The downside of that was, unlike its mythological namesake, the Pegasus had no wings. Like the antiquated copter of the old, if something went wrong, there was no gliding in for a controlled emergency crash landing. If the shit hit the fan, it was just a giant hunk of metal falling out of the sky. Rarely did that happen. VertiGo Rocket Works had a reputation for craftsmanship and pride in their product. In their relatively short run, they probably built some of the finest craft ever assembled in the history of modern civilization.
But then again, they never built them to be shot up trying to rescue a half-human fox-girl.
“So where do we go?” Jock asked again, although, now he wasn’t in quite the same hurry to get there.
“Cutter has a safehouse out near the old Moontown Airport in Brownsboro. He always told me I could use it if I ever got in some deep shit. No questions asked. I think I’m gonna take him up on it.”
Jock checked his coordinates. They were now over Decatur. “So, we’re doubling back. Then what?”
“We lay low until I can figure out a way to get us back into The Black. Maybe Cutter has some connections that can get me another ship. Or even better, get the Jenny Lou back.”
“You sure you wanna keep getting deeper and deeper with him?” Jocko was just as aware as Tiger of what it meant to “owe” Cutter Hawkins.
Tiger shrugged. “Don’t really have much of a choice at this point. Guess I should’ve been more careful who I chose as friends when I was younger.”
“That mean me too?”
“No,” Tiger smiled. “You can be an irritating little shit, but you’re never boring.”
“Thanks … I think.” Jock furled his brow, trying to sort out whether that was a compliment or constructive criticism.
“I gotta hand it to ya. The gun drone … hijacking that little bastard was a pretty nifty piece of work.”
“Ain’t nothing for a high-stepper!”
“I’ll take your word for it. Now slide your sorry ass on over. I’ll take it from here. We’ll be coming up on Monte Sano soon. We gotta get some altitude if we’re going to clear that big ass hump.”
***
High atop Monte Sano, one man sat in his office and eagerly watched his desktop screen. All around him, a shrill alarm was going off, letting him know an unidentified craft was approaching Forever Green Society airspace. As he scanned the craft, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Could it possibly be true? Was that really a Pegasus coming straight for him? He knew only one man in town that still flew one of those old antique macho-mobiles.
He checked the coordinates again. The Gus was flying off the Skyway over a hundred feet above legal, regulated traffic. That in itself made it a renegade and fair game for a citizen’s assault. Yet, it was also flying low enough not to encroach into the spaceport approaches. That meant whoever was flying it knew enough about Von Braun to know where not to fly. That meant he was probably a spacer.
The arithmetic was simple. A Pegasus and a spacer only added up to one thing: Tiger Friggin’ Thomas.
“Yes!” He shouted out in glee, unable to contain himself at the thought of finally … finally … getting his shot at revenge. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Ollie, would you please turn that alarm off!” The man’s wife called to him from the bedroom where she lay, trying to read her latest bodice-ripper. It was hard to fantasize about sweaty, bare-chested men with all the screeching racket.
“Shut up and take your sleeping pill! Leave me alone!” her husband yelled back furiously. After two worthless, lazy, leeching kids and forty additional pounds, he wanted so bad to put her fat ass on the road. But divorces were just soooo damned expensive.
Augustus Oliver Oglethorpe III, known by most as “Ollie,” was a millionaire several times over, but as they say, all the money in the world can’t buy happiness, and Oglethorpe was one of the most miserable men in Madison County. He hated his wife, he hated his kids, he hated most of his neighbors … in fact, he pretty much hated everybody.
But there was nobody he hated more than those damned redneck spacers.
Augustus Oglethorpe loathed them. It was bad enough that the goddamned Space Authority had mandated a landing corridor right over Monte Sano, all because some Kraut bastard was messing with shit he had no business messing with. Then you had assholes like that Tiger Thomas who got a kick out of deviating from the regulated altitude and dropping down to buzz the law-abiding citizens who lived in the Society Reserve. Little bastards thought it was cute skimming above the trees in their souped-up, hotrod rocket ships. They had no respect for people or their property. They were just a bunch of losers who thought more highly of themselves than
