Behind the Lies (A Montgomery Justice Novel) Page 3

  At that moment he’d known what he had to do. He might not ever earn his father’s forgiveness, but Zach intended to keep his promise. Even if his father had called him a liar.

  Zach had phoned his brother Seth. The rest had been easy. Seth’s black ops contacts had put him in touch with the CIA. They’d been looking for someone who could get into Iraq and other sensitive countries without suspicion. Who better than a third-rate playboy and has-been actor who could be convincing in one role in public but become someone else in thirty minutes or less?

  “Theresa, don’t tell me you can’t find a way. You can make anything happen.” He prayed she couldn’t see the panic that clawed up and down his insides.

  She frowned, the line between her eyebrows deepening. “I’m working on it, but unless we determine who took the file…”

  She couldn’t stop the pitying look on her face.

  “I’m toast.” Zach could see his entire existence slipping past like the insubstantial cloud outside his window.

  “Pretty much. Look, find a place to hide off radar. I’ll be in touch. Just stay out of sight. If they know who you are and tell the wrong people…”

  “I’m dead.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Thanks for the positive energy, Theresa.”

  “Anytime, sugar.”

  She ended the video call, and Zach let out a slow sigh. He stared out the plane’s window, fighting the suffocating wave of uncertainty—not the adrenaline-rushing good kind either. No, this was an oppressive, paralyzing emotion. The kind he’d avoided for five years.

  He wouldn’t go there. He glanced at his watch. They had to have crossed into California by now. To the false life he’d created with money he’d earned after Dark Avenger topped the box office. Had it really been a decade ago?

  His house in La Jolla had cost millions. Theresa had found it for him, and he’d paid cash, wanting a place to call his own, needing a place to disappear away from the endless Hollywood parties and temptation. But the property taxes. How long could he keep up the façade before he’d have to crawl back to Denver and prove everyone right? That he was a screwup.

  He shoved the possibility aside. No way would he face his family even more of a failure.

  Most of the time Zach had no problem feeding the ne’er-do-well image. Then, once in a while, one of his brothers would call, worried about him. He’d laugh off their concern. When his mom called—that was another story. Anna Montgomery would shift between blunt Irish mom and softhearted worrier. At the end of every conversation, Zach’s gut would twist with regret. He’d pushed his family away. And none of them had an inkling as to why—except Seth, who’d never give the truth away. Seth understood the risk. Not only to Zach, but his mom and brothers.

  If he could find the leak, find the file, maybe, just maybe he could get back to the movie before his acting career was completely destroyed. Blame his absence on an accident—he had the scratches to prove it—or food poisoning, the flu, anything that sounded halfway reasonable. Rumors would fly over the Internet, but he’d maintain his access to Turkey.

  He hated to admit it, but he needed Theresa and the Company to need him.

  Zach couldn’t give up the life. The only thing worth living for.

  An unusual tingling fluttered through his hands. He squeezed the leather arms on the chair then straightened his fingers. Strange. What was going on? He stared at the nail beds. They were tinged with blue. The last time he’d seen that effect he’d climbed above fourteen thousand feet in the Kazakhstan mountains.

  One look out the window showed the sun dropping low in the sky. The plane had turned south toward Montgomery Field. The name always made Zach chuckle. How apropos that the Company flew him into Montgomery Field. He’d always wondered if he had a long-lost relative with tons of money. Not hardly. Christmases had been chaotic enough with the Montgomery clan of eight. A bunch of cousins would have been plain irritating.

  Odd how his mind had wandered to the past. He blinked his eyes and shifted his gaze to the Kevlar-lined cockpit door, barricaded shut. The gray steel grew fuzzy.

  He inhaled. His head ached, he longed to close his eyes and sleep. Just sleep.

  Oh, hell.

  He had to…his mind wandered. Forcing himself to focus on his seatbelt, Zach struggled with the flap. After several tries he finally released the buckle. He shifted his weight to stand, but his legs shook beneath him. His head spun. He clutched the back of the chair, stumbling from one chair to the next down the wide aisle of the plane.

  He recognized the oxygen deprivation symptoms from a training session in an F-16 for Dark Avenger. He glanced up to the ceiling. The masks should have come down.

