The sound of squealing tires carried around the building. Chavez caught a glimpse of the Toyota’s taillights heading away from the FBO. He counted one, and then a second pickup truck sped past, giving chase.
Chavez and Adara stopped next to a parked fuel truck. The smell of the tarmac rose on the warm night air, reminding him of a racetrack. On any other evening, one where he wasn’t running for his life with some stolen computer tech in his pocket, he would have enjoyed the smell.
“Looks like they’re buying it,” Adara said, watching the taillights.
“Hope so,” Chavez said. “Now Midas and Dom just need to get away.”
Jack came across the net.
“Stay where you are,” Chavez said, panting more than he should have been.
“You okay?” Adara asked.
“I’m good.” He was able to muster a grin. “Just a little smashed up from my beating.”
The men coming inside would be finding the dead FBO manager about now. They’d slow down to check the building if they had any sense, but there wasn’t much to check besides a back office and the restrooms. It was a matter of seconds, not minutes, before the men were right on top of them.
“Tell me you have a surprise Ding Chavez plan up your sleeve,” Adara hissed. Crouched in the shadows with her pistol at low ready, she looked formidable. Chavez had little doubt they’d be able to handle the two men, but he hoped to get out of Indonesia without engaging any police officers, even if they were on Suparman’s payroll. He thought about going to the Gulfstream for about half a second, but a thin-skinned aircraft was a terrible place to make a stand.
A Batik Air commercial airliner roared overhead, vibrating the ground as it took off to the south.
“Ryan’s penned down,” Adara said. “Short of hijacking an airplane, I’m not sure we have many options besides duking it out with those guys when they come out. I guess we could always give up.”
Chavez nodded, half standing. “That’s it.”
“Give up?” Adara scoffed, her face blue in the scant ambient light. “That was a joke. I don’t think these guys plan on taking us to jail.”
Chavez gestured toward the Piper Cheyenne with his pistol.
“I’m not talking about giving up.”
The Piper’s rear door hung open at the back of the aircraft, integral stairs extended. The only light inside came from the faint glow of cockpit instrumentation. The two pilots were already on board, while the rest of the loading crew had gone between the ramshackle metal buildings to see what all the noise was in front. Adara pointed out at least one long gun, which meant there were surely more.
Two seats faced aft, back to back with the pilots in the open cockpit, one on either side of a narrow aisle. The rest had been removed to make room for the cargo — which consisted of several dozen bales of something wrapped in black plastic bags and copious rolls of duct tape.
The Cheyenne IIIA normally carried only nine passengers with full seating, so Chavez was almost in the cockpit in one good bent-over stride from the time he breached the door.
The Indonesian pilots both turned as Chavez bounded up the steps, his pistol trained toward the cockpit. Adara followed close on his heels, lifting the door and folding stairs before the pilots realized what was going on. The one in the left seat, older than his copilot by at least a decade, raised his hands and grinned, giving an amused shake of his head.
“You won’t get very far if you shoot us.”
“I only need one of you to fly the plane,” Chavez said, dead serious. “Your copilot looks capable enough.”
He didn’t have a problem popping a drug smuggler. It would, in fact, not be a new experience for him. Any hint of bravado bled from the pilot’s face.
“I assume you are running from those people who are making all the noise out on the street?” he asked.
Chavez smacked the headrest with his free hand. This was a tricky time. In reality, the pilot held most of the cards. All he had to do was sit on his hands while the men he worked for stormed the plane. Chavez banked on the fact that the pilots were smart enough to realize they were highly likely to catch a few bullets themselves if their companions stormed the plane. Drug smugglers weren’t known for their discerning shot placement. Chavez leaned farther into the cockpit between the two seats, partly to check for weapons, but crowding the men in the process to keep up the tension.
“Let’s go! And no headsets. I want the radio on speaker so I can hear everything. And keep in mind that I know the transponder codes, so you can forget about sending a message that way.”
The pilot turned and looked at him full in the face, as if he’d been about to do that very thing.
Squawking 7700 on the transponder alerted air traffic control to an emergency. A squawk of 7500 meant the aircraft had been hijacked.
