Chapter Four #2
The FBI agent had to be Jamison. Spence guessed the marshal was Easton, who had been alerted to Spence’s arrival by the decidedly hostile Marshal Youngblood in Denver. “Does their presence interfere with our landing?”
“Not at all.” The pilot—a forty-something guy with flecks of silver in his trimmed brown hair—had the self-assurance of a military-trained aviator. “If you’re uncomfortable, we can detour to Portland or Eugene to avoid a confrontation.”
“I’m not inclined to avoid.” He’d rather crash through the barrier posed by US Marshal Easton and take control of the situation.
“Should I notify the airport cops?”
“Give them a shout but play it down. Make your landing as usual.” Spence gave a nod. “Thanks for letting me know.”
After the pilot returned to the cockpit, Mollie took his place on the bench across from Spence.
She unconsciously dragged her fingers through her hair.
Not many women would settle for such a minimum of grooming, but she didn’t need more.
Her bobbed hair had careless style, and her natural tan from working outside highlighted her blue eyes. “Do I need to be worried?”
“I think not.”
“Good. Because I’m not.” Her hand drew into a fist and she pounded gently on the pull-down table between them to emphasize her point. “Now that I’m this close to home, I know I’m doing the right thing by coming back. This is where I belong.”
“In spite of threats from the Peligro Cartel?”
Her brow furrowed, and she stuck out her chin. “For the past several weeks, I’ve been thinking about how the threat has faded. I follow the news. Peligro has been almost wiped out.”
“What about the active shooters in Denver?”
“I’d be lying if I said that didn’t worry me, but I can’t spend the rest of my life in hiding. Nothing is going to stop me from attending Irma’s memorial tomorrow.”
He appreciated her gutsy attitude but didn’t want her going off on the marshal and provoking him.
Spence caught her small fist and wrapped his fingers around it.
He felt her muscles twitch, and her blood pulse.
“Here’s what’s going to happen. We’ll exit the plane.
Let me handle any conversation with the marshals.
It’s my job as your lawyer. I’ll escort you to a waiting SUV, and we’ll drive away. ”
He wanted to believe their escape would be that simple but couldn’t ignore the doubts and unknown factors. Someone had hired men with guns to attack her in Denver. It was possible the threat would follow her here.
She reversed her hand in his grasp and gave him a handshake. “Let’s get this over with.”
* * *
Spence flew in and out of the Salem-Willamette Valley Airport in southeast Salem at least once a month.
The small airport had two runways, an air traffic control tower and a central terminal, plus several hangars for charter services and air freight carriers.
The two regularly scheduled commercial flights—one to Las Vegas and another to Burbank—were recently suspended.
The surrounding area beyond the tarmac consisted of open fields and forests on one side.
Trees and rolling hills melded into car dealerships, strip malls and suburbs.
Signs above the shops and diners mingled with porch lights from the nearby houses near the friendly neighborhood airport.
Though he couldn’t see much in the dark, Spence knew his way around the airfield.
In addition to his business travel, he took weekly lessons learning to fly a helicopter at the neighboring facility, which was next to a fire station and fireman training area with a four-story structure to teach vertical evacuation techniques for a blaze in a high-rise.
After a smooth landing, the Cessna Citation taxied to the small terminal and hangar for Salem Beacon Charter at the northern end of the airfield, toward the choppers. Never before had Spence been apprehensive about landing here. Tonight, he didn’t know what the hell to expect.
The people who tracked Mollie down in Denver probably wouldn’t show up in Salem, but he couldn’t be sure they weren’t already in place, ready to strike.
Since she grew up in this area, it made sense for the Cartel to look for her here.
Also, her whereabouts were known in WITSEC.
Marshal Youngblood had made the connection between Spence and Mollie.
He had the flight plan from Centennial Airport in Denver. There might be a leak in WITSEC.
Spence couldn’t disregard the possibility of another attack. An ambush at the Salem-Willamette Valley Airport. Shooters might be hidden in shadows among the well-lighted buildings and runways.
Outside the Salem Beacon Charter hangar, their plane came to a full stop.
Through a porthole, he saw the altercation between Agent Jamison, wearing an FBI bulletproof vest over his flannel shirt, and the more formally attired guy who had to be U.S.
