Kona Waters: A Rick Waters Novel, page 19
“Sure, come on in,” replied Clay.
The plane was on autopilot and Crystal sat down next to Clay with her purse on her lap.
“I’m gonna grab a Coke Zero and check on our other passenger. Do you want something?”
“No, I’m good,” said Crystal.
Clay walked to the back and returned a minute later with a Coke Zero. He sat back down in the pilot’s seat and fastened his seat belt.
“Oh, I need that sat phone back. Rick might need to call me,” said Clay.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Crystal.
“Huh?”
Clay glanced over, and he saw that Crystal had a .38 snub-nose pointed at him, which she had taken out of her purse.
“What’s going on, Crystal.”
“It’s not Crystal. It’s Lelani. Give me the keys to Keifer’s shackles. Now!” she demanded.
Clay gulped, reached into his front pocket, and handed her the handcuff keys. She cocked the revolver.
“Listen, just relax. There’s no need to do that. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
“Turn off the jet’s radio. Do it, now!” said Leilani.
Clay did as he was told.
“Now come with me.”
Clay followed her toward the back of the jet. He saw the satellite phone sitting in the seat next to where she had been sitting. It was turned off. He hadn’t noticed it before when he grabbed his Coke Zero. She passed the keys back to him.
“Take off the tape and unlock him.”
Clay obeyed and ripped the tape from Keifer’s mouth.
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled.
Clay then unlocked the shackles and the handcuffs.
“What should we do, Keifer?” asked Leilani.
“Handcuff him!” replied Keifer.
“Who’s gonna fly the plane? You a pilot?” asked Clay.
Keifer grimaced.
“Go back to the cockpit. Don’t try anything or I’ll shoot you in the leg.”
Clay returned to the cockpit, and Keifer handcuffed him to the yoke.
“Where do you want to go?” asked Clay.
“Keifer thought for a minute.
“What countries don’t have extradition treaties with the US besides Ecuador?” asked Keifer.
“How the fuck should I know?” asked Clay.
Leilani piped up, “I think Venezuela is exempt.”
“Take us to Venezuela. Do you have enough fuel?” asked Keifer.
“Plenty.”
Clay set a course for Maiquetía "Simón Bolívar" International Airport. He had to do it with one hand because he was handcuffed with the other. Keifer and Lelani went back to the front row and took turns holding the gun on Clay through the open cockpit door.
“Can you at least uncock it and take your finger off the trigger? If that thing goes off accidentally, we’re all fucked,” said Clay.
Keifer thought about it and gently lowered the hammer on the revolver. Clay was just about an hour and a half from the mainland. The flight path would take them directly over Buenaventura and then Bogotá, Colombia, to Venezuela. He needed to figure out something fast.
Rick’s phone rang, and it was Possum again.
“Rick, Carson is tracking the jet on ADS-B, and they did a 180-degree turn. It looks like they are headed to Colombia. I still can’t get a hold of Clay. Keifer and Leilani must be in control of the jet.”
“Hang on,” said Rick.
Rick opened Google Maps on his phone and typed in Colombia.
“Do you have his flight path route?”
“Hold on. I have Carson on hold.”
A minute later, he came back on.
“I’m gonna text you the GPS path so far.”
Rick’s phone whistled, and he opened it to see the first GPS location and the second from the transporter. He drew a line with his finger on the map.
“I knew it. They are heading to Venezuela. There is no active extradition treaty between Venezuela and the US. He can’t return to Ecuador, obviously. Let’s pray he just lets Clay fly him there and gets off without harming him,” said Rick.
“We’ll keep monitoring the flight and keep you posted, Rick.”
Jules heard the entire conversation because Rick had it on speaker.
“So much for too easy. I can’t believe she fucking tricked us,” said Rick,
“If she ever gets out of prison, she should consider taking up acting,” replied Jules.
Clay was silent as he continued the flight toward Venezuela. Keifer and Leilani were getting more relaxed with the gun. Leilani was still holding it, but no longer pointing it directly at Clay.
“I need to take a piss,” said Clay.
“Just hold it,” replied Keifer.
