When he’s satisfied they’re alone, Roy tells his brother to get out, hands him the key.

Dug fumbles with the padlock, cussing softly and heaves open the big door. Yawning blackness within, and blessed silence. The airplane in faint silhouette, crouching like some great bird, confident in its stillness.

“No lights,” Stick orders sharply, when Dug reaches for a flashlight. And then softer, mostly to himself. “Hell on toast, we might actually get away with this. Right under their noses, wouldn’t that be sweet!”

The Whittle brothers rig up the tow line, hooking a rope loop on the front bumper, and slowly back the big aircraft out of the hangar once again, this time forever.

“Lordy me,” Stick says, gazing in rapture at the aircraft. “Boys, let’s gas ‘er up, get this show on the road.”

Dug peels the tarp off the back of the Dodge Ram, exposing two drums of Jet-A fuel. Tough to come by, but Stick insisted on the real deal, no substituting high-test and kerosene for properly blended turboprop fuel. Something about pure filtration and low flash, typical pilot talk. Roy uncoils the thick rubber hose and then Stick takes charge, muttering about spilled fuel marking the wings. He uses a tiny penlight to illuminate the fuel access and position the nozzle as Dug works the hand crank on the drums. Dug enjoying the fumes—as a boy he’d huffed gasoline a time or two, seeking extra numbness, and vaguely recalls the cell-killing experience with fondness.

Twenty minutes later the tanks are topped off and Stick Davis has a grin that shows in the dark. “It’s less than five hundred nautical miles to Cancun,” he reminds them, strutting around the aircraft as he goes over a cursory checklist. “Make a little stop, change the tail numbers, then hop over to see my friends in Guatemala.”

“These are the friends want the plane?”

“Them or associates of theirs. Might end up in Caracas or São Palo, hard to say.”

“How much, you figure?” Roy pretty much knows, but wants to savor the amount.

“This little beauty?” says Stick, hands massaging his little belly as he gazes fondly at the plane. “With less than three hundred hours on the airframe? The original owner has to have shelled out close to five mil. Maybe more, with that particular avionics package. If we had clear title we’d get, say, four million easy.”

“Four million,” says Dug. Anything more than will fit in his wallet he can’t quite fathom.

“That’s if we owned it legal, which we don’t,” Stick points out. “Lucky I know some who ain’t particular.”

“So how much?”

“What I said before. On the ground in Guatemala, I won’t take a penny less than a cool million. Cash, U.S. dollars, and we split it fifty-fifty, true partners in crime.”

Roy figures that means two million, but he doesn’t care how much Stick Davis steals so long as he clears the agreed-upon five hundred thousand. That was the deal, sealed on a handshake at the Hunt Club. Roy thinking, don’t be greedy, that’s what wrecked his father, trying to squeeze a crooked deal for every last dollar.

For the first time in a week, Roy feels like he’s back in control. Things have finally fallen in place. Ricky Lang on the run is the best thing could have happened. He and Dug can walk away from the crazy kidnapping, make their money on the airplane, still have enough for a fresh start. Meantime Ricky takes the fall, probably with a SWAT bullet in his whacked-out brain, end of story.

Stick is chattering on about vectors and airspeed in a way that makes Roy think he’s gotten into the vodka. How exactly he can’t imagine, since he showed up sober and hasn’t, so far as Roy has observed, taken a swig of anything. What, does he distill alcohol out of the air? Absorb it through his skin? Then again, Roy knows from long familial experience how clever boozers can be, how furtive, sucking down a medicinal shot so fast the human eye can barely register, like a hummingbird probing a blossom for nectar.

Whatever, Stick Davis has a reputation for getting an overloaded crate off the ground even when so drunk he can’t keep both eyes open. Plus he’ll be flying light in a new machine, nothing but himself and the fuel that will get him to wherever it is he’s going. Anywhere but Cancun, Roy figures, he’s mentioned that as a destination strictly for diversionary purposes. Probably heading somewhere further down the coast of Mexico. Full tanks give him range to Costa Rica, for that matter. Knowing Stick, he may sell the Beech to a drug king pin, then fly the same aircraft home with a full load, make out on both ends.

Roy doesn’t care where he goes or what he drinks, so long as he delivers the agreed-upon sum.

“Sure you don’t want to come along for the ride?” Stick teases.

“That’s your deal,” Roy says. “Ours is both feet on the ground, right, Dug?”

“Whatever you say, Roy,” says Dug, still a little high from the whiffs of jet fuel.

They’re helping Stick align the aircraft on the narrow runway when Ricky Lang suddenly materializes out of the darkness, a plastic five-gallon bucket in one hand and a.45 caliber Glock in the other.

“Going somewhere?” he says, at the same time squeezing off a round that explodes through Stick’s left foot.

Big bad Ricky Lang standing over the writhing man, saying, in a conversational tone, “You must be the pilot, because these two dumb crackers couldn’t fly a kite.”

Roy and Dug are both frozen, hands on the wings of the aircraft. Dug waiting on his brother to make a decision and Roy calculating if he can get back to the truck and retrieve his handgun before Ricky blows a hole in his back. Deciding no, he can’t. Amazed by the situation, and by Lang’s bizarre appearance—he seems to have bathed in mud, bare-chested, his big arms glistening in the starlight, and the old Moe Howard haircut slicked back and interlaced with what appears to be strands of swamp grass.

Looks like he’s got a head full of snakes, and that’s how he’s acting, too.

“Your name is Davis,” Ricky says to Stick, who’s rolling around, clutching his shattered foot. “I can read your mind. I can see your spine and all the bones. I can see your fat liver.”

Roy, careful not to make any sudden moves, slowly backs away from the wing and says, “It’s not what you think.”

Ricky finds the remark hilarious. But his laughter is silent and therefore terrifying.

“You’re on the run, we figured you’d need money,” says Roy.

Even funnier. Ricky finally gets his breath back and says, “Do exactly what I say or you’re dead.”

Dug looks sullen but Roy quickly nods assent.

Ricky says, “Kill the girl and bring the boy to me.”

He tells them where and when to deliver Seth Manning, watches them scoot away like scalded kittens, scampering to their precious pickup truck, away to do his bidding. Underlings dispatched, his attention returns to the wounded pilot, who is attempting to crawl away. Not making much progress, either.

“How you doing, Mr. Davis? Did you find your toes?”

Stick whimpers.

Ricky goes, “Inside your head, you know what I see? I see lies and alcohol. I see guns and money and drugs. I see a life wasted ruining the lives of others.”

“Don’t shoot,” Stick begs, holding up his hands as if attempting to catch bullets. “Please don’t shoot.”

“Sure, whatever you want,” Ricky says, slipping the Glock into the pocket of his muddy cargo pants. “Ready?” he asks.

Stick, weeping, asks, “R-r-ready for what?”

Using both hands, Ricky upends the five-gallon bucket of jet fuel, drenching the pilot.

Stick coughs, begins to shiver as the rapidly evaporating, highly flammable fuel cools his flesh. He’s been around, seen some amazing sights in his time, and he knows what happens next.

“Shoot me,” he begs. “Shoot me in the head.”

Ricky apologizes, explains that he’s already put the gun away, and that therefore it will not be possible to shoot Stick in the head.