Marshal Easton from the Portland office.
Spence rubbed at the scar that bisected his left eyebrow.
In spite of several procedures to repair his eye, his sight ranked a long way from 20/20.
When Jamison stalked toward their plane, Easton jumped in front of him. After a moment of shoving back and forth, they stood side by side outside the corner office attached to the hangar.
“I’m guessing the guy in flannel is your FBI friend,” Mollie said. “He looks like someone who’d play bluegrass banjo. Very Oregonian.”
“Good guess.” Spence slipped into his suit coat, adjusted his Beretta in the shoulder holster and slipped on a pair of glasses to improve his long-range vision.
“The other guy looks like a clone of Youngblood without the cowboy accessories. He’s got the same kind of stubborn chin.”
After they thanked the pilot and copilot, Spence turned away from the open hatch and studied her, wishing he’d thought to bring body armor for both of them. “Ready, Mollie? Do you have your windbreaker?”
“Sure.” She pulled the too-large jacket over her T-shirt and shorts.
“Stay behind me. My SUV will be waiting behind the office.”
She peeked around his shoulder. “The place with the picture window?”
“And the glass door beside it.”
As soon as Spence stepped from the plane into the open air, he sensed trouble. Clouds masked the moon. An unnatural stillness caused the wind to cease. A chill prickled the back of his neck. Someone watching? There was danger in this night. He could feel it.
He debarked ahead of Mollie and stayed in front of her, shielding her. Before they could round the corner of the office and get into the waiting vehicle, Easton blocked their way. Waving his credentials and badge, he demanded they talk to him.
Spence didn’t actually hear the blast of gunfire.
He couldn’t see the bullet tearing through the air like a slow-motion Matrix pellet.
But he heard the thuds when four slammed into the corrugated steel side of the hangar.
A fifth hit the office window. Glass shattered and rained down on the blacktop.
He threw Mollie to the ground, drew his handgun and crouched in front of her. His senses sharpened. He flashed back to his Army Ranger training, braced himself for the assault while protecting her at the same time.
His gaze scanned the seven-hundred-acre airfield, peering into shadows, looking for the flare of a rifle being fired.
Light from the various hangars and two-story office buildings spread across the tarmac in irregular patterns.
Salem Beacon Charter was a good distance away from the main terminal. Few people were outside.
Another bullet drilled into the hangar. Spence flinched. Jamison, also crouched low, ducked his head. Marshal Easton was standing, weapon in hand and ready to fire. He clutched his leg and collapsed with a scream. Blood stained his trousers.
Spence glanced toward Agent Jamison and said, “Sniper.”
“We need cover,” Jamison said.
Retreating to the plane meant climbing single file up to the hatch, presenting their back sides as a clear target for the shooter.
The glass door outside the office was fifty feet away.
Spence didn’t like the idea of exposing Mollie to the shooter, but he hated the thought of cowering helplessly. What was the alternative?
The shooter had positioned him or herself too far away for them to hear the snap of the rifle being fired.
Possibly the weapon had a silencer. The first five shots, including the one that exploded the window, had been a warning.
The hit on Easton had been aimed and well-executed as though the marshal was the intended victim. Why him?
“I’m making a run for the office,” Jamison said.
Before he could take a step, another bullet crashed into the jagged remains of the window. The sniper had them where he wanted them.
Jamison rose up on one knee and started firing blindly.
Spence heard police sirens and the wail of an ambulance. Backup was on the way. Though he doubted he’d hit anything, he followed Jamison’s example.
At the same time, he focused on the rooftops of nearby buildings, searching for the silhouette of head and shoulders above the parapets. Snipers chose high vantage points for wider visibility. He saw nothing unusual but continued to search. And to shoot.
The air traffic control tower would have made an excellent sniper’s nest, but that structure was in the opposite direction.
Closer and facing directly toward them, he saw the four-story structure used by the local fire department.
Several hundred yards away. Though Spence couldn’t actually see the sniper, that had to be the right location.
Jamison growled. “I’m guessing it’s an M24 rifle, accurate up to three hundred yards.”
Their handguns were useless at this range.