Chapter Ten

Sancho told his abuela about his good fortune and she didn’t believe him. She thought either he was pulling her leg or someone was pulling his. Why would anyone give her grandson a quarter of a million dollars for anything? Sancho tried to explain but soon realized there was no logical explanation. She worked so hard for every penny she ever made. Sancho never understood why those who worked the hardest made the least. That sad fact fueled his determination to get a degree and find a job that didn’t wear him down to the bone.

His grandfather, one of the toughest men he ever met, stood five foot two. Barrel-chested and squat with a generous gut, he wasn’t a gym rat or movie star muscular, but his tata had a grip like a steel vise and could work all day and hoist cement blocks that weighed a hundred pounds. He toiled long hours in the rain or in one-hundred-degree heat and was always happy to have the work. Both his abuela and his tata were in their sixties and continued to work as hard as they ever had. So did Sancho’s mom as a cashier at Ross Dress for Less.

How could Sancho ever explain to his abuela and tata that a quarter of a million dollars was pocket change to someone like Sergei Belenki. For them, that kind of money was life changing. Sancho could wipe out all his student loans and pay for graduate school. He could buy a new car for himself and a new truck for his tata.

He didn’t remember the last time his mother and grandparents went to the dentist or doctor, but now his tata could get his teeth fixed and his abuela could afford her blood pressure medication. They wouldn’t believe him until he handed them the cold hard cash, but that’s exactly what he would do. It was the least he could do after all they had done for him.

First, Sancho had to stay alive long enough to collect. He barely survived his first adventure with Flynn and knew this one would be equally life-threatening. Nickelson had no idea what he signed up for. Sancho hoped that having a psychiatrist along might help keep Flynn in check, but there was no guarantee that he would listen. No guarantee at all.

The black Cadillac XTS Limo pulled up to the curb in front of City of Roses. The chauffeur opened the door and Severina Angelli sat inside, sipping from a bottle of Dasani water. Flynn and Sancho followed Dr. Nickelson into the limo as the chauffeur loaded up the trunk with their luggage. Within minutes they were on their way to Burbank Airport in air-conditioned comfort. They each had their own buttery-beige leather seat complete with a drink holder. A thirty-two-inch LCD TV soundlessly played MSNBC above a bar area with a selection of fine liquor and a bottle of French Champagne on ice.

Sancho never rode in a limo before and felt vaguely out of place. Severina looked elegant in her Armani suit, and Flynn was equally well-dressed in vintage Hugo Boss. Nickelson wore wrinkled kaki’s, a well-worn tweed jacket and a smile of absolute delight. He pointed to the Champagne.

“Help yourself,” Severina said.

Dr. Nickelson picked up the bottle and read the label aloud, his voice full of surprise. “Dom Perignon?”

“A 2009. Someone knows their Champagne,” Flynn said.

Nickelson handed the bottle to Flynn. “Would you care to do the honors?”

Flynn peeled off the foil and expertly popped the cork. He poured them each a glass and raised his for a toast.

“Sláinte!” Flynn swirled the Champagne glass and inspected the legs before inhaling the bouquet. He took a tiny sip and swished the bubbly around his mouth. “It has a certain voluptuousness, doesn’t it? Floral, rich and fleshy with a high acidic backbone and vibrant notes of guava and nectarines.”

Sancho took a sip of his own and mimicked Flynn by swishing the wine around his mouth. He didn’t taste the guava or nectarines and he had no clue what a high acidic backbone was, but it wasn’t bad.

“Salud!” Sancho said and then gulped the rest of the glass. Over the rim of his glass, he saw Severina study Flynn. He was already working his magic and wasn’t even half-trying. The alcohol hit Sancho as Flynn refilled his glass. He started to relax.

Sancho ran his hand over the buttery leather and finished his second glass of Champagne. Not having eaten breakfast, it went right to his head. Severina opened the sunroof and daylight filled the limo. Sancho stared at the clear blue sky. Maybe this trip with Flynn won’t be such a shit show after all. Traveling in style and chugging Champagne isn’t a bad way to make a quarter mil. He allowed himself to smile as the rest of his anxiety melted away. His first adventure time with Flynn involved carjacking, kidnapping, and multiple shootings. This time he traveled on a private jet to a multimillion-dollar charity ball.

Sancho watched the world go by through the tinted privacy glass. They exited at Hollywood Way and headed north past fast-food restaurants and mini-malls, gas stations and suburban tract houses. The limo pulled past the main entrance to Bob Hope Burbank Airport and headed past a security gate to the private hangar where Belenki kept his jet.

Sancho’s mood lifted even more when he raised his third glass of Champagne, but it abruptly plummeted when he saw the custom Boeing 737. Fear gripped him and adrenaline flooded his system. It was the very same jet that Goolardo used to kidnap the billionaires. The same one Flynn nearly crashed and burned.

