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Timmy sprang to his side and halted him after he’d made only a few taps on the screen. “Who are you calling?”
“Flight Service in Atlanta.”
“What for?”
“To file my flight plan.” He held up the form he’d already filled out.
Timmy snatched the sheet from him and scanned it. “What’s all this mean?”
Rye pointed out the various blocks. “Type of plane. Aircraft ID. These letters stand for this airport, place of departure. Destination. You heard Lambert give me that. Estimated time of departure, 1930 Zulu. Two-thirty, to you. Estimated time of flight, one hour. Airspeed, altitude, amount of fuel. Number aboard, four souls.”
“Souls?”
“Industry speak. You know, in case you crash and die.”
He’d determined that Timmy had a fear of flying. He planned to milk it. Petty revenge, maybe, but he would derive some enjoyment out of making him squirm.
Timmy looked over the form ag
ain, then handed it back to Rye and chinned toward his cell phone. “Okay, call. But I want to hear who answers.”
Rye shrugged, tapped in the toll-free number, and held out his phone to where Timmy could hear. A male voice answered, “Leidos Flight Service.”
Rye raised his eyebrows inquisitively. Timmy nodded another okay, but carefully monitored everything Rye said as he repeated exactly what he’d printed on the flight plan. When he got to the end he said, “Total souls aboard, four. Three normal. One lost soul named Timmy.”
Timmy gave him the finger.
The man on the phone wished Rye a nice flight. “Nice?” Rye said. “I’ll say. Private strip. Being met by a personal aide, maybe even a red carpet. This is tall cotton for a freight dog like me.”
The guy chuckled. “I recognize the identifier. Tall cotton for anybody. Have fun.”
Rye looked at Timmy. “I can hardly wait.”
2:27 p.m.
Rye put the plane through its preflight check, then motioned the others out of the building. They filed across the tarmac. As Rye handed Brynn in, he whispered, “Brady didn’t make it out of surgery.”
The news was another blow to her, and she reacted to it as such. He would have postponed telling her, except that it was crucial she understand that Brady’s dying had been a turning point for him. He murmured, “I’m all in.”
“What’s going on?” Timmy said from behind them.
“Her seat belt’s stuck.” Rye fiddled with it as he whispered, “I won’t bail on you again. Not until this is over. One way or another.” He pressed her hand. He wanted to kiss her. Badly. Instead, holding her gaze, he gave the seat belt a tug. “That should do it.”
He pointed Lambert into one of the other passenger seats. After he climbed aboard, Rye closed the double doors. “I have to go first,” he told Timmy as he stepped onto the wing.
“No way in hell.”
Rye stepped back down. “Pilot’s seat is on the left. So either I go in first, or I have to crawl over you, or you take the pilot’s seat and fly the plane.”
Grudgingly, Timmy stepped aside. As soon as Timmy boarded, Rye reached across him.
“Hey!” Timmy whipped out a knife.
“I have to make sure the door is shut properly,” Rye said. “Unless you’re okay with being the first one to fall out if you didn’t do it right.”
Timmy leaned back so Rye could reach the door, but he kept the knife unsheathed, tapping the flat of the blade against his thigh. After making sure the door was secure, Rye strapped himself in.
Timmy said, “Don’t try anything tricky.”
