Miguel knew he needed to get off the island fast. The local authorities would be looking for him, but he hoped that he had thrown them off the track by telling them he was Robert Rath. Now he needed to get back to the hotel where he'd been staying, get his things and leave. He found a pay phone, and called the small local airport. He made arrangements for a flight off the island. He then called for a taxi.
He got in the taxi slowly; the pain in his chest was increasing and he knew he'd better be careful. He was sweating heavily, the exertion of merely standing was almost more than he could handle. He told the driver where to go then slumped in the back seat, trying to regain enough strength to get through this night. The lights of the hotel's entrance suddenly illuminated the taxi. He told the driver to wait, and started out of the car, but he staggered against the car door, almost falling.
"Senor! Please, let me help you!" The doorman rushed to his side.
"I am fine," Miguel snapped. "Look, I called earlier about getting my things, and settling my bill. If you will take care of that for me, I will give you a substantial tip." He slipped a fifty to the man.
"Yes, sir! Right away sir!" The doorman scurried off. Miguel slumped back into the taxi. He noticed the driver's eyes on him in the rear view mirror. He was too tired to be angry. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. Every breath was becoming more painful. He looked down at the hospital scrubs he wore, and noticed a small dark stain on his chest. Shit! He had managed to re-open one of the wounds. He hoped it wasn't too bad. He was still too weak to lose a lot of blood and make his escape. He closed his eyes again and tried to rest.
Only a few moments later, the doorman was back with his baggage, and laptop computer. The doorman handed him the hotel bill. Miguel studied it for a moment, then pulled some cash from his wallet. "Here, keep the change." The doorman's eyes widened, then he said, "Gracias, senor. Please visit us again." He closed the door and Miguel told the driver to go to the airport.
The woman had prepped the plane, and was ready to go as soon as the mysterious client arrived. She was bored. She figured this was just another of the drug lords in the area making a quick trip somewhere. She didn't care; it was just for the money. She had almost paid for the plane, and these rich guys always paid in cash. She would quit flying them around when she'd paid for the little jet, and when she had enough stashed away to live comfortably and travel wherever she wanted to go. She took great pains to not get caught, and she was well known in the underworld as discreet and thorough. She didn't ask questions, because she didn't want to know anything about her clients. She would tell the talkative ones to shut up, and if they didn't, she would turn the rest of the flight into a roller coaster, claiming turbulence. She knew how to use the plane as a weapon, and even the toughest of her customers left her alone. Her reputation for discreetness made sure she had plenty of repeat business.
She had gotten the call early in the evening. A "gentleman" needed a flight into the United States. He didn't care where, but it had to be without detection. He was willing to pay handsomely, in cash. He sounded like her kind of client. She was a little concerned, because she didn't know anything about him. She usually got clients from referrals, but this one was a new one. The only thing she knew was his name, Miguel Bain. She wasn't worried exactly, but there was always a little apprehension with a first time client.
The small airport was quiet as usual. It was large enough to handle the smaller commercial jets, but they were relatively infrequent, especially at this time of the year. She knew most of the employees here, but they didn't have much to do with her. It wasn't that she was unpleasant, but they were aware of what she did for a living. What they didn't know kept them safe, and she could understand that. It just meant she didn't have any real friends. Her only friends were the scraggly fuzzy black dog that thought she was a goddess, and an aging parrot. The big red bird could talk, but didn't very often. Most of the words he knew were obscenities, but of course, he didn't care who he offended. They lived with her on the small jet. She owned a very small house in the mountains of New Mexico, but she rarely went there. She preferred warmer climates most of the time, but she would always keep the old house, as an escape.
A taxi pulled up near the terminal entrance. She watched briefly as a man, either drunk or handicapped in some way emerged. She closed her eyes again. A moment or two passed, then she realized that someone was standing beside her. She looked up. "Your passenger is here, C.C." One of the airport employees stood by her side. She jumped up. Her client was the man she had seen getting out of the taxi. She looked him over. He was young, but he didn't look well at all. He looked sick rather than drunk. What was going on? She didn't really care, but she didn't want to have him die on her, or even worse give her some disease.
She caught his eye. He was in bad shape, but something was keeping him going despite his problems. She decided he looked injured, not ill, and she thought that if the fire in his eyes was anything to go on, he would survive. She said, "I am C.C. Tonali. I am your pilot tonight. We can talk over the details of the arrangement when we are on my plane."
