“Seven-seven-Lima, that’s correct,” the ATC controller came back. “Apologies, sir. We have activity in the special use airspace around Patuxent River Naval Air Station. We also need you at or below two-five-zero knots for just a few minutes, please—again, separation for military activity in the airspace. Crossing Pax River VOR, I can get you higher if you like and get your speed back up. We’ll get you direct Harrisburg and higher sooner than that if I can. Working it now, so stand by.”

“Seven-seven-Lima is now fifteen-five for fourteen thousand. Will stay between thirteen-five and fourteen for you. Like higher and direct when able.”

He released the push to talk and glanced at Smith, who glared at him, and again a trick of the light made it look as if his eyes were literally glowing with rage, but then the illusion disappeared and the man’s face relaxed.

“Man, they’re jerking us around today, huh?” Smith said. For some reason he seemed to suddenly have a slight Georgia accent, but it might have been Nate’s imagination.

“Yeah,” he said, thinking again about the Glock in his flight case. Something was not right. “Once we cross Pax River, we’re just twenty minutes out if he gives us our speed back. Probably more efficient at that point to just shoot on in. Certainly don’t need more than flight level two-zero-zero. What do you think, Smith?”

“Maybe,” the first officer agreed, flashing Nate a creepy smile. “Like to get back to twenty at least, I guess, if we can.”

Nate nodded and said nothing, advancing the throttles slightly as he leveled at fourteen thousand feet, then letting the jet drift slightly down to thirteen thousand eight hundred. He set the speed at the two hundred and forty knots indicated, practically crawl speed for a jet like this.

They droned along the airway in silence, less than three hundred knots and at a fuel-guzzling altitude. They had plenty of gas, but the trip just kept getting more and more bizarre. First he had a new hire copilot he’d not even heard about; then they had a group of passengers—six of them no less—in the main cabin with the enormous box they were transporting. Supposedly they were scientists as well as security for some government tech, but only they knew why they would head to Harrisburg. And now, the weird redirects from ATC.

Nate blew air through his teeth.

Man, he’d be glad when this flight was over.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE

GULFSTREAM G700 N828RP

14,000 FEET, NORTHWEST BOUND ON V157

1624 HOURS LOCAL