  One more step and he keeled over. Spots circled in front of his eyes. He tried to breathe but could feel his energy waning.

  Think, Zach. Think.

  Oxygen. Tanks. When the pilot had placed Zach’s jacket in the coat compartment…

  The pilot. Was he conscious? Zach didn’t register any unusual downward trajectory of the plane, but he could barely focus. He needed air.

  He dragged himself to the closet.

  What was he trying to do?

  He squinted at the metal latch holding the closet closed. Right. Something in there he needed. He propped himself up. Surely he could open it. He lifted his hand. His fingers were fuzzy. Thick and clumsy. He struggled, his breathing more and more shallow, like a steel band had tightened around his chest.

  He needed to breathe.

  Out of time.

  The latch opened. With a final heave, he shoved aside the door. The momentum flung him to the floor. He turned on his back and stared at the ceiling. He blinked. He panted. His breathing slowed.

  He didn’t want it to end this way. He’d expected to die young. But not lying on the floor helpless.

  He tried to take one last deep inhalation, but all he could manage was a pathetic wheeze. He turned his head and pawed at the strap from the green oxygen canister. He clawed it to him. The mask tumbled beside him.

  He used all his energy to turn to his side. His stomach cramped. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He turned the knob of the canister. A hissing sound gave him hope. He slammed the mask on his face.

  He breathed in, hard and deep. His hungry lungs gobbled the oxygen. For a few seconds he just lay there, his chest expanding and contracting. His mind cleared a bit.

  Thank God.

  That had been way too close.

  He scanned the empty forty-foot-long cabin. There were only three of them on board. Zach and two pilots.

  None of the oxygen masks had deployed.

  That meant only one thing. Sabotage.

  He had to get to the pilots. If they weren’t already dead.

  He adjusted the mask over his head and clasped the oxygen tank in front of him. He struggled to his knees and crawled a few paces. He braced himself and tried to rise. His legs folded under him. He fell to the ground. The oxygen tank tumbled toward the main cabin. He rolled over and reached for the canister.

  The cockpit door clicked open behind him. Thank goodness. Someone was still alive. The pilots must have had time to don their oxygen masks.

  Zach tried to turn over, but his body wouldn’t move. Not yet. He tried to slow his breathing, let the oxygen do its work.

  A pause. A deep voice mumbled. Zach strained to listen.

  “Worked…Montgomery…dump…body…”

  No way.

  Zach stilled.

  A setup. All along. His mind whirled. Only the Company knew he’d been taken out of the job.

  His cover really had been compromised.

  Footsteps headed toward him.

  Zach tensed. He had to keep perfectly still. He sucked in more of the healing oxygen.

  The man stopped. Every muscle in Zach’s body contracted to the ready. He had to time it perfectly for his air-starved body to have a chance.

  A foot nudged Zach’s back. He let himself be shoved forward, further hidin
g the oxygen canister from the traitor’s gaze. If the guy didn’t notice the elastic holding the mask to Zach’s face, he might…

  A hand grasped Zach’s shoulder.

  Time was up.

  Zach flipped over.

  The pilot’s eyes widened. Zach yanked off the man’s oxygen gear, snapping the elastic. He stumbled away. Zach lunged toward him and grabbed his feet. The pilot pitched forward with a shout. Zach didn’t let go.

  He pinned the man’s legs to the ground and pressed his forearm against the guy’s throat. His lips started turning blue. “Who ordered my death?” Zach growled.

  The pilot shook his head. “Just kill me.”

  “You die anyway if I don’t let you put the mask on.”

  The man lay motionless. Zach didn’t ease his grip. No one gave up that easily.

  The pilot arched up, the sudden movement shifting Zach off the man’s body. A knife slashed at Zach’s oxygen tubing. He twisted out of the way, but the blade sliced through his shirt diagonally across his chest, drawing blood.

  He hissed at the burning of the cut. He wasn’t going down from this traitor’s actions.

  The pilot dove for the oxygen mask. “He’s awake,” he yelled. “Get out here or we’re dead.”

  The captain scrambled from the cockpit, a mask on his face.

  Zach backed up a step, eyeing both men. “We don’t have to do this,” he said, behind the thick plastic.