After someone shot the pilot, Flynn had taken the controls even though the closest he’d ever come to flying a plane was a flight simulator video game. Sancho had known terror many times during his ordeal with Flynn, but that fight on the plane with Goolardo and Mendoza terrified him more than any other moment they’d spent together. Sancho remembered the ground flying up as the plane rocketed down. He was sure he’d die a fiery agonizing death. He didn’t. He survived. But some nights he had nightmares where Flynn didn’t save them, and the plane plowed into a mountain and exploded.

The limo came to a stop and the chauffeur opened the door. Sancho was stricken. He couldn’t get out. Fear kept him frozen in place.

Flynn patted him on the knee. “Ready, amigo?”

“I can’t do it. I can’t get on that plane again.”

Severina raised an eyebrow. “What’s the issue?”

“The issue is I don’t want to fucking die!”

“What makes you think you’re going to die?” Dr. Nickelson’s voice oozed calm.

“Him.” Sancho pointed at Flynn.

“You do realize you’re being irrational, right?” Nickelson asked.

Still pointing at Flynn, Sancho said, “He’s the one who’s irrational.”

Flynn smiled. “How am I irrational?”

“In every fucking way possible. I’m not doing this again. I’m not doing it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re just feeling a bit agitated.”

“If he doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t have to. His presence is not required,” Severina said.

“It is for me, and it should be for your boss.” Flynn leaned forward and locked eyes with her.

“Sancho. Look at me.” Nickelson put a firm hand on each of Sancho’s shoulders. “Big breath in. Big breath out. That’s it. You are suffering the effects of PTSD. But they can be managed. They can be controlled. That jet is a trigger for you. That’s why you’re anxious.”

“Anxious? I’m fucking terrified.”

“Just keep breathing. Let it in. Out. In. Out. Do you feel that cleansing breath pushing away your anxiety?”

“Not really.”

“You will. By learning to identify external triggers, you can reduce your anxiety level. That Champagne probably didn’t help. I recommend staying away from alcohol. Once it’s out of your system, I’ll give you a Xanax.”

“Just take me back to City of Roses.”

“You run away from this and your anxiety will only get worse.” Nickelson looked deep into Sancho’s eyes. “You need to face your fear. It’s called exposure and it’s what’s necessary if you want to manage your PTSD. Confronting fear is the only way to overcome it.”

Flynn nodded in agreement. “He speaks the truth, amigo. You think I never face fear? I face it every single day. I hide it well, but it’s always there. It keeps me sharp. It keeps me ready. Bravery isn’t about eliminating fear. It’s about doing what’s required despite that fear.”

“Think about the positive benefits of conquering this.” Nickelson released Sancho’s shoulders and chucked him under the chin. “You can do it.”

“And don’t forget about the money you’ll make,” Severina added.

Sancho hesitated. Walking away terrified him just as much as staying. His family needed the money. He needed the money. It would change everything. All he had to do was not die. He had been doing that every day for the last twenty-seven years. If he could just stay alive for another few weeks his family would be set. “Okay.” Sancho nodded with conviction. “Let’s do this.”

Severina Angelli fastened her seatbelt on the plane and gave Flynn a sideways glance. Over the last three years, Belenki had ordered Severina to do many strange things. Hiring Flynn didn’t even top the list, but it was likely the most dangerous.

After earning an MBA in Finance from Wharton, she graduated at the top of her class from Harvard Law. Severina interviewed at investment banks and venture capital firms and fielded multiple offers. She finally went with Bain Capital in New York. Five years later she was a senior consultant at Benchmark in Menlo Park and worked with startups like Dropbox, Zillow, and Snapchat.

There she met Sergei Belenki and within a year he’d lured her away to become his VP of business development and investor relations. She made twice the salary she made at Benchmark and the stock options and yearly bonuses were insane, but then so was Sergei Belenki.

Belenki believed the colonization of other planets essential for human survival, which was why he created Space Go, one of the largest private space exploration companies in the world. He worried that one day advanced AI would create a race of machines that would obliterate humankind. He intimated that perhaps what we perceive as our reality is possibly a computer simulation created by an advanced alien civilization.

Hiring Flynn to protect him from the Russian mob was no more bizarre than many of Belenki’s other strange and irrational notions. She was, however, irritated that he had her drop everything else she was working on to convince Flynn to come west. Insulted to be put in that position, she began to re-evaluate her situation.

He didn’t hire her to be a messenger girl, or a babysitter and she resented being treated that way. Belenki said he chose her for this task because of her ability to persuade. But if she couldn’t convince Belenki that Flynn was out of his mind, then perhaps her powers of persuasion could use a little work.

Severina watched as Flynn rooted through his shoulder bag.

“Did you forget something,” she asked.

“No, just looking over the gadgets Q sent along.”

“Q?”

“He’s head of Q branch and as such is an inventor, an innovator, and a genius when it comes to hi-tech weaponry.” Severina was already sorry she asked the question, but she was soon to be sorrier as Flynn pulled out a plastic dental floss dispenser. “Look at this, for instance. What do you think this is?”

“Mint-flavored dental floss?”

“Yes, that’s what it appears to be, but in actuality, it’s a garrote made from the strongest, thinnest nylon monofilament in existence.” He dropped the dental floss back in the bag and pulled something else out. “Now what about this?”

