Chapter 8 - Forty Thousand Feet of Poison
The cabin of the Gulfstream G550 hummed with the steady, dull vibration of twin Rolls-Royce turbofan engines.
Outside the oval windows, the night was an ocean of black ink, punctured only by distant flashes of heat lightning over the Atlantic.
At forty-one thousand feet, the luxury interior of cream leather and polished walnut felt like an executive coffin.
Khloe Hayes sat upright in an oversized leather recliner, her wrists secured behind her back with hardened plastic restraints.
Her white silk blouse was ruined, torn at the left shoulder where Rory Walsh had dragged her down the stairs of her brownstone.
Her face was pale, a dark purple bruise blossoming across her left cheekbone where the rifle butt had caught her.
Her lips were dry and cracked.
Yet her spine was straight as an iron rod.
Across the aisle, Declan Walsh was pacing the narrow runner carpet like a caged hyena.
He was thirty-five, wearing a crumpled charcoal suit with no tie, his shirt collar open to reveal a jagged tattoo of the Belfast docks.
His pupils were dilated to the rim of his green irises, his jaw grinding rhythmically under the influence of pure pharmaceutical cocaine.
In his right hand, he clutched a heavy, silver-plated Colt .45.
In his left, he held a ruggedized Panasonic military laptop.
"The codes, Khloe," Declan snarled, stopping before her and shoving the glowing laptop screen into her face.
"Three minutes."
"The automated SWIFT transfer protocol requires an authorization hash from the master terminal."
"Type the alphanumeric key with your nose if you have to, or I swear to Christ I'll have my boys cut your pretty fingers off one by one."
Khloe didn't flinch away from the screen.
She slowly raised her eyes, meeting his manic, bloodshot gaze with a look of profound, chilling boredom.
"You really are pathetic, Declan," Khloe said, her voice hoarse from dehydration but steady as a surgeon's hand.
Declan’s hand twitched, the barrel of the .45 coming up to press against the soft hollow beneath her chin.
The cold steel bit into her flesh.
"You think because you sleep in Damian Russo’s shadow that you’re untouchable?" Declan hissed, spitting tiny flecks of saliva onto her cheeks.
"Damian Russo is currently burning in a basement in Greenpoint."
"My cousin Rory watched him walk into the refinery."
"That building is a pile of smoking brick right now."
"Your boss is dead, darling."
"Your protector is meat."
Khloe let out a quiet, dry laugh that sounded like rustling autumn leaves.
The sound infuriated Declan more than a scream would have.
"You don't know Damian," she whispered, her eyes never leaving his face.
"If your cousin Rory was still breathing when Damian walked into that sugar house, then Rory told him everything within ninety seconds."
"Damian didn't die in that basement."
"He dismantled it."
"And right now, while you’re pacing this cabin like a terrified street dog, he is already calculating the speed of your descent."
Declan’s face flushed a violent, mottled crimson.
He pulled his arm back and struck her across the face with his open palm.
The blow snapped her head to the right, spraying a bead of blood against the beige leather headrest.
Khloe swallowed the coppery taste in her mouth.
She turned her head back slowly, fixing him once more with that same, merciless stare.
"Hit me again, Declan," she said quietly.
"Every bruise on my face adds another ten seconds to the time Damian will take to kill you."
"He won't use a bullet."
"He will use his bare hands, and he will start with your fingers."
Declan backed away two steps, running his trembling hand through his greasy, thinning hair.
He looked toward the cockpit door.
The green avionics display on the bulkhead showed their altitude beginning to decrease: 32,000 FEET.
The co-pilot stepped out of the forward cabin, his face pale and slick with nervous sweat.
"Mister Walsh," the pilot said, keeping his voice low so the two hired mercenaries in the rear couldn't hear.
"We have a serious problem."
Declan whipped around, his gun waving erratically.
"What problem? We have clear skies to Puerto Rico!"
"No, sir," the pilot swallowed hard.
"Our automated fuel payment accounts registered through Nassau were just frozen by the clearing bank."
"The fixed-base operator at San Juan has denied our landing clearance."
"They’ve flagged our transponder code with international aviation control."
"Someone just revoked our airworthiness certificate from Manhattan."
Declan froze, the color draining from his manic face until his skin looked like wet chalk.
"What do you mean revoked? Who revoked it?"
"The Russo Maritime Trust," the pilot answered, his hands shaking as he held a printed avionics teletype.
"They hold the underlying lien on the leasing corporation that owns this airframe."
"They reported the jet stolen ten minutes ago."
"Federal radar out of Miami has us painted."
"If we cross into Puerto Rican airspace, the Coast Guard will scramble two interceptors from Homestead."
Declan spun around, staring at Khloe as if she were a demon that had materialized out of the dark sky.
She sat in the leather chair, her bruised lips curved into a cold, triumphant smile.
"I told you," she whispered.
"The second ledger."
"I didn't just audit your debts, Declan."
"I bought the debt on your charter company three weeks ago through an offshore subsidiary."
"You stole a plane that belongs to Damian Russo."
"You’re flying inside his property."
"You’re breathing his air."
Declan shrieked in rage, raising the heavy Colt pistol to bash her skull in.
"Mister Walsh, wait!" the pilot screamed, grabbing Declan’s arm before the steel could strike bone.
"If you kill her, we have zero leverage!"
"We have forty minutes of fuel remaining in the reserve tanks."
"If we don't put this bird down right now, we’re going into the ocean!"
Declan dropped his arm, his chest heaving like a bellows, his mind racing through the ruins of his plan.
"Where can we land?" Declan rasped.
"There’s an abandoned military strip on Great Inagua Island," the pilot said, pointing at the navigation chart.
"Built during the sixties for drug interdiction, now used by the Salazar cartel for bulk cargo transfers."
"Hector Salazar has six men stationed at the fuel depot there."
"We can refuel with manual hand pumps and transfer to their go-fast boats."
Declan wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat.
He turned back to Khloe, his eyes narrowing with savage, desperate hatred.
"Great Inagua," Declan sneered, grabbing her by her torn collar and dragging her out of the seat.
"Let’s see if your billionaire king can walk on water, Miss Hayes."
"Because once Hector Salazar gets his hands on you, Damian Russo won't even find your bones."
Khloe didn't resist as the plastic cuffs bit deeper into her wrists.
She looked out the oval window as the aircraft banked sharply to the left, diving through the dark clouds toward the black waters of the Caribbean.
She felt the pressure drop in her ears.
She closed her eyes and whispered a single name into the darkness of her own mind.
May you like
Damian.
Hurry.
