Signature Wounds (A Paul Grale Thriller #1)
Kirk Russell
Saturday, June 17th
The plane was a well-cared-for Cessna 182T owned by a retired American couple. Their bodies lay on the airstrip at their ranch in Mexico as their plane flew west toward an orange sunset. The pilot had done other work for the cartel and was reliable, though disturbed by the casual execution he’d just watched. His passenger seemed unaffected. As they entered US airspace, the pilot made the planned emergency call, reported engine trouble, and landed at a private airfield in the Imperial Valley.
Two vehicles were waiting. Two said the passenger was important. The pilot got another look at him as the man climbed out, but knew not to look too long or hard. He turned the plane and took off again, skimming dark fields, then circling and climbing ahead of the mountains. The plane was his. That was the agreement, and he already had a buyer. He needed to forget about the old man shielding his wife before they were shot. Deliver the plane, he thought, get a clean hotel room, and then go down to the bar and drink. He liked the hotel bar and they knew him. At the bar he would forget what he had seen today.
On the ground, there was no waiting. The cars pulled away, and only the passenger looked back. He watched for a flash of white light. It came as the plane reached four thousand feet, crossing mountains at the edge of the valley. Like heat lightning, it was there only a moment, then gone, but in his head he saw more. He saw the plane shatter and the pieces falling, twisting and turning, tumbling in darkness.
1
Jeremy Beatty hesitated when he opened his trailer door and saw me, then stepped outside and pulled the door shut, keeping the cool air inside. He was dressed for the heat, wearing sandals, shorts, and a gray T-shirt with blue letters reading United States Air Force arced across the chest. In sunlight, his face looked older than thirty-one years. His clothes looked slept in. But the gunfighter eyes were there, and that’s what I was looking for. I didn’t need or want an apology.
“I sent that text last night, then crashed,” Beatty said. “I was drinking. Sorry I didn’t get back to you today, Grale.”
“I thought you were done with late-night drinking.”
“I am.”
“Okay, so what happened last night?”
“Some bad news, and I kind of lost it.”
In truth, it was none of my business what he did with his nights, yet I had something of a mentoring role with Beatty.
“When I got home yesterday, two Air Force Office of Special Investigations officers were waiting here. They’re working with the Department of Defense on a joint investigation. Supposedly, the drones I test-flew in Taiwan last February were built from stolen plans. They told me I should have known and reported it. Grale, I had no friggin’ clue. They want me to wear a wire and set up a meeting with the guy who hired us.”
Air Force OSI working with DOD to scare Beatty into wearing a wire sounded like an idea cooked up in a joint meeting. I could make a call or two and find out, but for the moment I was just relieved he was okay.
I didn’t see Beatty often anymore; I took in the changes, but also what hadn’t changed. His hair was still cut high and tight, as if he’d never left the air force. Lines etching the corners of his eyes were deeper. Beatty had gone from a go-to drone pilot in the Creech Air Force Base flight trailers to living alone and struggling with PTSD while kick-starting a drone consulting business.
“Did the Taiwan work come through that job broker Eddie Bahn?” I asked.
“It all still comes through Eddie. He rips me off, but he gets me work. For now, it’s what I’ve got.”
He moved farther out on the deck and said, “When I got on the plane to go to Taiwan, I swear, Grale, I thought, ‘This is made up. This can’t be.’ They sent me first-class tickets. I’ve never sat in first class in my life. I kept thinking, ‘This isn’t for you, dude, something is wrong here.’”
“What did you think when you got there?”