State of Emergency

CHAPTER 46


January 9





“Monagas is gone,” Aleksandra said early the next morning. Her lips were drawn in a tight white line as she set her tray down on the long folding table under the dining tent. “I just heard it from one of his mechanics. Gone!” The sun was just coming up, but the last riders had left the starting line five minutes before.

Thibodaux looked up from his plate of eggs and buttered toast. “Gone?”

“That can’t be good,” Bo said from across the table.

“No,” Thibodaux said. “It’s not.” He reached for the iPhone in his shirt pocket. “You get Jericho on the horn and I’ll check on Zamora.”

Thibodaux pulled up his hacked link to the ASO tracking system just in time to see the GPS blip identifying Zamora’s bike veer off the designated course and turn east for the Iquique airport. In an unavoidable turn of events, Jericho had come in ahead of him the day before and had to leave the starting line earlier. He was going slow, feigning engine trouble, but was still ahead a half mile.

Thibodaux stood, twirling his hand overhead for the others to abandon their breakfast and follow him.

Bo handed him the phone as they ran toward the support truck.





Jericho tapped the Bluetooth receiver on the side of his helmet. “Go for Quinn,” he said. Without a face shield, the wind whirred in his helmet, but the earpiece made it possible to hear well enough.

“Turn around, l’ami,” Thibodaux said. “Zamora’s heading to the airport.”

Quinn tapped the brakes, feeling the bike’s knobby tires squirm on the cool pavement. If Thibodaux said to turn around, there was no point in second-guessing him.

“Monagas?” he asked.

“He was MIA as of early this morning, beb,” Thibodaux said. “Looks like they’re making a move. We’re on our way to the airport now.”

Quinn pulled over long enough to disable the KTM’s GPS locator system so the officials—and anyone else who might be watching—wouldn’t be able to track him. Race officials would call the IriTrack to check his safety soon enough, but he would tell them he’d had engine trouble. He didn’t want to withdraw until later, in case Zamora happened to check in later in the day.

Back aboard the bike, he flipped a quick U-turn and opened up the throttle, no longer fretting about babying the engine through the race. He made it to the tiny civil aviation airpark near Iquique’s Diego Aracena Airport less than five minutes later.

The KTM’s wheels crunched up on the gravel apron next to a young mechanic in greasy blue overalls wiping his hands on an even greasier rag. A twin-engine Cessna banked northeast over the rolling dunes of the Atacama Desert.

“Have you quit the race too, señor?” the mechanic asked, eyeing Quinn with an empathetic frown.

“I’m afraid so, amigo,” Quinn said. He saw Zamora’s Yamaha—a fifty-thousand-dollar motorcycle—abandoned, lying on its side next to a neatly painted tin hangar along the edge of the taxiway. “Bad transmission,” he lied. He nodded toward the twin-engine Cessna that grew smaller and smaller as it flew into the morning light. “What happened to my friend?”

“It must be in the water.” The mechanic smiled. “He too had a bad transmission.”

“So he chartered one of your planes?” Quinn asked, still straddling the KTM.

The mechanic shook his head. “No. He bought it. They are going to La Paz.” He peered at Quinn. “Do you too wish to buy an airplane to go to La Paz?”

Quinn scanned the tiny airport. Only three other aircraft sat at their tie-downs beyond the building, a Piper Cheyenne twin, a tiny Cessna 150, and a radial-engine plane that looked like some kind of older war bird.

“I’d like to charter one,” Quinn said. Thibodaux and the others came rolling up in the support truck, screeching to a stop beside him.

“Very well, amigo,” the mechanic said, eyeing the newcomers. “The 150 and the Navy trainer are available for charter. But the Cheyenne is for sale only.”

Quinn frowned. Both the 150 and the Navy AT6 were two-place aircraft. They would do no good. “For sale only?” he asked.

“Ah, I am afraid so, amigo. Too many people want to do things outside the law in such a plane. If I was to own it during such an action, I could get into grave trouble.” A broad smile crossed his face. “I make you a very good deal at one hundred thousand American dollars.”

Quinn tilted his head. “And she’s in good condition?”

“Of course, señor,” the mechanic said. “And I will fly her for you for an additional fifty thousand dollars.”

“That is a steep fee, my friend,” Bo Quinn said as he walked up beside his brother.

“It is,” the mechanic said. “But I am not the one with a bad transmission needing to go to La Paz.”





Five minutes later Enrique Santos had changed his greasy overalls for a pair of faded jeans, a white sweatshirt, and a ball cap with an Orvis fly-fishing logo on the front—and proclaimed himself a Piper Cheyenne pilot.

“You sure this is safe?” Thibodaux said, as they climbed up the fold-out air stairs at the rear of the aircraft. He ran a thumb around the tattered rubber door seal before ducking his head to walk between the single seats on each side of a narrow aisle.

“He’s flying us,” Quinn said. “He must think it’s safe enough.” There were two seats in front for a pilot and co-pilot, then four more with two facing aft and two more in a vis-à-vis configuration. A fifth seat with a removable cushion hiding the toilet was at the far aft of the plane behind a sliding curtain. It had space for two more seats, but Quinn guessed they had been removed in order to haul more cargo in the form of coca products. Quinn took the forward-facing seat on the right of the airplane so he could keep an eye on Enrique.

