, and Baker were already running.

Flight 2038 took off into the prevailing winds, to the west. As the plane gained altitude over the Everglades, Justin banked left, making a long, slow turn until he was heading almost due east, toward downtown Miami, with Biscayne Bay beyond, then the southern end of Miami Beach, then the Atlantic. Justin was praying that air traffic control was telling the other air traffic where he was, since without his radio he had no way to get flight instructions.

Justin glanced over at Frank, and what he saw was not good: Frank was a zombie. It was up to Justin, the captain, alone, to handle this maniac with the gun. He figured the main thing was don't piss him off, do what he said, fly him to Freeport. They'd be tracked on radar; the authorities would be alerted; rescuers would be sent.