Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

There was no approach short of brazening it out that would get her across the broad expanse of lawn between the hedge and the hangar. She stepped out of the shadows onto the freshly mowed grass and walked briskly toward the strip where the large jet had taxied. Reaching the hangar, she stood still, gauging whether she'd been noticed. From where she stood with her back against the wall, she could see the ramp of steps had been wheeled up to the plane. Was Jess inside, or was he in the hangar? Were others accompanying Carey and Jess, or were they going alone? If she walked across the vast open tarmac to the plane, she'd be in perfect view… but her choices were limited. In broad daylight, any surreptitious approach was out of the question.

Just as she began stepping around the corner of the hangar, she caught sight of Carey coming across the pasture from the stables. Sliding around the corner out of sight, she held her breath and tried to concoct some plausible story should someone see her pressed against the wall. Damn! If she didn't manage to get on that plane, she was going to be left plastered to this wall when the plane took off. Taking a quick peek around the corner, she saw Carey no more than twenty yards from the hangar. Think, think! she commanded her flustered brain. Her options were rapidly dwindling to zero. Carey was between her and the plane without so much as a bush for concealment.

Wonder Woman or Superman would come in handy right now. Then she could dispense with the plane altogether. She could simply follow Carey through the sky like a human bird. Reluctantly discarding that plan, she was debating the possibility of dissolving into buckets of tears and pleading to be taken along when she heard Jess shout, “Come in here for a minute, Carey. I'm having some hassle with Duluth on filing the flight plan.”

And Carey turned abruptly from his direct route to the plane.

“Thank you, God,” Molly whispered into the blue sunny sky, “you're back from vacation. Just kidding,” she quickly added, unwilling to tempt heavenly retribution.

As Carey entered the hangar, she didn't think. She didn't weigh the odds. She didn't consider the chance that Carey or Jess might look out the window.

She sprinted.

Down the west side of the hangar, onto the warm tarmac.

The thirty yards between herself and the plane stretched like a shimmering mirage in the desert. It helped when you didn't have time to think. It helped when the blood was pumping so loudly in your ears, no other sounds intruded. But what helped most was the martinet on the phone giving Jess trouble over his flight plan.

“I'll talk to him,” Carey snapped after the third explanation. And as Carey brusquely said, “Listen carefully. This is very simple…” Molly bolted up the steps into the dim interior of the jet.

She'd never been inside a private jet before. Scanning the arrangement of furniture to her left, the small lounge area closest to the door, and the hallway to her right, she cautiously turned right and took two tentative steps. Was anyone on the plane… perhaps in the galley? Was there a cargo area she could hide in? Hurry, hurry, an insistent voice reminded her. Another several steps and she saw the efficient chrome galley tucked away on her right. The door directly across the aisle was the bathroom, she discovered, after carefully easing the door open. One door remained. Taking a deep breath, praying no one was on the other side, she opened it. A compact bedroom with just enough space for a built-in bed and closet was decorated in black and poppy-red chintz.

A quick survey indicated one could not hide under the bed or in the closet, unless you were Houdini or an Indian mystic well versed in the more complex yoga positions. Her agitated mind was moving into overdrive in its insistent screaming, hurry, hurry, and a swift glance out the small curtained window froze her momentarily. Jess and Carey were walking toward the plane.

Pulling the bedroom door shut, she fled back down the hall to the bathroom and slipped inside only moments before she heard Carey's voice.

“She wasn't very happy, but I didn't have any choice.”

“It's for the best. Women always get in the way.”

“Not always, Jess,” Carey said, innuendo soft in his voice.

“Okay, but you know what I mean. Egon is going to be trouble. Hey… what the hell is the head light on for?” he asked, his voice suddenly changing.

Oh Christ, Molly forgot the damn light went on when the door locked. Her heart seemed to stop for endless moments as she heard Jess tugging at the door and muttering.

“Let it go, Jess,” Carey said. “We can pry it open later. Let's take off. With Rifat after Egon, every damn minute counts. And pray for tail winds. I'm hoping like hell to beat Egon to Le Retour.”

The sound of receding footsteps was Molly's cue to begin breathing again, and she inhaled carefully, making the least possible noise. She caught sight of herself in the mirror over the sink. She was ashen. So much for bravery and boldness; she'd probably drop dead at the sound of gunshots. But three normal breaths later, she realized she'd muddled through another crisis. What would Wonder Woman do next?

Almost an hour into the flight-definitely too late to turn back-someone approached her hiding place and began prying the door open. Rather than wreck the door, she unlatched the lock. The soft click of the lever brought instant silence.

Before she had time to decipher the sudden silence, the door shot open and she was facing the business end of a silencer affixed to a 9mm Beretta. Then she looked up into Carey's angry face.

“I should have known,” he growled, “when you first raised your arms in the backseat of the limo.”

“But your celebrated hormones,” Molly purred, “were guiding your brains as usual, weren't they?”

“So far I've managed,” he curtly retorted.

“One can only hope Rifat doesn't throw some nubile young starlet into your path this side of Egon,” she acidly replied.

“And all that smiling agreeableness,” he said, furious his plans were jeopardized by her presence. “I should have known better. When you're that agreeable, I'd better watch my back.”

“Don't fault me on hypocrisy, darling. ‘I'm going to check on Lucy's boots,'” she mimicked.

“It was necessary.” The anger in his voice was so controlled, it only carried the short distance between them.

