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yelled in Serge’s ear: “Who is that guy?”
    “Rickenbacker. I called in a favor.”
    “What kind of favor?”
    “Help me with the Fugitive Tour,” shouted Serge. “This is our ‘Out’ for Kissimmee.”
    “And yet nobody’s chasing us?”
    “Not a soul,” said Serge. “My audience deserves nothing but the finest fake chaos.”
    “Why?”
    “You still don’t get the conceit of this tour?”
    “What?”
    Serge threw up his arms in exuberance. “It’s hot out of the mold of that uniquely American genre: the Great Chase Movie!”
    The grass field began moving beneath them. Slowly at first, then picking up speed, then slowing again.
    Coleman looked around. “Is this thing safe?”
    “Rick’s the best. Couldn’t be in better hands.”
    Velocity increased again. They reached the middle of the field. Then slowed again.
    A loud bang.
    The flask flew from Coleman’s hand. “What the hell was that?”
    “Just a backfire,” said Serge.
    A shout from Rick in the rear seat: “Better hang on.”
    Serge and Coleman bounced up and down, clutching a horizontal metal bar.
    They reached the middle of the field, which was connected back to the road by a winding cart path. The path ended at a slapped-together wooden ticket booth facing the highway. A tattered orange wind sock hung flaccid. The booth was unstaffed and padlocked. But during the day, tourists could see an old bearded man inside. And a sign: Historic Biplane Rides, $50.
    Another hard bounce, and threadbare tires left the ground. They touched down again.
    Bang .
    The wheels lifted off for good this time, and the restored two-winger gained altitude. Sort of.
    The wind sock suddenly inflated and threatened to tear loose.
    Coleman clutched Serge’s shoulder and pointed with a quivering arm. “Power lines!”
    “Relax. Rick’s done this a million times.”
    “Has he ever hit the power lines?”
    “Never . . . Okay, a few times, but just skimmed with the wheels. Not his fault—he had a tailwind.”
    “A few times!”
    “But the tires are rubber, so they’re insulated from electricity. In theory.”
    “Do we have a tailwind now?”
    “Hell yeah. Strong one.”
    The plane slowly rose toward the brightness of the Kissimmee strip.
    Coleman covered his eyes. “I can’t look.”
    Rick gave it the throttle and up she went, twin bursts of sparks as wheels clipped high-tension lines.
    Coleman peeked through his fingers. “We made it. We didn’t die.”
    “Told you.” Serge stuck his face over the side as they flew above the highway. “Hey, there’s all those police cars again, and the SWAT team.”
    “I can see the Haunted Mansion,” said Coleman. “And Space Mountain.”
    “What are all those highway flares?”
    “Where?”
    “Interstate entrance ramp.”
    “Some kind of wreck?”
    “Don’t think so,” said Serge. “Looks more like a roadblock.”
    “I see more flares over there . . . and more that way.”
    “Another bunch by the tollbooths.”
    “They must be after someone really frightening,” said Coleman.
    “Good thing we left town when we did.”
    Higher and higher they went into the chilly night air. Over MGM and Universal and Pirates of the Caribbean. Soon, they left city lights behind. Sparse countryside. Farms and forests. It became quite peaceful as the moon’s reflection tracked across the countless lakes of Lake County.
    “This is actually kind of nice,” said Coleman.
    “I love my job,” said Serge.
    “So where are we going now?”
    “Fugitive Tour Stop Number Two. They’ll be raving for years about this make-believe chase.”
    Rickenbacker banked his wings and the plane came around hard to the left. The pilot locked on a course straight into the giant full moon sitting low on the western horizon, perfectly silhouetting the two heads in the seat in front of him.

Part I

    A MONTH AGO

Chapter One
    Morning
    F DLE, otherwise known as the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, is the state’s version of the