  They didn’t respond but stepped forward as one.

  “Shouldn’t someone be flying the plane?” Could the autopilot land the Gulfstream?

  Zach shifted his weight, testing his strength and balance. He couldn’t move with the bulky tank. He heaved in a last breath, dropped the oxygen, and threw the mask to the ground. He launched himself toward the men. He shoved his boot straight into the windpipe of the copilot. The man’s head whipped back and he slumped to the ground, neck tilted to one side, eyes wide open.

  Lungs burning, Zach whipped around to the captain. The man drew a gun. Hell, no. Zach recognized the resolve in the pilot’s eyes, but saw no regret. No emotion. Zach was just a job.

  So be it. Zach did jobs, too.

  He shoved his shoulder at the guy’s chest. They went flying. Zach landed on top of him, grabbed him in a chokehold, and stared into the captain’s eyes.

  Zach wanted to breathe. Strange how everything sort of faded to gray. Strange how this man wanted to kill him. Too bad they didn’t have Irish whiskey on board. Zach had a fondness for a nip.

  Wait a minute. He shook his head, trying to clear the odd thoughts. He had a mission. Stay alive. Out of time. He needed air.

  Zach ripped off the captain’s life-giving air and slammed it against his own face. He sucked several breaths then met the captain’s gaze.

  The man’s eyes bugged. Zach didn’t loosen his hold.

  The weapon slipped from the man’s fingers.

  “Who gave the order?” Zach demanded.

  The captain clutched at the mask, but didn’t say a word.

  The plane shifted underneath them.

  “You’ll die, too,” the man gasped. “Unless you can fly this thing.”

  He sagged forward, his eyes closed. He’d passed out.

  Zach took several deep breaths and raced to the cockpit. He scanned the panel. There it was. The outflow valve was open. Slowly, so he wouldn’t blow out his eardrums, he restored cabin pressurization.

  He took in several deep breaths to clear his head and strode back to the main cabin. The pilot stirred and moaned. Zach didn’t waste any time. He wrapped the man’s hands and feet with plastic tubing and shoved him into a seat, then secured the tubing to the chair. He’d interrogate the guy when they landed.

  First things first. He had to find a way to survive landing a jet.

  He circled his neck to ease the tension and walked to the cockpit, adjusted the pilot’s seat for his six-foot-three-inch frame, and tucked on the headset. He’d been flying since the age of sixteen. His dad’s doing, though he’d probably regretted the gift. Zach had gotten a taste for excitement. Skiing, skydiving, mountain climbing…and risk taking. The kind that seduced you to Hollywood’s so-called glamorous life and lured you into being a spy.

  He’d never flown anything quite this big, though.

  He glanced at the sophisticated screens and panels. Like something out of Star Trek. A hell of a lot more involved than the small Cessna he’d learned on or the Huey he’d flown in his last movie. Methodically he scanned the dials. Altimeter, heading. And yes…autopilot. On.

  Thank goodness.

  A crackling sounded in his ear. “Camelot three-two-nine. Fifth time I tried to call you. Respond or an F-16 will be escorting you in and you won’t like the reception,” an irritated voice snapped.

  OK. Clearly someone had noticed the pilotless plane. Los Angeles Center sounded pissed.

  Zach took a deep breath. “This is Camelot three-two-nine. Go ahead.” At least he hoped he was Camelot three-two-nine.

  “Camelot three-two-nine, Los Angeles Center. Did you enjoy your nap?”

  Yeah, the controller was in a mood. Zach glanced at the altimeter. Thirty-nine thousand feet. And he was only ninety miles out of La Jolla. Shit. This was going to be a wild ride.

  “Descend immediately, maintain flight level two-four-zero,” the controller ordered.

  Straightening his shoulders, Zach focused on the videogame-like screen. He knew what he should do. He should have someone talk him through the landing. Except he couldn’t reveal his identity or the true situation. He had a dead body on board. The airport would pull out all the emergency vehicles. It would be a circus.

  And if word got out he was alive…the fewer people who knew he was still breathing the better. No. He had to make this work. He’d flown planes before. Like riding a bike.

  “Los Angeles Center, this is Camelot three-two-nine. Request lower altitude.”