He looked as if he was about to speak, but then he just nodded. She asked him. "Look. You are obviously in some pain. Do you need some help with your things, and getting on the plane?" His gave her a withering look. "Senorita, I do not need your help. Yes, I am injured, but I will be fine. Just fly me where I requested and I will pay you what I promised. And no questions." The effort of speaking made Miguel feel dizzy. The pain was becoming almost unbearable.
"Ok. Okayyyy," she turned from him and mumbled, "Touchy one." He did seem like her kind of client, though. He wanted to be left alone, and so did she. She turned her back on him and walked out of the terminal onto the runway. As she exited the building, she realized he wasn't behind her. She turned and didn't see him at first. He was sitting in a row of chairs; his eyes were closed. She shook her head at his stubbornness then wheeled his luggage to the plane and loaded it in the small luggage compartment. She headed back to the terminal. He hadn't moved from the chair. His tanned skin couldn't hide his pallor. She grabbed an unused wheelchair, and wheeled it over to him. She kicked his foot. "Hey, if you are going with me, let's get moving." He opened his eyes. She said, "Let's go. Get in the chair, and don't start bitching. If you want to go with me, it is this way or not at all." He nodded, but didn't say anything. He started to get up, but his strength was rapidly draining. "Shit!" he mumbled under his breath. "Shit is right, buddy!" she replied. "You need to be in a hospital."
"No. I have to get out of here now. Help me...please," he whispered through his clenched teeth. She grabbed his arm, and said, "OK, we are going to take it nice and slow. Put your arms around my neck and let me support you. You only have to shift to the chair." She used all of her strength to pull him up and help him ease into the chair. He gasped and a moan escaped his lips. She moved to wheel him out of the terminal. She was thinking, what the hell am I doing? This guy is gonna die on me. How the hell will I ever get him on the plane?
Miguel wasn't thinking at all. The pain was draining him of his all his strength. He was not in control and he hated it, but he knew he had to get away first then think about getting medical attention. The woman pilot was not what he had expected, but he had to trust her at this point. He had to get away, and she was the only way that was going to happen. He didn't really notice her until she ordered him to put his arms around her neck while she helped him into the wheelchair.
He was astonished by her strength. He was not a big man, but she was a petite woman, but very muscular for a woman her size. He closed his eyes again, once he was seated, and she wheeled him out to the plane. Every breath was agonizing. The sharp intense pain seemed to increase with each breath. He tried breathing deeply, and couldn't prevent a cry of pain.
C.C. heard him moan again. She rolled him to the side of the plane. She didn't think she would be able to get him in the plane by herself.
"This is going to be the hard part," she said. "I can help you, but you are going to have to climb up the stairs. It is only a couple of steps, but I cannot lift you; you are going to have to help me. Put your arms around my neck, and I will help you stand up." Miguel did what she said. His mind was only functioning on one level; survive. She helped him up from the chair, and turned him toward the stairs. "Can you pull yourself up?" she asked. "I will support you the best I can." He nodded, and slowly pulled himself up the stairs into the small jet. He felt her hands on his back and waist as she leaned against him, trying to keep him from falling. He made into the plane, and pulled himself into the nearest seat. The sweat was trickling from his face, but even with the summer heat, he felt cold. He closed his eyes, but a cold wet nose suddenly assaulted him. Startled, he jumped, and gasped from the pain. A homely black dog was panting in his face. He weakly pushed the dog away, just as the woman climbed into the cockpit. She said, "CYBER! Go lay down!! Leave our passenger alone!" The dog backed away, but continued to watch Miguel, tail wagging, a hopeful look in his eyes. Miguel slipped into the seat a little lower as the woman began making arrangements for departure.
A voice from the back of the plane made Miguel open his eyes. "Mother-fucker," it said. He turned his head enough to see a huge parrot. The bird squawked loudly. His heart was pounding as he turned back in his seat. "Shit!" he mumbled, "am I on a fucking zoo plane?" Then he said, more loudly, "Any more surprises, sweetie? I don't think I can take much more of your other passengers."
"Don't tell me you are afraid of a harmless dog and a geriatric parrot. Look, sweetie," she replied, echoing his sarcastic tone, "they are my family, so put up with them." She looked him over, then said, "You aren't gonna die on me are you? I don't like my passengers to die. Of course, we will be over water most the time, so I can just pitch you out, but it might get messy to explain if someone is looking for you."
