"Sanitize," I order.
Jax dumps a miniature bottle of gin over the man’s chest and the pen casing. The smell of juniper fills the air.
"This is going to be medieval," Jax warns. "Max, hold his head. I’m going in."
"Second intercostal space," I recite, my voice robotic. "Mid-clavicular line. Above the rib to avoid the neurovascular bundle."
"Go," Jax grunts.
He takes the serrated steak knife and saws—brutally—into the man’s chest. The skin resists. The man jerks, unconscious but reacting to the pain.
"Deeper," I say. "Pop the pleura."
Jax pushes.Pop.
"Tube," I command.
Jax jams the two-hundred-dollar pen casing into the hole.
HISS.
The sound is audible three rows back. It sounds like a tire deflating. The trapped air rushes out through the luxury writing instrument. The man’s chest instantly deflates. He sucks in a jagged, desperate breath.
“Colour is returning," I report, feeling the man’s carotid. "Pulse is thready but strengthening."
Jax slumps back against the bulkhead, wiping blood on his designer jeans. "That," he pants, "was the most expensive chest tube in history."
"Good news," the Captain’s voice crackles over the intercom, sounding absolutely terrified. "We’ve been clearedfor an emergency landing at JFK. A full medical team is standing by. And… uh… Mrs. York has sent a personal message to seats 4A and 4B."
We all freeze. Jax looks at the pen sticking out of the man’s chest. I look at the speaker. The entire cabin goes silent, waiting for the verdict.
"The message reads," the Captain clears his throat nervously, "'To my son and future son-in-law: That was a valiant attempt. I have calculated the fuel costs of your little rebellion and deducted them from the floral budget. We are now landing. If you attempt to take a train, I will buy Amtrak. If you walk, I will purchase the pavement. Do not test me again, or I will have the reception on a boat. And Jackson? I know you get seasick. See you at dinner.'"
Jax stares at the ceiling. He looks defeated. He looks horrified.
"She threatened to buy the pavement," Jax whispers. "Max, she threatened to buy the ground we walk on."
"We’re going back," I say, helping the patient sit up. "We have no choice. She has the high ground. And the low ground. And the air."
"I hate her," Jax says. "yet I respect her. But I’m pretty sure she’s a Bond villain."
In row 4, Preston turns the page of his journal.
"Told you," Preston says to Luke. "They seem much more relaxed now."
Chapter 3
The Hostile Takeover
Max
The jet bridge at JFK smells like jet fuel, stale coffee, and the specific, acrid scent of four hundred people realizing their vacation plans have just been liquidated by a hedge fund.
"Clear the hole!" a paramedic shouts, pushing a stretcher past a knot of grumbling Business Class passengers who are more concerned with their frequent flyer miles than the man currently breathing through a luxury writing instrument.
On the gurney, our patient—Mr. Calloway, seat 12C—is conscious and giving a thumbs up to the crowd. The silver casing of the Montblanc pen is still protruding from his chest, secured with three Band-Aids and a strip of heavy-duty duct tape Jax found in the galley. It catches the fluorescent light of the terminal like a chaotic, impromptu medal of honor.
"Nice penmanship, Doc!" Calloway wheezes as he rolls past us, his voice raspy but surprisingly cheerful for a man with a collapsed lung.
