Michael (The Airel Saga, Book 2) - By Aaron Patterson Page 0,91

it lay down flat. She pulled her up by the armpits and righted her in the chair, propped her head up with the pillow, buckled her seat belt, and covered her with the blanket.

“Now that’s hospitality,” she said, admiring her work.

The plane began to roll, taxiing for takeoff.

Ellie picked up the tablet and gestured to the movie screen. “Anyone else watching this?”

“No!” Michael and I said in unison.

“’Kay, then,” she said, touching the tablet’s screen. The movie turned off. “Ah,” she said, sitting in her seat again, “much better.” She twisted to check on Kim.

Turning back toward us, she buckled her own seat belt. We followed suit.

Hex’s voice came over the intercom again. “Prepare for takeoff.”

“This is my favorite part,” Ellie said.

The jet engines roared and we blasted down the runway. As we became airborne it hit me: this was the first time in a long time I felt truly safe.

CHAPTER XII

Boise, Idaho, present day

HARRY, AFTER WAITING DAYS for the confluence of various circumstances after the demise of one Gretchen Reid, sat on a plane at the Boise airport, waiting for departure. The man next to him was having a conversation on his cell phone. It sickened him that people felt the need to parade all that weakness, all that idiotic vanity, in public. Sure, the conversations were one-sided, but they were also usually louder than ambient noise, and disturbing for their disjointedness. Harry ground his teeth as the man prattled on.

“Yes, dear.” A pause. “Honey, you’re okay. Honest injun. Are you enjoying your time with your sister?” Another pause.

Harry wanted to vomit. Either that or rip the man’s phone away from his hand and beat him senseless with it. Mercilessly, the conversation continued.

“Of course. And how about you?” A pause again. “Oh, I’m just waiting for the pushback so we can get underway here.”

Pushback, Harry thought. I’ll give you pushback.

“And I’ll miss you. Well, it’s only the civilized parts of Africa…. Yeah! Of course…. Always.”

Why must I endure all this nonsense? Harry thought. Why couldn’t I just kill the man in his own house? He reflected on that. It would have been…less convenient. Orders were orders anyway. He understood rationally that it would be better to wait until Cape Town. It would look better. But emotionally he wasn’t sure how much more he would be able to stand.

“I love you.” The man in the seat next to Harry ended the call.

Thank you, Harry thought. Perhaps now my day will improve. But the man turned to face him directly, as if he had been reading all the hostility Harry had been broadcasting. Harry twisted in his seat, shrinking back from the man as he squared his shoulders and looked at his face.

“Let’s not pretend we don’t know each other, Harry.”

This is not good. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” was all he could say in response. Deflect this…

The man lowered his voice and leaned in. “Oh, come on, Harry, let’s not pretend anymore. I know all about it.”

Harry chortled. “About what?” His body language communicated his distaste and contempt for the very idea.

The man lowered his voice still more. “About agent Gretchen Reid. And how you killed her.”

Harry arched his eyebrows. “Oh, really? And here I thought you were going to be another boring dull stupid lazy mark.”

“Not hardly,” said the man, looking away and taking a sip of bottled water. “Not hardly. Why do you think I booked my ticket for this flight specifically?”

“Oh, my. This is getting good. But I’m afraid it’s a chicken-and-egg debate on that score, my friend.”

“What, you booked first?”

“So say some.” Harry changed the subject. “So. Off to rescue our daughter, are we?” He gave a wickedly recumbent chuckle that would have weakened the knees of lesser men.

“Harry, I wouldn’t tell you any more about my Airel if you held a gun to my head.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Tell you what, Harry—if I can presume to call you by your Christian name…?” Harry flinched. It made Airel’s father smile ever so slightly. “How about this: how about when we refuel at Twin Cities, you don’t move a muscle. How about when we change planes at Schipol in Amsterdam you behave like a good little boy or I’ll splatter your guts across all those pricey cheese wheels in the duty-free. How about we pretend to be pals, okay?”

“And why,” Harry couldn’t help but laugh in his face, “why should I not kill you here and now?” Oops. Harry hoped he didn’t say that too loudly.