R.T. held onto the last long strip of paper. To complete his shell game, he stealthily folded the bottom portion of his strip of paper in half with his other hand and presented the now shortened ‘straw’ to the group quickly, then he thrust it into his suit pocket. “It’s on me then. Let’s head to the modules,” he announced deadpan.
31.
The Kill Order
“Si mi padre” Rodrigo said very animated over his cell phone. “I will do as you say. Gracias papi.” He pulled the phone from his ear and pressed the end button. His father, Felix “El Chorro” Menendez just gave him the “orden de muerte” or the kill order. It was his first one, although he had killed before, but never as a result of a kill order. The Death Squad always handled these, but after Ortega Inzunza was taken out by the Mexican government’s gunships on the beach a few months ago, he knew his day would soon come. He couldn’t have imagined a better kill order than Max Thompson.
Ever since the day he saved Miguel, Max Thompson has been a thorn in his side. If it weren’t for Max’s own stupidity, he may have never gotten the chance. Hard to believe he would sell guns to the Ochoas. He dug his own hole, and he would be buried in it soon.
He imagined the moment he would point his nicked 45 Colt Commander at Max’s face and then pull the trigger. He was relishing this moment, when he realized there were three faces staring intently at him.
“Puto, stop staring at me,” Rodrigo yelled at all three at once. “What are you, a bunch of dogs? Get everyone. We have our order to kill Señor Max and take his guns and drugs. We meet outside in cinquento minutos.”
With orders given, one of the three henchmen, tasked with additional orders ran outside the office to another room and announced in Spanish to the other men to get their weapons and meet outside in fifty minutes. The other two called the remaining assassins not at the compound, demanding their immediate return.
“Ernesto “El Papá” Fernandez, so named because he was the father of 18 children, was also the oldest of Rodrigo’s henchmen. More importantly at this moment, he was a friend of Maxwell Thompson long before Rodrigo’s feud with Max started. He knew the reason for Rodrigo’s hatred for the man, and so he kept his friendship with Max a secret. Rodrigo also didn’t know that their last load of guns actually came from Max. Again, no need to tell Rodrigo. He was a loyal lieutenant to Rodrigo, but a kill order for Max? He couldn’t stand by without helping Max. While standing by the Tahoe waiting for the rest of his team, he discretely pulled out his phone and texted Max, warning him of what was coming his way.
“Donde Julio and Pacco?” One of the group of asinos asked from the vehicle behind El Papá. “El Hefe already sent them out yesterday to watch Señor Max and to make sure he didn’t run when we go there,” he answered in Spanish.
Ernesto hoped that he would reach his friend in time.
Less than fifty minutes after the order was given, Rodrigo walked out to find thirteen of his fifteen men in five vehicles idling and ready to pull out.
“Let’s kill ourselves a gringo,” he yelled jubilantly as he climbed into the second vehicle, a shiny black Cadillac Esplanade SUV. His men cheered back at their leader as the caravan of killers drove out of the compound.
THE EVENT
32.
Over Middle Illinois
Nothing went right with John & Steve Parkington’s flight. Besides the amazing, but unnerving aurora displays, all their equipment was barely functional. Their radio returned mostly static. The Garmin GPS with XM Weather was inoperable, displaying a fluttering green-red screen. Even the old VOR system, didn’t really work. Only one piece of navigational equipment was functional. An old compass, providing the only bearing they felt comfortable following. They were, however, blessed with minimal air traffic, due to the early hour and the problems grounding most planes. For the last two hours, the airport closures and diversions caused their greatest concerns. All were from the same problems they were experiencing; geomagnetic storms which laid waste to the satellites on which their equipment depended. After being turned away from Denver Airport because of communications issues, they returned east to attempt landing at a regional outside of Lawrence, Kansas. There, they were planning to refill and get more intel on the problems plaguing all pilots. But they were diverted from there as well. Finally, they hoped to make it to the private airport outside of Kansas City, since MCI was closed, but were once again diverted.
Now, fuel was their chief problem. Even with the extended tanks John had installed, they were on fumes.
While John and Steve discussed their very limited options, someplace over a rural area west of Ottawa Illinois, their engine stopped, along with their radio, and all other instruments. All the lights in the cockpit flashed once and then went out. It was as if someone just unplugged an invisible power cord.
The cockpit of even a pressurized Cessna is loud, so much so that the pilot and co-pilot wear headphones to both hear the radio and to speak to each other via intercom. The sudden absence of engine noise was deafening. Both John and Steve, almost in unison, tugged at one side of their headsets, exposing an ear to confirm what their now frozen propeller and all their other impulses screamed. They were in trouble. A whistling sound from the rushing air displaced by the plane’s fuselage and a forward sensation being communicated by their inner ears, were the only stimuli telling their senses they were still moving. Otherwise, because the dark of early morning, only slightly illuminated by the green spectral display above, it appeared that they had stopped dead in the air.
“We are dead stick,” John announced.
Steve heard his dad’s muffled voice, unable to see much of his face beside him. The blackness inside the cockpit was thick and unnerving. He ripped off his headphones.
“- confirm. Son, please confirm that you have no readings on your side?” John yelled louder.
“Dad, I have nothing. You too?”
“Affirmative. I have no electronics, but I have full controls.”
“How can we not have even lights? Could our batteries die at the same time as the engine?”
“We have bigger issues. We should be close to a small regional around here…” Their eyes struggled to see through the blanket of darkness that covered them, looking for lights, any lights. But they were in a rural and somewhat rugged part of Illinois. It seemed the lights were off below as well.
They glided past a light and a whoosh-whoosh sound, just barely missing some structure… a windmill? Then, in the distance was a clearing and a cluster of lights.
“There.” John pointed to a patch of lights assembled together on the ground, a small town of probably a few hundred, and the faintly lit long line of a rural highway leading to it. Steve craned forward to see it
“That’s a highway, not an airport,” hoping he was looking at the wrong lights.
“Flying beggars can’t be choosy. That will have to do.” John pushed his invisible hands forward and turned the plane’s wheel counterclockwise, while his feet pushed the pedals to counter. The ailerons, flaps and rudder worked in harmony to bank the plane left and on a downward slope.
They could both feel their air speed dropping a couple of knots every few seconds. Steve pushed the wheel forward more to keep their speed up at the expense of a quicker rate of decent.