Her face took on an expression of scorn. “Your deception is necessary, and mine is not? How convenient.”

His hand dropped away from the door. Turning abruptly, he walked away and strode forward to the cockpit. At the moment he was too angry to trust his reactions. Molly's presence was going to bloody well fuck up everything… and he needed some time to unjam the overwrought circuits in his mind that were screaming abort! Abort!

It was too late to turn back if he hoped to beat Egon to Le Retour. Maybe Jess could stay with Molly on the plane, but Carey needed his help with Egon. Hell!

Molly watched him stalk away, enter the cockpit, and slam the door shut. Moving toward the couch and chairs arranged comfortably near some small tables, she sat down and waited to see if the plane would turn around. She'd only seen Carey that angry once before, and that was the night she left him in his apartment at Mrs. Larsen's to go off and marry Bart. His voice today had the same taut control, as though the softness of his tone could conceal his terrible rage.

But she wasn't eighteen any longer, nor daunted by his wrath. Why were his lies necessary, and hers merely disagreeable? Cautioning herself to remain calm and logical, she discarded her impulse to feel ill-treated. They both felt justified in their action. Now that she'd accomplished the first stage of this unusual expedition beyond the confines of her normal life, she intended to see she became an asset, not a hindrance. How best to deal with her angry lover?

She thought the old maxim “You get more flies with sugar than vinegar” held merit. Twenty minutes later when Carey emerged from the forward cabin, his scowl still in place, she said, “We're both adults, supposedly mature. I'm sorry. Could we talk about this?” And her smile was the very best soothing, dazzling look she could conjure.

“You're an impetuous bitch,” Carey said in a deep growl, looking tall and menacing in the low-ceilinged cabin. “But I love you.” And when he smiled, her face flushed warm from the glow.

E gon was in a cold sweat in the bathroom of an Air France jet, and the stewardess was banging on the door. “Are you all right, sir?” she asked for the third time. Her voice was insistent now, but diplomatically muted to avoid disturbing the other first-class passengers. It was obvious Egon wasn't well; she'd seen enough druggies on this Marseilles-Jamaica run to recognize one when she saw him. As far as she was concerned, he could stay in there the entire flight, but a brassy redhead traveling with a man old enough to be her father was insisting the stewardess clear the bathroom for her.

Egon had taken one point with him-enough to last him to Jamaica-but the damn needle had jammed in the hem of his jacket, and he was having trouble getting it out without snapping it off. Jesus, if his hands would just stop shaking long enough to ease it free…

“I'll be out in a minute,” he gruffly replied, his French touched with traces of his old nurse's Provence patois. When under pressure he lost the aristocratic polish his mother had insisted on. One's breeding was evident in one's speech, she'd always said, and on occasions when she was being particularly pedantic he would lapse into low German to annoy her. Mama never forgot her family was landed in contrast to Papa's family's bourgeois roots. But 20,000 acres of marsh on the Baltic didn't buy that diamond tiara, now did it? Papa would retort when Mama put on airs. Papa was practical; while he didn't denigrate his title, he knew his power lay in wealth, not a coat of arms.

“Sorry, Papa,” Egon said in a brief stab of remorse. It would have saddened his father to see him like this, and he often felt relieved that his father had died before the drugs. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he spoke aloud in a low murmur, as if the sound of his voice would calm him. “Count to ten and breathe slowly.” If he could relax, his hands would stop trembling. “Eight, breathe, nine, breathe, ten…” Now calmly slide the hypo out of the lining hem, he silently instructed, calmly, as if it didn't matter whether it came free or not. Ah… he had the plastic plunger now. Slowly… pull it out of the silk lining slowly… there. It's free!

And he wept with relief.

Five minutes later the first soothing traces were entering his bloodstream, and in two minutes more, steady again, the panic receding, his blissful sense of serenity returning, Egon told himself he'd stop the drugs first thing tomorrow. Once he was safe at Le Retour, he'd go clean again. First thing.

He looked at his watch. Four o'clock. He'd be at the villa by seven. Glancing in the mirror, he smoothed his hair, straightened his shirt collar, and eased back into his linen jacket. After disposing of the paraphernalia in the waste container, he emerged from the bathroom with a smile for the stewardess. “Forgive me, mademoiselle, I felt faint for a few moments.”

“Are you better now?” she politely inquired, taking in the expensive clothes and Mediterranean tan.

“Quite fine, thank you.”

It was a shame, she thought, watching him return to the row of seats he'd reserved to avoid having company. He was very handsome. And the nurturing impulse Egon so often triggered stirred in her. He was quite beautiful and obviously wealthy. What he needed was some woman to care for him and see that his melancholy disappeared from his eyes. For the remainder of the journey she was solicitous, enough so that the annoying redhead was heard to remark, “Some people in first class must be more important than other people.”

She made the redhead's next drink so stiff, the bitch choked on it.

Shortly before they were to land, Mariel asked Egon if he cared to share the cab she had waiting at the airport. He'd mentioned he was going to his vacation home, and she had a three-day layover. Maybe he'd even ask her out to dinner. He had a charming smile, and his French reminded her of home, with its faint Provencal flavor. She couldn't actually say they'd had a chance to converse, but they'd exchanged the social pleasantries about vacations in Jamaica and the weather. If he accepted her offer to share a cab, perhaps she might discover the reason he attracted her so.