Gasoline floats in water

 

Pancho knew Mike had only one option left: sell the strip.

“I know, Pancho. If I’d taken the job with Goldwings, Omaira would have had health coverage.”

“Maybe. But you’d have gone crazy watching younger pilots get all the instructor jobs.”

“And now this buyer says he likes the Grumman but not the strip. Too short, he says. Ends at a cliff, he says. What was he planning to fly in here—a Boeing 707?”

Pancho said nothing. He buttoned his coat and looked toward the windows, where rain had beaded on the glass and along the Grumman Tiger’s fuselage. In the bitter cold, the droplets were starting to freeze.

Headlights swung across the hangar doors. A car rolled to a stop outside the office, its engine hummuing in the cold. Two men got out. The tall blond came in first; a shorter, darker man followed close behind.

The blond did not take his eyes off Mike. “Hank, check the hangar. Make sure we’re alone.”

Then he looked past Pancho to the aircraft outside.

“Can that plane fly tonight?”

Pancho’s gaze narrowed. “It can fly.”

“How far?”

“About twelve hundred miles,” Mike replied.

“Good enough.”

“Is it fueled?”

“Yes,” Mike said. “But it’s late, and the weather’s turning. I can take you anywhere you want in the morning.”

The phone rang before the blond could answer. Mike picked it up. Sheriff Scofield’s voice came through tight and hurried.

“Mike, listen. Two men hit the bank. A teller’s dead. We’ve got roadblocks up, but they may try the airstrip. Have you seen anyone?”

Mike glanced at the blond man’s face. “No. No one yet. I’ll keep an eye out.”

The blond stepped closer as Mike hung up. “That was the police.”

His hand came out of his coat with a pistol.

“All right,” Mike said, keeping his voice even. “If you’re in a hurry, I’ll fly you. There’s no need for the gun.”

“Save it,” Hank growled from the doorway. “Get us in the plane.”

Pancho stepped forward. “You think waving pistols around changes anything? Mike isn’t flying you out.”

The shorter man said nothing. He drew a pistol and shot Pancho in the stomach.

Pancho collapsed, clutching his wound. Mike rushed to him.

“You bloody bastard—you didn’t have to shoot him!” Mike shouted.

“That was your warning. Get the plane ready.””

“Mike, take them,” Pancho said weakly.

Mike walked to the plane.

“All right. Let me open the cockpit."

He opened it, and the two men scrambled into the rear seats.

Mike started the engine and taxied to the runway. In the distance, police cars raced toward the strip.

The blonde pressed his pistol to Mike’s head.

“Take off now.”

The plane sped down the strip, lifted off, and cleared the cliff above the sea, then sputtered and plunged into the sea.

An ambulance arrived after the police cars. Barely conscious, Pancho kept repeating, “Gasoline floats on water.”

The sheriff, a licensed pilot, understood. “Mike did not drain the fuel tank before takeoff. In this weather, condensation settles at the bottom. The engine had enough fuel in the lines and carburetor to lift off—but then it sucked in water.”

“Mike knew those men would kill him on arrival, so he took them with him.”

The Coast Guard cutter circled the crash site but found only the crash debris.

At the hospital, Pancho reflected

“Now Omaira will have enough money for her surgery. Mike always had insurance, and they will never prove he did it on purpose.”