Gannon woke up on a plane for the second time in a month.
Well, he thought, peering out at the hazy morning light on the water below. At least this time, it’s heading in the right direction.
They were heading to Panama now. To another remote jungle strip Lou used working undercover as a drug dealer. From there, it was going to be a piece of cake as Lou knew people who could get Mike papers for a flight home.
Gannon crossed his fingers, thinking about his son.
Home, he thought. Please be true.
It was just the two of them now. After some discussion, Alessandra and Reggie had been left to their own devices with a Land Cruiser full of coke back near Iquitos.
“Are we there yet?” he called loudly over to Lou at the instruments.
“Very close now,” Lou said as Gannon looked out and saw land.
Lou was a good pilot. As they touched down in the middle of yet another dense jungle, he might as well have been on a 747.
“Nice job, Lou. Very smooth,” Gannon said as they taxied over to what looked like a shipping container.
“No problemo. Thanks for flying the friendly skies.”
Inside the triple-locked container, there were supplies. Stacks of water bottles, AR-15s and ammo, dried food. Lou rummaged around and tossed Gannon a Hawaiian shirt.
“All the comforts of home, huh?” Gannon said as he got changed. “Surprised no one’s broken in.”
“No,” Lou said. “We pay the farmer who owns the land very well to make sure it doesn’t happen.”
“This is okay?” Gannon said as Lou handed him a Tracfone still in its packaging.
“Squeaky clean, bro. I bought all of it.”
“Shut the front door,” Gannon said, laughing, as Lou went to the back and wheeled out a moped. He handed it to him and went back and wheeled out another.
“Why walk when you can ride? There’s a town nearby. The highway to Panama City is only a few miles away down that trail. Follow me.”
Fifteen minutes of off-road mopeding later, the trail dumped them out into the narrow back street of a run-down little town with two-story painted houses and bars on the windows.
Lou waved as they passed a little restaurant on the corner where a hefty Panamanian woman with a crew cut was putting tables out. A small dog came out of the back of it, barking at them, as they took off down the road.
Deeper into the town, there were sidewalk markets, a food truck selling fish tacos beside an old baroque church. A line of cars was waiting at the first light. One of them, a brown jacked-up Tacoma pickup, was playing a festive reggae Latin rap.
Listening to it and looking around at the sky and trees, Gannon found himself overwhelmed by a feeling of gratefulness, of rushing freedom and hope.
The incredible luck it had taken to get him out of there.
He looked up at the sunrise clouds stacked up above the steeple. They were the color of old gold.
It wasn’t luck, dummy, he thought.
“Lou,” Gannon said as the light went green.
“What’s up, Mike?”
“Thank you.”
“De nada,” Lou said with a wink as he hit the throttle.