  “Descend to twenty-four-thousand feet. What, were you joining the mile-high club?”

  Yeah, funny guy. The controller barked out instructions. Zach set the altimeter and heading, then sifted through the captain’s flight bag and found the aircraft operations manual. “At least I have step-by-step instructions,” Zach muttered.

  His head ached at the number of pages. He didn’t have much time. He skimmed the section on normal operations. Like this was normal. Reading the manual the first time twenty minutes from landing made even the adrenaline junkie in him sweat.

  “Camelot three-two-nine, descend to twelve thousand feet, turn left, heading three-two-zero,” the voice sounded through his ear.

  Zach entered the change in direction and let the autopilot do its thing. He had about fifteen minutes to figure out how to land the plane.

  He’d flipped through the section for the fifth time when his earpiece crackled.

  He tossed the manual into the copilot’s seat and waited for the handoff to another controller.

  “Camelot three-two-nine, Los Angeles Center. Contact SoCal approach on frequency one-two-four point three five.”

  Zach confirmed, and on the new controller’s instruction, he descended to three thousand feet.

  He scanned the horizon for the private airport. Just where it was supposed to be. He narrowed his focus, shoving aside any uncertainty. He wouldn’t let them kill him. Not like this. “This is Camelot three-two-nine. Airport nine o’clock. Ten miles.”

  “Camelot three-two-nine, clear for the visual approach twenty-eight right. Contact Montgomery tower one-one-nine point two.”

  After he was cleared to land, Zach pulled the throttle to reduce air speed and extended the flaps. He lowered the gear handle and aligned the plane with the runaway. Steady. Not too slow.

  His memory trailed back to the first time he’d flown. The first time he’d landed with Ace by his side. His dad’s buddy had been a military pilot. He’d flown scads of Libya missions back in the day. Knew his stuff.

  Zach could almost hear the guy’s final
advice in his mind. You’re a natural. If you doubt, trust your gut, kid. It’ll never fail you. Don’t think. Do.

  Trust his gut.

  Zach eased the yoke back to stop the descent.

  Don’t think. Do.

  The runway loomed closer and closer.

  The ground rose to meet him.

  Zach held his breath.

  The gear hit hard.

  His body jerked. He clutched the wheel. The plane bounced, pulling to the right. Zach gripped the yoke tighter and added a bit of power. Finally, the Gulfstream slowed and settled on the tarmac.

  Zach’s head fell back against the seat.

  His heart restarted.

  A good landing is one you walk away from. Ace’s voice filtered through his mind.

  “Amen.”

  With a long, slow sigh, Zach steered toward an out-of-sight hangar. His hands and legs shook with each move of the pedals and tiller. Adrenaline. He used to love the feeling.

  Not quite so much these days.

  He shut off the engines, set the parking brake, and threw down the headset. Now for a little talk with the captain before anyone realized that the plane that just landed ended up in the wrong hangar.

  He shoved aside the sliding door separating the cockpit from the cabin and stared at the man tied up in the seat.

  Make that two dead bodies.

  Something white foamed from the captain’s mouth. In his hand he held a small syringe. Zach strode to the body, sank down, and studied the captain, his face screwed in agony. Who had so much power the guy would kill himself in such a horrible way?

  Clearly, the same someone who wanted Zach dead.

  He checked the identities of the pilots, storing them in his memory, then rifled through the electronic equipment and clothes in his duffel. He shoved it aside. Nope. He’d leave everything here. He needed to disappear. And he needed information.

  He emptied his wallet of cash, then scanned his passport and driver’s license looking for anything unusual, even a microdot that could track him. Nothing.

  He stuffed them in his pocket. “Welcome home, Zach.”

  Perched in the tree at the back of her large yard, Jenna peered at the embedded glass protruding from the top of the cinder block wall. Zach Montgomery didn’t want visitors, that was for sure. She eased her jacket off and swung it over. She pressed her hand down, testing the cushion. Enough to protect Sam. She shifted her weight and surveyed the actor’s yard. The automatic strobe lights illuminated the huge swimming pool holding center stage. A quick scan revealed a hot tub, tennis court, half a basketball court. All a playground for an overgrown boy.