Killing Chase by Ben Muse Read Free Book Online Page A

small building and out to the tarmac. It was still technically late winter, but on this mid-March day, the temperature was already in the sixties and the sun shone brightly against a dark blue sky. Sitting on the tarmac was dad’s immaculate blue and white Cessna 525, and next to the door stood Henry Hampton, Hank to his friends, in khakis, aviator shades, and a white button-down shirt. Building yachts was where he made his name, but flying was his real passion.
    A large smile spread across his face when he saw me. We embraced, and he stood back to look me over.
    “Have you been in boot camp or prison? You look like you’ve been chiseled out of a block of granite. Not an ounce of fat on you.” he said hoarsely.
    “I’ve had time to lift a few weights and do a little running. Are you sick?”
    “Just a cold. Always get ’em when the seasons change. I’m glad you are coming home, son. We have a lot of catching up to do. Ready to go?”
    “We can’t get airborne soon enough, Dad.” We boarded quickly and buckled ourselves in the expansive leather executive seats. He spooled up the engines, and soon we were taxiing to the beginning of the eight-thousand-foot runway. The Cessna began its roll, gathered speed, and quickly lifted off. I looked back to the left toward Ashmore, and as my distance from it increased, a weight was lifted from my shoulders. As we ascended, it was sinking in that I was free. Dad banked the Cessna to the right, and we headed east, home to Foggy Harbor and the mess that lay ahead.

Chapter 8
     
    Once we reached cruising altitude, I joined dad in the cockpit and donned the Bose aviation headset, while Art looked over my parole papers in back. The digital readout said we were cruising at twenty-two thousand feet at a speed of three hundred forty knots. My brain was in overload with the overwhelming amount of technology in front of me, above me, and to the side. The closest I had been to technology in prison were the battered payphones in our wing. Occasionally, Ashmore would receive prisoners who were new to the system, and these newbies would affix letters and photos to their cell wall and refer to it as their Facebook wall. Prison humor is the best. No, not really.
    “You want to take the stick for a minute?” Dad said, nodding at the black control yoke in front of me. My first thought was, No, I most certainly do not. Then a switch in my head flipped and said, Live a little , so I grabbed both uprights and held her steady. Dad pointed to a display.
    “That’s the attitude indicator. Keep it level.”
    “Shouldn’t an attitude indicator say something like confident, grateful, or condescending?” I joked.
    “Yeah, well, if the little aircraft on the display screen gets below the horizon for too long, we’ll all be descending,” he said. Dad gets his humor from me.
    “How’s Pops?”
    “Old and cranky, but otherwise plugging right along. Still walks a mile every day, rain or shine, and eats the same boring crap. Oatmeal with coffee for breakfast and a turkey on rye with a side salad and apple for lunch. Dinner is baked salmon, broccoli, and brown rice. He smokes one Benson and Hedges cigarette every morning after breakfast and ends his day with two fingers of Jameson on the terrace before bed. By God, he’s going to outlive us all.”
    “Not bad for ninety-one,” I said.
    “Ninety-three. He’s looking forward to seeing you.”
    “He’s not gonna want to wrestle, is he?”
    “Heaven help you if he does. Talk about old-man strong. Okay, turn the stick to the right ten degrees. We’ll begin our descent in about twenty minutes, and we’re a smidge off the next waypoint.” I made the slight turn, and the plane responded.
    “That’s good. You got the stick for the next ten, then I’ll take it. You’ll earn your wings before you know it.”
    “Art says you’re building the Russians a new navy.”
    “They mint a new billionaire over there every day it seems, and they all want