filling his mouth.
Ian pulled the stick right, going for the pass. May took his plane outside in an effort to block. Ian feinted right as if trying to go abreast; May kicked out again. It was a reckless move, inviting disaster. Ian saw it coming and ducked to the inside, pushing the engine as hard as it could go. His airspeed jumped to 450 knots. He cruised past May, buzzing his aircraft, essentially leapfrogging him. May’s plane juked in the wake. To save himself, he pulled out of the loop and flew high and clear.
May was done.
Ian never looked back.
He won the race by ten seconds.
—
Ian Prince walked across the tarmac, helmet in hand. He was nearly six feet tall, forty years of age, narrow-beamed but sturdy, with Ray-Bans hiding his eyes, at ease in his flight suit.
“Hey there,” shouted Gordon May, running to catch up. “Prince, you bastard. Hold up. You almost killed me.” He was fifty, a fiery bantamweight with red hair and a complexion like mottled leather.
Ian didn’t break stride. “I could say the same.”
May laid a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “You passed on the inside. That’s against the rules. I’m going to file a complaint with the stewards.”
Ian stopped. “I had no choice,” he said calmly. “You kicked out twice. It was pass inside or collide. I think the stewards will see things my way.”
“Is that right?” said May. “Or else what? Not all your rivals crash and burn.”
“Excuse me?” Ian said.
“I’m talking about Titan. John Merriweather wouldn’t sell you his company if it was the last thing he did. Those machines were like his children. Merriweather was a genius. Not some one-hit wonder who cashes in, then spends the rest of his life on a shopping spree, taking credit for everyone else’s achievements. He was a visionary.”
“Yes,” said Ian. “He was. We’ll honor his legacy.”
“Now that you forced his heirs to sell.”
“I made them an offer. They accepted. I completed the deal out of respect for John. The company isn’t the same without him.”
“Maybe they were afraid their plane might go down, too.”
A crowd had gathered. Ian was careful with his words. “Be quiet, Gordon.”
“Crash and burn,” said May accusingly, enjoying his audience, the chance to make Ian squirm. “Without John there was no one left to oppose you.”
Ian grabbed a fistful of the pilot’s flight suit. He felt the rapt eyes on him, sensed their violent ardor. He could not walk away. Not after what May had said. “You’re out of line.”
“Is that what you said to John Merriweather when he refused to sell?”
A fit, ruddy-faced man wearing a tan suit broke through the bystanders and took hold of May’s shoulder. “That’s enough,” said Peter Briggs, Ian’s chief of security. “You have a problem, take it up with the stewards. Mr. Prince is otherwise occupied.”
Still May held his ground. “The race is on tape,” he said, jabbing a finger at Ian. “You can’t buy your way out of this one. No one cares about your money here. No senators, no congressmen to smooth your way.”
“Goodbye, Gordon.”
“Last race is next week. I’ll see you there. Crash and burn, buddy. Just you try something.”
Ian didn’t respond as May stalked off toward the control tower.
“Miserable prick,” said Peter Briggs.
“I need to get cleaned up.”
6
Mary Grant sat in her car, bathed in the gloom of the parking lot. She had signed all the paperwork and collected Joe’s belongings: his wallet, watch, belt, and tie clip. His suit had been cut off him by the paramedics, and it was hinted that she might not wish to see the ruined garments. The phone was government property. She had thanked Don Bennett and all the other agents from the Austin residency who’d come to the hospital. She had looked for a Sid, but none of the agents present had that name. She had cried and was done crying. And when Bennett asked if she’d like an escort home, or to have someone stay
Alexis Abbott, Alex Abbott