Page 48 of Mile High Heist

He was clearly former military. Broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. Still maintained the regulation buzz cut that had turned white with age. Dog tags around his neck, tucked into his starched white uniform.

Not married. Divorced. There was a picture of a kid above his station, a toothy little creature with the same unfortunate schnozzle.

My eyes slanted to his First Officer. The co-pilot. He was younger, a rookie. Thin and weedy, barely pushing thirty. His uniform was brand new, judging by the faint smell of formaldehyde wafting from him. He was distracted by the silent radio.

“Shanwick Radio, Lufthansa Four-Two-Seven heavy, how do you read?”

He got no reply.

“Any station, any station, I repeat. Lufthansa Four-Two-Seven heavy, can anyone read me?”

The whole cockpit reeked of male sweat and singed metal. The instrument panels were blaring red. Through the windows, the sky was a grim premonition. The worst had yet to come.

The captain blew out his lips like a disgruntled horse. “I got enough problems without sending a civ down into the pit.”

“Civ?” The girl, Julie, mouthed quietly. I glanced at her and watched the color rise from her neck.

“I understand,” Lucille said, holding herself stiffly. “Perhaps, Captain Miller, you could announce something to the passengers. Just to put their minds at ease.”

Captain Miller barked in laughter. “Woman, what do you suppose I tell them?”

“We’re worried about a potential lawsuit—”

“Lawsuit? That’s the least of our fucking problems.” He leaned on the back of his seat, deflated from blowing out so much hot air. The bulge of his neck proved it was his default state. A few more years and that pressure valve in his chest would explode.

“You,” he snapped at me. “Tech guy. What do you think I’m worried about right now?”

My response was automatic. “Weather.”

His face folded smugly. “Easy guess.” He nodded to Lucille. “Take him back and bring me someone who doesn’t look like he just got off parole.”

“I’m not done.”

His arrogance dropped away as he registered my tone. He straightened, making himself taller. “Go on, then.”

“You have no way of communicating with air traffic controllers. No coordination, no way to predict the weather conditions over the next nine hours.” I smiled coldly as the women behind me shivered like fretful little doves.

The man’s jaw moved, digesting my words. The truth was bitter. When he opened his mouth, I held up my finger, silencing him.

“Ah,” I drawled, clicking my tongue softly. “I’m doing it in order of least priority. But I’ll skip to the good part.” I stepped forward, my shoe colliding with the metal hatch of the avionics bay. “Because you are unable to make contact, a foreign military could classify you as a potential threat. And not just one—all of them. US, the Canadians, even the Swiss.”

His eyes narrowed, then flicked to the nervous women behind me. Gruff as he was, he’d planned to keep them in the dark. At worst, he’d intended to sugarcoat it. Pathetic.

“Your main concern,” I said, flexing my fingers to mime an explosion, “is not getting shot out of the sky. Boom.”

My words settled like debris, coating the room in fear-tinged ash.

“Is he right?” Lucille gasped.

Captain Miller scowled. “Uncannily so.” He eyed me again. The only thing worse than a violent criminal was an intelligent one.

“Alright,” he grunted, unhappily. “You proved your point, wiseass. I’ll let you in.”

The hatch was opened, revealing a short ladder down into the neon bowels of the plane. I enjoyed tight spaces. Usually, I preferred them. The bay was pressurized, the smell of copper a pleasant sensory experience, like fresh blood. It was no bigger than a walk-in wardrobe. One violent jolt and I’d be crushed against the servers.

Captain Miller hovered behind me. “You got any priors?”

I smirked over my shoulder. “Squeaky clean.”