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“You heard that, Inspector Doherty?” Castillo asked.
“I heard you clearly, Colonel,” Inspector Doherty said.
“Okay, then let’s get this circus on the road,” Castillo ordered.
[THREE]
Avion Aviation Services Transient Aircraft Tarmac
Midland International Airport
Midland, Texas
1705 12 August 2005
“Here they come,” Special Agent David W. Yung, Jr., said, gesturing out the window toward a black Mercedes-Benz S500 driving up to the Gulfstream.
“Wind it up, Jake,” Castillo ordered as he walked to the switch that controlled the opening and closing of the stair door.
“Midland Ground Control,” Torine said, “Gulfstream Three-Seven-Nine at Avion. Request taxi instructions for immediate departure.”
Castillo stood in the passage between the cabin and the cockpit and watched as the Mercedes pulled up close to the aircraft.
The Mercedes stopped. The front passenger’s door opened and Philip J. Kenyon III—a large, stocky man wearing a white polo shirt, a linen jacket, khaki trousers, and tan western boots—got out as Fernando Lopez stepped out from behind the wheel.
Kenyon, perspiring in the Texas summer heat that baked the tarmac, looked admiringly at the Gulfstream. Then, smiling, he started walking toward the stair door as two men got out of the rear seat of the Mercedes.
Kenyon did not seem to notice as a black GMC Yukon XL approached the Mercedes and the aircraft and pulled to a stop, effectively screening the activity near the plane from any possible onlookers.
As Kenyon got close to the stair door, the man who had been riding in the left rear seat of the Mercedes took what looked very much like a black semiautomatic pistol from under his jacket, rested his elbows on the Mercedes hood, took aim, and fired.
There was no loud sound, as there would have been had the man fired a firearm, but instead there was a barely audible pop, as that of an air rifle firing. Kenyon made a sudden move with his hand toward his buttocks as if, for example, he had been stung by a bee. Then he fell to the ground and appeared to be suffering from convulsions.
The man who had fired what looked like a pistol tossed it to the man who had gotten out of the right rear seat of the Mercedes and then got behind the wheel.
The man who now had what looked like a pistol went to Kenyon and tugged at something apparently embedded in Kenyon’s buttocks. Then Fernando Lopez bent over Kenyon and—with some effort, as the big man was still convulsing—picked him up over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and started to climb the stair door.
There was a whine as one of the G-III’s engines began to turn.
Castillo came to the head of the stairs, got a firm grip on Lopez’s polo shirt, and hauled him and Kenyon into the fuselage as the man who now had the pistol-like device pushed Lopez from the rear.
As soon as everyone was inside the Gulfstream, the Mercedes and then the Yukon drove off.
The stair door began to retract and the Gulfstream began to move as its other engine was started.
“Put him facedown on the couch,” Castillo ordered, then had a second thought: “after you take his clothes off. Being in your birthday suit surrounded by half a dozen ugly men with guns usually tends to make interrogatees very cooperative.”
“You’re bad, Ace,” Edgar Delchamps said.
“Oh, shit!” Yung said, then chuckled and added: “Literally. Charley, he’s crapped his pants!”
“Is that what they call an unexpected development, Ace?” Delchamps asked.
“Put him in the aft crapper,” Castillo ordered.
Philip J. Kenyon III returned to full consciousness to find himself sitting on the floor of a plastic-walled cubicle that smelled of feces. An Asian man—in shirtsleeves with an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster and holding what looked like another pistol in his hand—looked down at him.
“What the hell?” Kenyon said. “What happ—”
