“What the hell-” Grigenko screamed in the cabin as the plane veered out of control, his drink flying from his hand, the glass crashing against the burled walnut interior.
The jet careened sideways with a sickening yaw, then tilted as if in slow motion before slamming back onto its wheels, the deceleration straining the restraining belt that held him in place.
The din of the alarms screeching was the only sound in the cabin for a few moments after they stopped. The pilot burst from the cockpit, his expression panicked.
“What happened?” Grigenko demanded as the pilot pulled on the emergency lever to open the door and lower the fuselage stairs.
“A truck hit us. We have to get out. We’ve got a full load of fuel, the hydraulic fluid is on fire, and one of the engines is damaged. We need to move, now,” he warned as the door swung open.
Grigenko looked at Oleg.
“Get your weapon out. Do you have another gun?” he barked.
Oleg nodded, pulled a small pistol from an ankle holster, and handed it to his boss.
“Go.”
Oleg stood and moved to the door, Grigenko behind him. The pilot and co-pilot descended the stairs and, after one look at the damage, took off at a full run, trying to put as much distance between them and the jet as possible before it blew.
The bodyguard stepped out of the fuselage, pistol at the ready, and was halfway down the stairs when a red dot appeared on his forehead, and the top of his skull disintegrated.
Jet stood on the tarmac a hundred and forty yards in front of the plane, feet apart in a classic military stance, the P90 pointed at the Gulfstream, the red emergency light of the truck illuminating her with an eerie, oscillating glow.
Grigenko stepped out of the plane and took in his fallen bodyguard, then squinted to get a look at his attacker. His eyes widened in disbelief when he saw Jet in the middle of the runway, the headlights of the truck behind her framing her silhouette in harsh white light.
She waited as he pushed Oleg’s corpse down the stairs and leapt over it onto the ground. The Russian cursed, then raised his gun and squeezed off two shots. At that distance, he didn’t have a chance of hitting her. They both knew it.
Flames licked at the jet engine and engulfed the damaged wing. It would be just a matter of seconds until the fuel blew.
She sighted and squeezed the trigger of the P90 again. Grigenko’s shinbone shattered. He continued to fire at her as he collapsed onto the runway, but the bullets went wide, missing Jet and ricocheting harmlessly away from her.
He caught himself as he fell forward, the skin tearing off his hand as he stopped the momentum, and then he struggled back up onto one knee, peering down the barrel of the pistol in an effort to improve his aim.
“You bitch. I’ll ki-” he screamed, then a blinding flare of orange shattered the night as the Gulfstream detonated in a massive fireball.
Jet spun away and sprinted for the truck as flames rolled towards her, then the force of the blast knocked her off her feet. She rolled under the vehicle as the wave of molten fuel roared past her and held her breath so it wouldn’t scorch her lungs. Her damp hair crackled as she clenched her eyes shut, and then the explosion faded, and the searing heat diminished.
Rubbing the soot from her face, she crawled out from under the vehicle and surveyed the blazing wreckage, pieces of the Gulfstream scattered well clear of the fuselage, the jet now mostly unrecognizable. Grigenko’s charred remains sizzled on the runway, an oily, unrecognizable smudge with bones wedged haphazardly amidst the smoldering chunks.
A droplet of moisture rolled down her cheek, cutting a trail through the grime as she watched the inferno. She took a last look at where the Russian had met his end, and then she turned and walked back to the truck, the dim skirl of fire trucks and emergency vehicles sounding from where they were pulling onto the far end of the field.
Epilogue
Two toddlers, little boys, chortled with glee as they chased each other around the seats in the passenger departure area of Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris. One of the tots clenched a blue plastic airplane in his hand and was tormenting his sibling by making
The harried mother looked up from her magazine and rolled her eyes, then called for them to come back to where she was sitting, their carry-on bags gathered around her seat like circled wagons. The boys cheerfully ignored her, and she exhaled a noisy sigh of frustration before catching sight of her husband, who was returning from the bathroom.
“Steve, could you please control the boys? They’re making me crazy,” she said in a loud, whiny voice, simmering annoyance just under the surface as she emphasized the last word.
Steve moved to the older of the pair and grabbed his shoulders, then brought him close and said something in his ear. The little boy nodded and gave him the toy, and Steve wandered back to his wife, the children trailing him. The smaller one swatted the older one in the back of the head, triggering an inevitable response — a half-hearted kick, and then the two were scuffling on the floor, their screams drawing ugly looks from the assembled travelers. Steve looked defeated and helpless, and the mother slapped down her magazine and marched over to the boys, dragging them apart and holding them, separated, as she read them the riot act.
A woman with fashionably cut dyed black hair watched the episode unfold from the coffee stand across the waiting area with a barely concealed smile.
The overhead speakers clicked on, and a distorted female voice announced the commencement of boarding for flight 41 bound for Chicago, initially in French and then in mangled English. First class was invited to board at its leisure, and in a moment, passengers traveling with small children.
Jet shouldered her large purse, drained the last dregs of her coffee and tossed the cup into the trash before approaching the podium, a small suitcase rolling behind her.
“Yes, may I help you?” the attendant asked in heavily accented English.
“I’m checking in for my flight. It’s two hours late, so I was wondering if you could confirm that I can still make my connection in Chicago?” she replied in French.
The woman took her ticket and tapped in a long string of numbers, backspacing to correct entries made in error as her fingers flew over the keys. She eventually pressed enter, and her brow furrowed as she concentrated on the results.
“Mmm. Yes. Well, it will be close, but you should still be able to make it. Do you have any checked bags?”
“No, just my carry-on.”
“Then I would say no problem. Assuming customs isn’t too bad, you should make the connection to Omaha with half an hour to spare.”
“Thanks.”
Jet made her way to the jetway and submitted to the last-minute security baggage check, then moved down the ramp and into the plane. The stewardess greeted her as she boarded and looked at her boarding pass, then pointed to the left.
“First class is right up there. 2A. Window.”
She slid her bag into the overhead compartment and fell gratefully into the oversized seat, relieved to be leaving France. She had ducked into the casino the following day and claimed her winnings and nobody had batted an eye — as if a young woman walking out of the building with nearly three hundred thousand dollars was an everyday occurrence. The management had even offered a security guard to see her to her bank, which she had politely declined.
The newspapers had been filled with accounts of the shootout on the boat and the ensuing fire, and the