“We're gonna be in the air for hours. Just let me use the restroom. Where the hell am I gonna go? There are no parachutes on board, and at this altitude, I’d die if I jumped out of the plane,” said Clay.
Keifer reluctantly got up and took the pistol from Lelani. He opened the bathroom door and looked inside. Once he was satisfied there were no weapons inside or anything that Clay could use to make a weapon, he unlocked the handcuffs and walked him toward the restroom with the gun in his back.
“Hurry up!”
Clay stepped inside.
“A little privacy, please?” asked Clay.
“Keep the door cracked open.”
Clay peed and flushed it. He tried to pull the corner of the vanity off to make a shiv out of it, but the plane was so well-made, he couldn’t budge it. He felt all around the mirror trying to get an edge, but it was futile. He’d have to come up with something else. Feeling defeated, he stepped back out and was led back to the cockpit by Keifer.
“No more drinks for you,” said Keifer.
Clay sat in the pilot seat, brainstorming ways to outsmart Keifer. They only had one gun, so if he could just take it from whoever was holding it or incapacitate them, he might stand a chance. He was pretty sure that when they landed, they would kill him where he sat. He flew for another hour, and the mainland started to come into view. They were still about an hour from Bogotá. If he could just get a message to the airport, maybe they could scramble a fighter jet or something. With the radio off and no way to make communications, he was running out of ideas, then he remembered the flashlight/taser Rick had bought him from some flea market somewhere. It looked exactly like a small tactical flashlight, but it had the strength of a regular taser. He needed to come up with a reason to get it out of his flight bag. With his free hand, he slowly moved toward the instrument panel. When he got his finger under the PTU switch, he toggled it with his index finger. It started barking in the belly of the aircraft.
“We have a problem!” yelled Clay.
“What’s that sound?” asked Keifer.
“It’s the hydraulics trying to pressurize. I think we blew a fuse,” replied Clay.
“Do we need it?”
“Do you want the wheels to come out on landing? It’s happened before. Open the overhead bin and pull out my flight bag. There’s a flashlight in there,” said Clay.
“You better not be fucking around,” replied Keifer.
“What am I gonna do? Shine you to death with the LED light? I need a fucking flashlight!”
Keifer handed the gun to Leilani and opened the overhead bin. He set the bag on the seat below and dug through it for the flashlight. When he found it, he walked to the cockpit and handed it to Clay.
“You’re gonna have to unlock these handcuffs. I need to get into the fuse box.”
Keifer unlocked them but kept the gun on Clay as he got up from the seat and opened the fuse box. He shined the flashlight inside and pulled one of the extra fuses out and held it to the light.
“Yes, just as I thought. In the bin behind the one where my bag was is a toolkit. Inside of it should be an 18.2-amp blue fuse. Grab me one, and we’ll be back in business. It must be 18.2,” said Clay.
“Fuck!”
Keifer handed the revolver to Leilani and opened the other bin. He took out the toolbox and grabbed an 18-amp fuse and brought it to Clay.
“No, I said 18.2-amp. This will blow immediately,” barked Clay,
He knew full well there was no 18.2-amp fuse. No such thing existed.
“I have a 20-amp. Can you just use that?” asked Keifer.
“No, we must have 18.2. If the fuse is too small, it will blow; if it’s too big, we might lose the hydraulics entirely if the pump overheats.”
Kiefer was digging through the fuses and huffing in frustration.
“Here, use the flashlight. They can be hard to see,” said Clay.
Clay flipped the safety cover off of the flashlight that had the taser button under it. He walked out of the cockpit with the flashlight in his hand past Leilani holding the gun. He started to hand the flashlight to Keifer, and when he reached for it, Clay jabbed it in his chest and pushed the button. His entire body was violently shaking, and he fell backward. Clay looked back just as Leilani cocked the pistol. He dove behind a row of seats, and she fired.
Boom!
