Trapped Read Online Free PDF Page B

that.
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    Chris Jordan
    “Good,” says Ricky. “Then you know how to leave the
    safety on, how not to fire it.”
    “What’re you saying?” Roy asks.
    “I’m saying the gun is for show. Don’t shoot nobody is
    what I’m saying.”
    “Okay,” says Roy. “I won’t.”
    “Good. Little while, the aircraft will circle the field. It will
    land from the east, over there,” Ricky says, indicating where
    the long runway blends into the low scrub pine. “It will taxi
    to us. First thing you do, when the engines shut down, you
    come around from behind and put the chocks under the
    wheels. Think you can do that?”
    “I guess.”
    “Make sure you come at it from the back of the plane,
    behind the wing, so you don’t get your fool head cut off by
    the props.”
    “Okay.” Roy files it away, the propellers are dangerous,
    watch out for the props.
    “You just follow my lead,” Ricky says. “Wheels chocked,
    okay? Next, we get the passengers out of the aircraft. There’s
    a little door unfolds in the tail, that’s where they’ll exit. Don’t
    show the gun till their feet’re on the ground.”
    “How many passengers?” Roy asks, just to show that he’s
    always thinking.
    “One or two,” Ricky says, indifferent to the question.
    “Whatever, you just hold the Glock on ’em. Don’t say noth-
    ing, just look like you mean it. Don’t let ’em go back in the
    plane but don’t shoot ’em. I’m doing all the shooting.”
    Roy follows Ricky to his BMW, parked nearby. Dirt
    adheres to the lower panels, fouling the hubs, probably mess-
    ing up the brakes, too. Waste of a good car, Roy thinks, not
    Trapped
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    meant for the backcountry. And then Ricky Lang, his scary
    new boss, Ricky the crazy damn injun who is going to change
    Roy’s life, he pops open the BMW trunk, produces an over-
    size, odd-looking rifle. Almost a crossbow look to it, fitted
    out with some sort of dartlike powerhead.
    “What’s that?” Roy wants to know.
    “Animal tranquilizers,” Ricky explains. Showing his white
    teeth in a killer grin. “Works on people, too.”
    8. Jumping Into The Bare Blue Sky
    There are some things your eyes refuse to see. Sights un-
    imaginable, or so out of context your brain can’t make sense
    of them. That’s how it is with Kelly’s secret photo album. I’m
    looking right at the pictures and still it doesn’t make any
    sense. What would my daughter be doing on a runway, near
    a small airplane? Why is she grinning so mischievously?
    What is she holding up to the camera, some sort of backpack?
    I know what it is but find it hard to even think the word,
    let alone speak it aloud.
    Parachute.
    Must be a joke. She’s kidding around. Like those old trick
    photos on Coney Island, where you stick your head through
    a hole in the canvas and pretend to be a cowboy on a painted
    horse. Like that.
    More photos. Kelly climbing into the little airplane, wear-
    ing a baggy jumpsuit and what looks like a crash helmet.
    Kelly crouching inside the plane, giving a thumbs-up. Kelly
    buddied-up with a handsome pilot, a young man with dark,
    soulful eyes, gorgeous hair and white, white teeth. I didn’t
    really get a good look at the guy on the motorcycle, but
    something about the way this young man holds himself erect,
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    Chris Jordan
    good posture even sitting down, something makes me think
    this might be Seth.
    If so, he’s way too old for a girl of sixteen. Old enough to
    be a pilot—how old is that? Has to be at least twenty-one,
    right? Or is it younger? Hard to say—they both look so
    pleased with themselves, and happiness makes you look
    younger. Whatever his age, no way is he in high school with
    my daughter. He’s not a school kid. No droopy drawers and
    skateboards for him. He’s into airplanes, motorcycles, high-
    speed machines.
    Have him arrested, that’s my first dark impulse. Send this
    handsome, grinning man to jail. How dare he take my daughter
    up in a small plane without my permission? How