'We're not stealing anything,' she said, coming to the defense of the department. 'But now that it's in the system, things have to take their course. I can issue a favorable opinion, which I will do, but it's not something I can control anymore.'
Sitting in the dark, I realized she was right. With both Sammy and Zack dead, there was no way I could ever really prove which of them was the Fingertip Killer.
At one o'clock in the morning, Alexa and I were lying in bed, but were still both awake, tossing and tangling our sheets, too keyed up to sleep.
The phone rang.
Alexa snatched up the receiver. 'Yes?' She paused. 'Where?'
She hung up, rolled out of bed, and started putting her clothes on.
'Gotta go.'
'Somebody filed a flight plan?' I said, swinging my feet to the floor.
'Stay in bed.'
I got up and started dressing.
'You're not going, Shane. It's an order.'
'An order's not gonna be enough. You're gonna have to shoot me.'
Ten minutes later we were speeding down the 405
toward the Van Nuys Airport. Alexa was driving. I was slouched in the passenger seat watching the lights from the freeway streaking across her face.
At 1:35 A. M., we pulled into the parking lot of Peterson Executive Jet Terminal in Van Nuys. Tony Filosiani, Lieutenant Cubio, and Judd Underwood were already there, along with a dozen cops and FBI agents. A heated procedural argument was in progress.
'It doesn't matter to me if it belongs to John Travolta or John the Baptist,' Tony was saying. 'It ain't takin' off. We gotta make a move.' Then he turned to face us. 'An hour ago, Travolta's Gulfstream filed a flight plan for Berlin.'
'I thought we were looking for an asset-seizure Challenger with altered tail numbers,' Alexa said.
'We are. Were,' Underwood said. 'This was filed as an emergency flight plan. According to the paperwork, Travolta's supposed to be aboard heading back to Germany where he's shooting a movie. When the printout came in it seemed fishy to me because I remembered reading somewhere that he has a big new seven-thirtyseven that he uses for long-distance flights. According to his production office in Berlin, Travolta's still in Germany. He doesn't know anything about his Gulf-stream leaving from here. The flight plan has the plane taking off in five minutes. It's taxiing now.'
'That's enough talk! We're gonna shut this down,' Tony said angrily.
The tower was alerted that we wanted to halt the takeoff and board the Gulfstream. The message was relayed to the pilot, but the plane kept rolling.
'He's not responding,' the FBI agent who was on the phone to the tower reported.
In less than a minute we were in our cars and out on the tarmac. Four cars streaked down the taxiway. Tony took the lead, driving his Crown Vic at high speed, his Kojack light flashing red. Judd Underwood was in the front seat with him.
I was in Alexa's slick-back while she drove. We were doing close to seventy, following Tony's Crown Vic so closely, our headlights only lit the car's trunk. I could barely make out the shiny white shape of the jet turning at the end of the runway, positioning itself for takeoff.
Then the Gulfstream began to accelerate.
'Cut across the grass,' I yelled. 'We'll never block him if we stay on the taxiway!'
Alexa swung the wheel and we shot across the infield. Tony and the other vehicles must have had the same idea because suddenly we were all on the main runway.
The Gulfstream thundered toward us, engines at full throttle, while four police cars closed the distance, speeding straight at it on a deadly collision course. When we were halfway down the tarmac, Tony spun the wheel, skidding sideways. The other cars followed suit, blocking the runway four across. There didn't appear to be enough space for the big jet to get airborne, but it kept coming, powering toward us.
'Get out!' I screamed.
Alexa and I dove out of the car and ran for our lives.
The other cops and feds all did the same.
At the last minute, the Gulfstream swerved to miss the blockade of cars and left the runway heading out onto the grass. It tore up the turf as it tried to brake to a stop. With both engines now screaming in retrograde, the big jet finally began to lose speed. As it did, the undercarriage started to sink into the grass, followed a minute later by a loud, tortured bang, as the wheels set themselves in soft turf and the landing gear snapped. The heavy jet nosed down and shuddered to a stop.
Everyone surrounded the plane with guns drawn. A few tense moments passed before the hatch attempted to open. Because of the nose down attitude, the hydraulic door stuck halfway open. After a moment, Robert Allen Virtue appeared in the threshold and peered through the jammed hatch.
'Somebody will have to help us out,' his patrician bearing still in place.
'You're under arrest,' Chief Filosiani said.
Agent Underwood stepped forward. 'FBI,' he bellowed.
'I know who you are, asshole,' Virtue snapped. 'You work for me.'
'Not anymore,' Underwood replied, his pale complexion coloring.
Minutes later Virtue was helped out of the crippled jet. He didn't expect to see me alive, and stopped to face me as he passed. A strange look shadowed his face as if, for the first time, he realized he might actually be in some trouble.
'You'll never assess the damage you've done to your country,' he said.
'You're the one who's been damaging it,' I answered.
Virtue seemed stunned by this. Then came self-righteous anger. 'People like you are great moralizers, but have damn few solutions when it comes to getting this country where she needs to go.'
'You're certainly not getting us there by trashing the Rule of Law and the Constitution.'
'The Constitution?' he snorted. 'What's any of this got to do with the Constitution? I'm talking about global terrorism. This country has fought its last war of nations. We're now engaged in a war of ideologies. The rules have to change when your enemy has no conscience or borders. But you'll never understand that.'
'I understand that the Patriot Act and FISA are rolling back the search and seizure rights provided by the Fourth Amendment. The FISA court trashes the Eleventh Amendment limiting judicial powers and the Sixth Amendment right to a speedy trial. We're supposed to beat terrorists by becoming despots?'
'Traitors always accuse patriots of despotism,' he shot back.
'No,' I said softly. 'Despots always accuse patriots of treason.'
Chapter 64
Sometimes things just have to get a lot worse before they can get better. A wise, if somewhat painful concept.
I just wanted my current string of downers to come to an end. But it wasn't to be. Zack's funeral and my son's USC visit were on a collision course for the same day.
I pulled Chooch aside and tried to explain it to him. 'This guy was my partner and he died saving my life.'
We were in Chooch's bedroom two days before the funeral and the scheduled USC visit, which were both set for Sunday. 'There's not much that would keep me from doing this with you, son, but I can't miss the funeral. I owe Zack too much.'
'It's okay, Dad. I understand,' Chooch said, but his face was long and there was real disappointment in his dark eyes.
Saturday night I decided to take the family out to dinner to make up for it.