Fire came out of the muzzle of the .38 revolver. She missed Clay and hit a window. Wind rushed as the window blew out. Papers flew out of the window, and the entire starboard side of the wall blew out, taking the row of seats and Keifer with it. Blood, flesh, and bone were ripped from his body and filled the edge of the jagged aluminum. Clay couldn’t breathe from the lack of oxygen as the jet decompressed immediately. Oxygen masks fell from the overhead compartment and flapped against the ceiling from the rush of wind. Leilani rolled down the aisle like a rag doll towards the opening. Her head slammed into the bulkhead, and her leg got wrapped under the seat, saving her from flying out of the gaping hole in the side of the jet. Blood spewed from the side of her head as her body bounced up and down from the gushing wind, trying to suck her out. Clay used all his strength to hold on to one of the loose seatbelts and reach up to grab an oxygen mask.
“Come on!” he yelled as it kept flapping around.
He finally got it in his hand and put it to his face. He took several deep breaths. He could see vapor coming from his breath due to the chill. The temperature inside had dropped way below freezing. If he didn’t go to a lower altitude fast, he would freeze to death. He moved up a row, grabbed another mask, then took a breath. It took all his strength to hold on and lift up a row at a time. He grabbed the flapping seatbelt from the first-row seat, inhaled more oxygen, then used his hand to pull himself past the bulkhead. He stepped on Leilani’s flopping body and finally reached the cockpit door and pulled himself inside. It took every bit of energy he had left to get into the pilot’s seat and fasten the seatbelt. He grabbed the portable O2 can and took several deep breaths, then he shoved the plane into a nosedive. The plane was descending rapidly, and the temperature inside was rising. When he reached ten thousand feet, he began to level off. He slowed his descent, and when he got to five thousand feet, he pulled the O2 canister from his face and turned on the radio.
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Bogotá Tower, this is November One Three Seven Alpha Bravo, declaring an emergency. We’ve sustained a hole in the aircraft’s fuselage, causing pressurization issues. Requesting immediate priority for landing on the nearest runway. Currently at 5,000 feet, 120 miles southwest of your position, heading 030. Please advise,” said Clay.
“November One Three Seven Alpha Bravo, Bogotá Tower, roger your emergency. You are cleared for immediate landing on Runway 13L. Wind is 090 at 10 knots. Emergency services are on standby. Confirm your altitude and ETA,” said a voice with a Latin accent over the radio.
Clay turned off the barking PTU switch, although he couldn’t hear it with all the wind.
“Bogotá Tower, November Three Seven Alpha Bravo, descending through 4,000 feet, ETA approximately fifteen minutes. We’re maintaining control, but we need to get on the ground quickly. Confirming Runway 13L.”
“November One Three Seven Alpha Bravo, confirmed for Runway 13L. Traffic is cleared, and you have priority. Report when you have the runway in sight. Emergency crews are in position,” said the man in the tower.
Clay stopped shivering as the air warmed significantly at that altitude. He looked back at Leilani lying on the floor. Her body wasn’t flopping anymore as Clay had slowed his speed overground. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not and really didn’t care. He was worried the plane might completely come apart before he landed, but all he could do was pray and focus on the task at hand. The runway came into view, and he grabbed the radio to call the tower back.
“Bogotá Tower, November One Three Seven Alpha Bravo, runway 13L in sight. We’re at 3,000 feet, approximately 5 miles out, continuing descent. Confirm clearance to land,” said Clay.
“November One Three Seven Alpha Bravo, Bogotá Tower, you are cleared to land on Runway 13L. Wind 090 at 8 knots. Emergency services are positioned and ready. Report final approach.”
Clay did the sign of the cross and said the Lord’s prayer.
“Bogotá Tower, November One Three Seven Alpha Bravo, on final approach for Runway 13L. Gear down and locked, full flaps, stabilizing for landing. Estimating touchdown in one minute.”
“November One Three Seven Alpha Bravo, roger, cleared to land. Runway is clear. Contact ground on 121.9 after landing for further instructions. Good luck.”
The jet lined up with Bogotá’s Runway 13L and touched down. The rear tires hit first, letting out a quick screech as they grabbed the runway, followed by a steady thump-thump as they spun up. A second later, the nose gear settled with a soft thud and a faint whir. The engines’ high-pitched whine dropped to a low hum as the jet slowed, rolling straight down the centerline.