“We’re in a bit of a hurry, amigo,” he said. “I would like to catch up to my friend who left earlier if we could.”

Enrique picked up the mike from the console of instruments and looked over his shoulder. “I could attempt to call him on the radio.”

Quinn raised his hand. “That won’t be necessary.

The young pilot nodded. “I thought not, amigo. You have that look about you.”

“What look is that?” Bo asked, sitting across from his brother.

“The look of one who chases bad men.”

“And my friend in the Cessna?”

Enrique’s face grew dark. “Oh, señor, he has the look of a very bad man. That is why I gave you my sweetheart deal on this airplane.”

The Pratt & Whitney turbine engines hurled the Cheyenne off the runway and pulled her up at an angle steep enough that Bo, who sat almost knee to knee across from Quinn, was hanging above him by his shoulder harness. Aleksandra hung similarly over Thibodaux until the plane began to level out at fifteen thousand feet into a shallower climb.

One hand on the yoke, Enrique turned and held up a two-foot length of toilet paper. “We are having a little trouble pressurizing,” he said. “I need someone to take this and hold it up to the door.” His face was relaxed, as if this sort of thing happened all the time.

“Do what now?” Thibodaux’s eyes went wide.

“We’re losing air around the door.” Enrique held out the toilet paper. “Hold this near the door. When you get to the leak it will suck out of your hand and seal the hole . . . hopefully.”





Despite having to use toilet paper to fix the door seal, Enrique proved to be a more than competent pilot. Roughly two hours later he set the Cheyenne down through heavy clouds at Laja Airport a few kilometers outside of El Alto, a suburb of La Paz.

Thibodaux applauded when the wheels touched down in a steady rain. “Damn good aviating, amigo.”

“Thank you for flying Air Enrique,” the young pilot said as they rolled down the runway. Blue and white lights flashed in by the fog. The prop blast pushed rivulets of water along the windows. “It sounds as if we were the last plane in. The weather has everything grounded. Look, your friend was able to make it in. There is the Cessna he purchased.” Enrique pointed to the main operations building looming like a ghost through the fog as they made their way to parking. “I must advise you that if you wish to be legal, you will need to check in with Bolivian customs at the airport in El Alto. You are American so they will charge you a hundred and thirty-five dollars each for a Bolivian visa. That is entirely up to you, however. No one knows we are here. Where do you want me to park your plane?”

“Consider it our gift to you,” Quinn said. Both he and Enrique had known all along that he wasn’t going to hassle with the aircraft while Zamora got farther away.

“Thank you very much for your generosity,” Enrique said, grinning.

Thibodaux looked at him through narrow eyes. “How many times have you sold this same plane?”

Enrique’s grin grew even wider as he set the parking brake. “Oh, you would be surprised, señor. I could retire, but the work is good and I get to meet such interesting people.”

A thought suddenly occurred to Quinn. “I’m sure you know the pilot who flew my friend here in the Cessna.”

“He is my cousin,” Enrique said.

“Call and see if the men are still with him. But tell him not to mention us.”

Enrique nodded emphatically. “An excellent idea, amigo.” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

After a quick conversation of rapid-fire Spanish he ended the call and returned the phone to his pocket.

“The men you follow tried to get my cousin to fly them to Rurrenabaque on the other side of the Yungas Mountains. But the weather is too bad. He told them he would wait, but he says they are rude and very impatient.”

“Where are they now?” Aleksandra asked.

Enrique shrugged. “They took a cab down to the city.”

“Will they come back so he can fly them?” Aleksandra’s voice rose in pitch and timbre. “Surely they will come back.”

“Not according to my cousin, I’m afraid,” Enrique said. “He says they were in too much of a hurry to listen to reason. He pointed them to the Hotel Condeza, but I do not know if they would take his advice.”

Enrique paused at the door of the aircraft, his hand on the exit lever. “I must warn you,” he said. “The air is very thin here in La Paz. Go slowly, my friends—or you will learn the hard way. And lastly, be wary of unofficial taxis. Some are paid to drive you to certain places where you will be robbed.”

Both Bo and Aleksandra smiled at that, taking the pistols out of the duffel and shoving then under their jackets.

“That would prove to be quite a surprise to the robbers,” she said.





Oddly, Quinn felt the pressure drop when Enrique twisted the Cheyenne’s latch and cracked open the door, as if they’d opened the door in flight. He took a deep breath of what oxygen there was and made his way down the folding stairs to the wet tarmac.

Team Quinn grabbed their duffel bags and stood in the rain to wave good-bye to the young entrepreneur. Jericho had changed out of his riding gear in mid flight and into a pair of nylon 5.11 khakis and a white polo. Prepared for desert nights on the Dakar, he had only a nylon jacket that proved to be lacking against the chilly heights of El Alto at over thirteen thousand feet above sea level.

Enrique called them a cab, and it arrived within minutes. Cramming themselves into the battered Ford Expedition, they settled in for the looping ride on the Autopista from the high plains of El Alto down, down, down to the great gash in the Andes that cradled the city of Nuestra Señora de La Paz, the Hotel Condeza, and, if they were extremely lucky, Valentine Zamora.