Panic Point by Bill Briscoe

Author:Bill Briscoe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bill Briscoe
Published: 2019-10-01T16:58:21+00:00

Chapter 29

Gawking like a bunch of school kids, the guys hawk-eyed the plane, me included.

“Please take a seat and buckle up.” A crackled voice came over the intercom. “Prepare for takeoff.”

I took a recliner next to the L-shaped sofa and strapped in. The chair molded to the shape of my body. The leather smelled fresh and clean, like the interior of a new car, with a hint of vanilla.

The other men found their spots. The pilot revved the engines. The plane taxied down the runway, the tips of its wings bouncing like an awkward gooney bird’s first flight. Motors growled like some underworld beast, pushing the plane forward. Our speed picked up until the bumpy runway gave way to the soft, peaceful whisper of the jet engine.

Manhattan’s skyline passed by my window. The bright lights, so beautiful and peaceful, masked a city shrouded in darkness and crime—the same evil that stole my Morgan.

Exhilaration lit a fire inside me. I hadn’t felt like this in weeks. Morgan—she was all I could think about. And now there was a chance to get her back.

The mission sponsor didn’t appear to be on the plane. Clearly, the chauffeur had lied.

I stiffened and dug my fingers into the leather chair arms. My heart sputtered, chest tightened. When a tribal chief had lied to our SEAL team, the mission had failed, and I’d lost brothers. Moving to the middle of the plane, I called the men together. “The chauffeur said the person funding this mission would be with us. He ain’t here. Do you get the feeling we’ve been sold a bill of goods?”

Kowalski crisscrossed his hands. “Maybe the guy changed his mind and plans to meet us there. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves and panic.”

Pharts spoke. “I’ve got a pilot’s license if we want to mutiny.”

“What kind of license?” Skepticism dripped off each of Kowalski’s words.

“Single engine. Prop driven.” Pharts’ chest popped out like he’d just been given the Medal of Honor.

“Do you really think you could land a 757?” Mr. Pharts would be sprawled on the deck with a Swiss-cheese chest if Kowalski’s eyes had been fifty-caliber machine guns.

“Gentlemen, have a seat.” The baritone voice came from a short, bald man leaning against the open cockpit door, arms folded. “My name is Max Hopson. I’m responsible for the mission. I own this plane. I’m the pilot. I assure you, I can land it.”

He looked like Wilford Brimley. Morgan and I had seen him on a television special this summer.

Mr. Hopson wasn’t tall, but by no means was he small. His broad shoulders, thick wrists, thick glasses, and thick mustache weren’t what I pictured for a mogul, not even close, but his confident gait toward us indicated a man used to taking charge.

He pointed to the L-shaped couch for us to sit. “My co-pilot’s a retired Air Force Colonel with twenty years of flight service, just in case you’re wondering. Please have a seat and let me explain the reason for this mission.”

All of us sat, giving Hopson our full attention.

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