Grant heads for the rear of the plane. I follow him.
Outside, the French guy is noticeably more agitated. “I am losing patience, Monsieur Carlson! Cut the engines and surrender NOW!”
“Are you serious about this?!” I ask Grant, shocked beyond belief.
“Serious as a heart attack,” he answers as he pulls several bulky backpack-looking things out of a storage locker marked EMERGENCY – PARACHUTES.
“Do you really think they’re mercenaries?” I ask fearfully.
“Oh, no. We’d already be dead if they were mercenaries.”
“WHAT?! So instead, you’re going to risk our lives parachuting out of a plane you’re going to dump in the English Channel?!”
“Yeah, of course,” he says in tone of voice like It’s obvious.
I stare at him.
He realizes I’m not exactly onboard about how obvious it all is.
“Thirty years in jail is not exactly a wonderful alternative,” he explains.
“For YOU, maybe, but it’s not thirty years in jail for me!” I rage.
Grant looks at me. “Are you mad about the five million? Because I’ll give you five million, too, if you – ”
“IT’S NOT THE FIVE MILLION, GRANT! I DON’T WANT TO DIE!”
“You’re not going to die.”
“I’ve never parachuted before!”
“We’ll be jumping out together,” he assures me.
“I don’t – ”
“This is your last warning!” the voice yells outside. “You have ten seconds to lower the door on the aeroplane! Ten – nine – ”
The plane suddenly lurches into motion, and I stumble against Grant.
The voice starts screaming something that sounds like, “Tier A! Tier A, Tier A, Tier A!”
I wonder what ‘Tier A’ means – like ‘Plan B’ in English, maybe? – when a hail of gunshots ring out.
A bunch of metal ping! ping! pings! clatter against the side of the plane, and several windows crack.
I scream.
Grant throws himself on top of me and forces us to the floor.
“On second thought, maybe they aren’t actually the cops,” Grant mutters next to my ear.
“HANG ON!” Mike yells from the cockpit.
The plane accelerates quickly.
More gunfire blasts outside.
Grant grabs the metal bases of the nearest seats, which are bolted to the plush-carpeted floor. Then he intertwines his legs with mine like we’re doing some rear-entry sex position out of the Kama Sutra.
Which would have been hot if, you know, I wasn’t worried about dying.
As the plane lifts into the air at a severe angle, the parachutes go tumbling down the aisle away from us. I can feel gravity tugging me backwards, threatening to do the same to me. Only Grant’s intertwined legs and the force of his body against mine keep me from somersaulting backwards towards the rear of the plane.
Thirty long-ass seconds go by before the plane levels off enough where we can finally get up from the floor.
“You okay?” Grant asks.
“Yeah,” I gasp.
“Well, you know what they say.”
“What?”
“Any take-off you can walk away from is a good one.”
“They say that about landings,” I snap, annoyed that he’s so jokey about the whole thing.
“Well, we definitely won’t be walking away from this landing,” he says, then gives me a wink as he walks to the back of the cabin to retrieve the parachutes.
“You’re not helping!” I yell at him.
4
The wind is whistling eerily through the bullet holes in the glass windows. But I realize that no oxygen masks have fallen out of the ceiling.
Come to think of it, I have no idea if small jets like this even have that capability – but then I decide they must. Billionaires are even more invested in keeping themselves alive than airlines are.
“How come we can still breathe?” I call out.
“We’re flying relatively low. We can’t go too high or we’ll depressurize,” Mike shouts from the cockpit.
“Just as long as you can get us to the Channel,” Grant yells back. “How long till we’re there?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Can’t we go any faster?”
Mike looks back over his shoulder in irritation. “Ten minutes is pedal to the medal, bud! We’re flying full throttle here!”
Grant walks up to the cockpit. “Can you do me a favor?”
“What, besides flee the French authorities and get myself shot at?”
“Five million should buy me that and more,” Grant retorts.
“You’re going to milk that for all it’s worth, aren’t you.”
“Yeah,” Grant says, like DUH.
“Thank God I only have to listen to you for another… nine minutes, then,” Mike says as he checks the dashboard. “What’s the favor?”
“Aim slightly west of where you would ordinarily cross the Channel. We’ll jump out there, you fly up the coast for a few minutes, then cut across and head for London.”
“Why?”
“When they search the area where the plane goes down, I want to be as far away as possible.”
“I can’t exactly promise the fuel will last that long,” Mike warns.
“Do your best. I mean, I’m paying five million dollars here.”
Mike sighs. “And there it is. Again.”
“Hey, we still have nine minutes left,” Grant says cheerfully.
“Eight. Speaking of that five million dollars, how exactly am I going to get paid?”
“Cashier’s check, of course.”
Mike gives him a mad-dog look. “I am going to turn this plane around – ”
“Calm down. Jesus, nobody can take a joke anymore. Eve’ll set up a private account for you at the Bank of Seychelles. What’s your full name?”
“Michael Ramsey. R – A – M – S – E – Y.”
“Mention me – Grant Carlson – and use ‘Connor’ as a password when you contact the bank. But give us a couple of days, we’re going to be busy,” Grant deadpans.
Mike gives a short, mirthless laugh. “I probably will be, too.”
“Can you get out of France alright?” I ask.
“I trained in enemy evasion and survival in the Air Force. I’ll be fine.”
“Why don’t you just call Connor once you get to shore?” Grant asks, confused. “He’ll get you out right away.”
Mike looks around like You spoiled it. “I was trying to make it sound a little more impressive.”
“Ah. And here I thought you’d want to get back as fast as possible to your five million dollars.”
“There you go again,” Mike says, shaking his head. “What about you two? Should I send Connor in after you, too?”
“No,” Grant says decisively. “We’re going to Paris. We came for a reason – it’s just we didn’t disembark where I thought we would.”
“Not my fault,” Mike says.
“Didn’t say it was,” Grant yells over his shoulder as he heads back towards the parachutes.