“Ha! You’re just afraid of getting that Ferrari dinged up. No problem. Take me home, and I’ll get my—”
“I was just going to say, why drive, when we can fly? Especially, if we’re going to the airport anyway.”
“It’s a little late to try and arrange a charter.”
“Who said anything about a charter?”
She stared at him for a long moment. “Don’t tell me you have your own plane?”
“No, I’ve done very well for myself, but those things are tens of millions of dollars and I wouldn’t use it enough to make it worth my while.” He motioned for her to follow him toward the elevators. “I’ll borrow one from a friend.”
She snorted. “But who’s going to fly it? You?”
“Yes. Unless you’d like to take a whack at it. But I’m afraid my friend would insist that your CE-525-license rating be up to date.”
“Seriously? You can actually fly a plane?”
“I guess you’re about to find out.” He pulled out his phone as they walked. “I just need to make a quick call. It’s always nicer to have the jet warmed up and waiting when we get there.”
She just stared at him. “Warmed up and—?”
He spoke into the phone. “Greetings, Giancarlo. It’s Adam. I have a favor to ask…”
*
KENDRA SPENT THE TWENTY-MINUTE drive to Montgomery Field Airport in a state of disbelief that abated only slightly when Lynch drove through a group of small hangars toward a small, low-winged jet with a rear T-tail. A high-pitched whine emanated from the plane’s engines.
Lynch parked a few yards away. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Kendra pointed toward the plane. “You didn’t say it was a jet.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t. It’s a Cessna Citation Jet. This one’s configured for eight passengers, so the two of us should be very comfortable.” He opened his car door. “Shall we?”
She followed him out of his car and across the tarmac to the plane, where Lynch shook hands with a ground mechanic. They boarded the few short steps into the cabin. Kendra ducked into the doorway and froze.
“Is everything all right?” Lynch asked.
She surveyed the main compartment, which was over twenty feet long. With plush leather chairs, a large coffee table, and a sectional sofa, it was decorated more like a sumptuous living room than a corporate jet.
She shook her head in amazement. “This is nicer than my condo.”
“My friend hates to fly. This takes the sting out of it for him.”
“I guess it would.”
He moved toward the cockpit. “My seat is up here. Make yourself comfortable. You’ll find the bar stocked with some of the nicest wines you’ll ever taste. I recommend the ’89 Grand Puy Lacoste.”
“Give me a break. Don’t pile all this fine living on me at once. Is there room in the cockpit for me?”
Lynch shrugged. “There’s a copilot seat, but I guarantee you it’s a lot less comfortable than that sofa.”
“It’s okay. I’ll ride shotgun.”
They settled in the tiny cockpit and buckled up. Lynch slipped on the headset and after a brief exchange with the tower, he conducted the instrument check. He then piloted the jet onto a runway and took off into the night sky.
Lynch glanced at her and smiled. “You’re very quiet. You look like you’ve never ridden in a private plane before.”
“No, and certainly not piloted by someone I know. But you seem to know what you’re doing.”
“Thanks.” He grimaced. “I guess that’s why you wanted to sit up front, so that you could see for yourself. I’m glad I passed the test.”
“I’m not qualified to judge your ability. I was just interested in the entire process.” She smiled. “And you can never tell when you might be able to use something you watch being done.”
He chuckled. “Please, tell me you won’t attempt to fly this Cessna without a little more instruction than a visual.”
“I wouldn’t think of it … maybe. When did you find the time to get a pilot’s license?”
He shrugged. “I started flying about seven years ago, when I was still on the FBI payroll. I figured it would be a handy skill to acquire. It’s actually come in more handy since I left. I’m now rated on several planes and helicopters. When I’m in a tight spot, it’s always nice to have extremely fast transportation options.”
“I guess that makes sense. But not everybody has a friend with a private jet at his disposal. Who is this man?”
“Giancarlo? Just a guy I helped out once.”
“Helped out how?”
Lynch paused to check his altitude. “I was sent to find him in Budapest a few years ago. Our government got some intel that he was plotting some terrorist activity against U.S. targets, and they wanted him taken out.”
She went still. “They wanted you to kill him?”