Page 145 of Forbidden
“It’s called an intervention,” Dante says, while flying his chopper.
“And you need some advice.” Ryan says.
I stare ahead and I know New Jersey is coming up and fast. We are lower now, and buildings and highways streak below.
“I suspected, that if anything bad happened, between you and Storm, you’d go off the rails.”
“Like you are,” Dante tosses in.
I side eye Dante and Ryan through the chopper side window, and I don’t like it. The only time we’ve flown choppers side by side, was up the Amazon. But that was far from cities, and air traffic police.
“Make your point.” I say, keeping it short.
“Look, without her you’re a complete fuck up.” Ryan is not far off, but it was semi-brutal.
“Lorenzo?”
“What?” I ask Dante, as we both fly full speed and low.
“Where are you going?”
“Where do you think?” I ask.
We are now flying straight for a large building complex plus high bridges. It’s about to get ugly, and in seconds.
Dante looks over, “Just get her back!”
“Copy that,” I say, as I yank on the column hard. My chopper banks sharpy away from them, and the engine screams.
As we streak south towards the Carolinas, I pull off the headset. “Crazy fucking arseholes.” I inhale long and slow and then I hear, “We can still hear you.” I shake my head and smile.
Why do I have the craziest arsehole pals in all of show biz.
As we thunder south,I call Alfred. He’s in NYC, and I tell him I have the falcon, and we will be away a few days.
I then call my primary VP, and I tell him to contact all of our current partners and people we are planning to do deals with. I instruct him to inform them, we need a week to get something important done.
“And if any of them do not want to wait, then screw them, we will not do business with them again. I have never done this, they will know that. The patient, are our family.”
As my eyes skim over the console, and check all for the flight, I process the risk. I suspect Storm is home, and in South Carolina, but I have no proof yet.
The concept of flying to New York City’s airport, screwing around with the faster jet, working out how to travel with Falcon, and landing permits for the jet, did not interest me. Neither did flying commercial.
I’m getting her back, and nothing will get in my way, or slow me down.
As we fly over New Jersey, I make another call. My aviation handler is sharp, and he’s quickly aware it’s an emergency. Even if he is pissed, there is nothing he can do.
I explain I’m flying to South Carolina, and I am on the way. Also, that I will stop for nothing, and no one.
He outlines problems, fines, and obstacles before I tell him solutions are all that are welcome.
That means flight plans, flight clearance, and aviation gas stops. After ending the call, I adjust my route, and get comfortable.
We streak over endless miles of neon lights, and the odd car or truck on the highways, I think about my life. And I think about the knife edge I am now on.
If things go well, I get to keep the two women in the world I love. If things go badly, I am alone in the world.
After half a dozen aviation gas and steak sandwich pit stops for us both, we finally enter South Carolina. The sun is now rising, but the bad coffee is cold.
