Page 34 of In The Trenches (Owens Protective Services)

“Scottie! Stop that fucking plane!”

I grabbed Edu and hauled him away from the plane, wincing at the gash across his forehead. The mystery man was back under the plane, attaching the canister to the belly. Whatever the fuck was in there, it wasn’t any good. I ran flat out to the plane as it started to move, shouting into my comm system as I pressed the push-to-talk button on my vest.

“Scottie! Do you read me? Do not let that plane take off!”

But he still didn’t answer.

“Rock, tell the tower the Cessna is not clear for takeoff!”

“On it!”

Lock was running from across the lot, trying to catch up to the plane with me. I got close enough to see the canister, but then the plane picked up speed and left me in its dust. Swearing, Lock and I turned back to the hangar to where Grady was waiting. He looked up, grabbing something from the table he was working at, and ran for the other end of the hangar.

“Do we shoot him?” Lock shouted.

“Not until we know what the fuck is on that plane!”

A crash at the gates had us both spinning, drawing our weapons and ready to fire. Black SUVs drove straight at us, then turned and headed for the hangar, squealing to a stop right where Grady had been set up. We ran straight for them, not sure if they were friendly. When they stepped out and pointed their weapons at us, their intent became pretty damn clear.

“Take cover!” I shouted, zigzagging to avoid being hit.

“By what?” Lock shouted. “Do you see a magic fucking boulder somewhere?”

Gunfire erupted, keeping us from our intended target, and cutting us off from Edu, who was behind enemy lines all on his own.

“Rock, get your ass down here!” I shouted.

“The plane took off,” he shouted. “What the fuck is going on?”

The men continued to fire at us as I hid behind a concrete barrier. Peeking over the edge, I saw them racing over to Grady, firing on him also.

“Who the fuck are they shooting at?”

“Who areweshooting at?” Lock asked. “This is more fucked up than a soup sandwich!”

14

SCOTTIE

I turned to the pilots,scrutinizing them. Upon closer inspection, they both looked nervous, like they were getting ready for something they weren’t sure they wanted to do.

“Anyone know where to get good tacos around here?” I asked nonchalantly, watching as they prepared for takeoff.

“What?” the pilot asked.

“Tacos, you know, meat in a shell with all the good stuff. Lettuce, tomatoes, cheese…” I pulled my gun out of my holster, keeping it at my side, out of sight. “Sour cream,” I continued.

“Uh…I’m not from around here.”

“Really? I’m surprised Grady didn’t hire locally for this job. Isn’t that kind of important when you’re flying so low…over tall buildings that you could potentially crash into at any moment? Now I definitely want a taco.”

“It’ll be fine,” the pilot said, but he was facing the co-pilot, like he was trying to reassure him.

“Yeah, I mean, as long as you watch out for the birds. I swear, it’s like an Alfred Hitchcock film out here some days. Seagulls, sparrows, quail, woodpeckers, hummingbirds…”

“Hummingbirds?” the pilot asked. “I think we’ll be fine.”

“Sure,” I snorted. “Until one of them zips in front of you and scares the shit out of you. Have I mentioned I’m not a great flier?”

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