Emergency vehicles were lined up along the taxiway, their red, blue, and white lights flashing hard against the dusk. The strobes bounced off the jet’s fuselage, mixing with the runway’s white edge lights and green centerline markers. Fire trucks and ambulances stood ready. Clay kept it steady, taxiing toward the exit as the tower’s voice crackled with instructions. The sounds of the landing faded, leaving just the rumble of the idling engines. Clay slumped forward and let out a huge sigh.
“Phew!”
Clay shut down the engines, their low hum fading into silence. He unbuckled, grabbed his checklist and backpack, and moved to the main cabin door. With a quick turn of the handle, the door swung open, and a rush of warm Bogotá air hit him. He stepped onto the fold-out stairs, his shoes clanging lightly on the metal, and descended to the tarmac. The flashing red, blue, and white lights from the emergency vehicles—fire trucks and ambulances parked nearby—lit up his face as he scanned the scene.
“There’s an injured or dead woman in the aisle,” said Clay to the first man to reach him.
Emergency personnel, already mobilized, rushed toward the aircraft. A team of paramedics, carrying medical kits and a collapsible stretcher, climbed the stairs and boarded the jet. Inside, they found Leilani lying in the aisle, her face pale and contorted in pain from the impact of whatever caused the fuselage hole. Her right leg had a compound fracture and was bleeding more than her head now. One paramedic knelt beside her, speaking calmly in Spanish, checking her pulse and assessing her condition. “Señora, ¿qué duele?” he asked while another opened a medical bag, pulling out a cervical collar and oxygen mask.
They worked quickly, stabilizing her neck and administering oxygen, their voices steady but urgent as they communicated her vital signs. A third responder radioed for a gurney to be brought up. They carefully pulled out her leg, which was tangled in the seat’s metal frame.
Clay stood on the tarmac, briefing a fire crew chief about the hole in the fuselage, pointing toward the midsection of the aircraft. The chief nodded, directing his team to inspect the damage for any fire or fuel leak risks. The strobes from the emergency vehicles continued to pulse. Clay watched as the paramedics carefully lifted Leilani onto the stretcher, securing her for transport. They moved her down the stairs, her groans muffled by the oxygen mask, and loaded her into the waiting ambulance. The doors slammed shut, and the vehicle sped off toward the hospital, lights flashing and siren blaring into the Bogotá sky.
“She is a criminal. Policia,” said Clay.
He climbed into a second awaiting ambulance, which followed Leilani’s to Hospital de Fontibón. The paramedics took Clay’s vitals. He appeared to be okay but thought he may have pulled a muscle in his left arm from pulling himself through the aisles. He was in way better shape than Leilani. Once he arrived at the hospital and was transferred to a regular room, he pulled his cell phone from his backpack and called Rick.
“Clay! You’re alive,” said Rick.
“Yeah, I can’t say as much for Keifer. He’s in several pieces over the Pacific. He's fish food. Leilani is in critical condition. She has a skull fracture and a compound fracture on her right leg. I don’t know if she’ll make it. Gary is gonna shit a brick when he sees the hole in the side of his jet,” said Clay. “What happened?” asked Rick. “Possum told me he saw the plane land in Bogotá, according to the ADS.”
“I used the flashlight taser you gave me to take down Keifer. Leilani took a shot at me and hit one of the windows. Keifer got sucked out like chocolate milk through a straw. I can’t believe I didn’t. It was close. The only thing that saved Leilani is her leg got wrapped in the metal frame of the port side seat in row one. That’s how her leg broke.”
“Are you sure Keifer is dead?”
“Pretty damn sure, I think half of his face is hanging from the jagged aluminum in the hole on the jet. It was gruesome,” said Clay.
“Man, you did a great job. We are about five miles offshore heading north and maybe half a day from Panama. I think it will be faster to motor through the canal to Destin than keep going north to San Diego at this point. We might just hire a captain to bring the yacht the rest of the way or turn it over to authorities in Panama. We haven’t decided. We just want to get home. Do you want me to head to Colombia and meet you at the hospital?” asked Rick.
“Nah, I’ll be fine. The jet’s gonna need some major TLC. Gary may want to scuddle it and get a new one. I’m not sure it’s repairable.”