His reply was a grunt, then, "I don't think I am going to die just yet. I am not ready to die. I have something to take care of first. Are you going to talk the entire trip?" She looked at him, then laughed. "That is MY line. Ok. Don't die on me and I won't throw you in the ocean. Seriously, though... I mean, you've got blood on your shirt. Do you need some medical attention? I actually have some experience as a medic. I was a Marine in a former life." She looked at him expectantly. He didn't say anything for a minute, then nodded. "Yes, I guess if you are offering, I do need some help."
"Ok," she replied. "Let me change our departure time and I will take a look at you." She radioed into the tower, then slipped between the seats and knelt beside him. "Hospital scrubs?" she asked, as she slipped off the jacket. "Did you escape from the hospital?" His look made her respond, "I know, I know, no questions. Fine, but you are going to have to sit up and let me slip the shirt off." He complied, a moan of pain escaping his clinched lips. "Sorry," she mumbled. She pulled some scissors from the kit, and snipped the dressing from his chest. "Shit," she exclaimed as she pulled the bandages away. "How the hell are you even alive?" She stared at the wounds, the tight pattern of obvious bullet holes that must have missed his heart by millimeters. She shook her head. The bleeding wasn't too bad, but then she heard the tiny hiss of air. The slight whistle told her that Miguel had a punctured lung. She needed to get a chest tube into him quickly. If she didn't get the air building up in his chest cavity removed immediately, his lung would collapse and he would be in real trouble then.
"Man, oh man. We have a serious problem here," she said. Miguel's face was twisted with pain. The exertion of removing the shirt had pushed him to the limits. The pain was excruciating. He moaned with every breath. C.C. jumped up and ran to the rear of the plane, opened a storage compartment and began throwing things out as she frantically searched for a piece of tubing. She knew the spare oil pump would pull enough of a vacuum to do what she needed, if she could just find some tubing that would work. She found an old piece of rubber tubing that she could slip over the pump fitting. She would probably kill him with an infection, but if she didn't get the chest tube in him, he was probably going to die anyway. She grabbed the pump as she moved back to him.
She struggled with the tube and pump, but finally succeeded in connecting them, then she took a deep breath. She enlarged an opening in Miguel's chest and slipped the tube in. She turned on the pump and hoped that it would work. Miguel fainted. C.C. pressed her fingers against his neck to make sure he hadn't died on her; she was relieved that she could still feel his pulse. For his sake, it was probably just as well for him anyway. She let the pump go for a while then slipped the chest tube out. She listened for the whistle of air, and could no longer hear it. Ok, she thought, I have done all I can for him. She shook her head in disbelief that he had even made it to the airport in this condition. She thought that he must be in big trouble if he wanted to leave the island so badly. It occurred to her that getting caught with him wasn't such a good idea either, so she strapped him into the seat as best she could, and got the plane ready to depart.
She didn't know where he wanted to go, other than the United States, so she made plans to fly him to her old cabin in New Mexico. He was going to need some time to heal, and she didn't know where else to take him. If he died there, well, she would cross that bridge when she got to it. Papagayo screeched loudly from his vantage at the rear of plane as she took off.
As soon as she gained her usual flight altitude, she put the plane on autopilot and checked on her passenger-patient. He was breathing much more normally, but he was still out. She watched his handsome face for a few moments, then went to the rear of the plane and made some coffee. She poured a cup of the strong brew, then made her way back to the front of the plane. As she passed Miguel, his hand moved to grab her.
"Hey, you are awake. Do you feel any better? The pain is not so bad now?" she asked. He nodded, then said, "I am thirsty, could you get me some water? And who is flying the plane? The bird?" She laughed, "No it is on autopilot. Hold on, I'll get your water." She got him a glass, then moved back to her chair. She glanced back at him a few times, but he sat with his eyes closed, occasionally sipping the water. Finally she said, "Look, Mr. Bain, I don't know where you want to go, but you are going to need some time to heal from those wounds. I didn't know whether you would wake up again before we hit the States, so I am flying to my home in New Mexico. It is remote. We can get there without anyone even knowing I have a passenger. You can stay at the cabin, until you have recovered some. I won't be able to stay with you the whole time, but I imagine that will suit you better anyway. If you don't want to go there, you better let me know now, and I can fly you somewhere else."
Miguel didn't say anything for a minute, then replied, "Fine. The only thing is, I have to have access to my computer. You say this place is remote. Do you have a phone line?" "Yeah and indoor plumbing, too," she laughed. "You can use your computer there. It will give you something to do while you heal."
Miguel smiled a little and said, "Yes. My thoughts exactly. Something to do while I heal..."
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