“Looks like a tube of toothpaste.”

“Most people would think so. But if you squeezed it out around a door frame, you could blow that door right off its hinges. This tube contains a revolutionary new form of C-4 that’s ten times more powerful and even more malleable. Q calls it C-5.” He put the toothpaste tube back and pulled out a green and blue box. “Guess what these are?”

Severina read the side of the box. “Suppositories?”

“To the casual eye, yes, but to those in the know these are highly sophisticated, very powerful homing devices.”

“That you put up your—”

“But of course,” Flynn said. He put the box back and pulled out a banana.

“What’s that?” Severina asked.

“What’s it look like?

“A banana.”

“Indeed.” Flynn peeled it and took a bite. “That’s because it is a banana. Would you care for a bite?

“No thanks,” Severina said.

“I assume your employer will supply us with the proper firepower once we arrive.”

“You expect him to give you a gun?”

“More than one I would hope. If he wants me to protect him, I’ll need the means to do so.” Flynn glanced out the window and nibbled away on his banana. Even though she knew he was one taco shy of a combination plate, Severina couldn’t help but be intrigued. He had that bad boy charisma that she always fell for. Her last two boyfriends were drummers in rock and roll bands and the one before that was a professional poker player. She even recently had a flirtation with one of the ex-operators working security at Belenki’s private island. Maybe because she’d always been such a good girl, Severina had a thing for naughty boys. Men who skirted the edge of propriety and the law. Risk-takers all.

Like Sergei Belenki.

Some of her acquaintances, mainly men, assumed she was sleeping with her boss. But Belenki never showed the slightest bit of interest in her in that regard, which was somewhat surprising, since most men, especially rich men, seemingly couldn’t resist her. Of course, that changed quickly once they got to know her. According to her therapist, most men found her intimidating.

Belenki wasn’t intimidated, but then again, he didn’t think about sex nineteen times a day like most men. He found his sex drive to be distracting and inconvenient. When he did make an attempt at dating, he normally went for models and movie stars, which Severina thought was strange since he rarely looked at magazines and never went to the movies. These models and movie stars had no clue what to make of Belenki since he spent most of his time working.

They were used to men doting on them and worshipping them. At least at first. But not Belenki. He once told Severina that he wondered how much time he should allocate to dating. He needed to find a girlfriend, but he wasn’t sure how much time per week the average girlfriend required. Five hours? Ten? He’d wanted to know what the minimum was and Severina didn’t know what to tell him.

The 737’s engines roared as the jet moved into take off position. Severina’s head gently snapped back as the aircraft accelerated down the runway. She glanced at Sancho in the seat across from her; jaw clenched, teeth gritted, knuckles white. For just a second he turned his head to look at Severina and tears filled his terrified eyes.

Sancho tried to sleep, but even with a Xanax supplied by Dr. Nickelson he still had too much adrenaline coursing through his system. He glanced out the window as they flew above the Angeles National Forest. He watched the I-5 winding its way through the Sierra Pelona Mountains and over the Tejon Pass to the Grapevine.

It looked peaceful from forty thousand feet. He took a big breath and slowly let it out. In and out. In and out. Nickelson wasn’t wrong. The deep breathing did seem to help. The tension headache dissipated. Maybe the Xanax had finally kicked in.

He glanced at Flynn chatting up the flight attendant. She had no idea who he was or what he was. No idea that six months ago this hunky male model-looking motherfucker was a fat, pimple-faced dweeb with big plastic glasses and no self-esteem. No idea that he worked as a trainee at Hot Dog on a Stick and wore tight red shorts and a goofy, poofy hat. Sancho marveled at the change. Flynn was ripped and confident, and movie-star handsome. How could he possibly be the same person?

“You seem like you’re doing better,” Dr. Nickelson said.

“For now,” Sancho replied.

“Are you expecting something bad to happen?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Why would I?”

“Because bad shit happens.”

“Not all the time.”

Sancho motioned to Flynn and lowered his voice. “I like James, I do, but he is seriously deranged, and he is a danger to himself and everyone around him.”

“I thought he saved your life.”

“He did. More than once. But he’s also the crazy bastard who put it in danger in the first place.”

“Yes, but last time you didn’t have me along for the ride. I can talk to him and help him make better choices.”

“Like not steal a couple hundred grand from a Mexican drug cartel? Or fight an entire motorcycle gang by himself? Or drive a car off a fucking cliff?”

Sancho could tell that Nickelson hadn’t heard those specific details before. The psychiatrist suddenly looked a lot less sure of himself, but before he could respond, the 737 dropped a hundred feet.

Sancho’s stomach vaulted into his throat and sweat immediately popped up on his face. The aircraft jumped up and down in the high-desert turbulence. The voice of a female pilot crackled over the PA system. “Things are going to get a bit bumpy for a bit. So please keep your seatbelts buckled until I turn off the warning sign.” She had the same Texas twang and laconic delivery that so many middle-aged male pilots had.

Sancho inhaled and exhaled, in and out, in and out, faster and faster, more and more frantically as the plane dipped and shook and bucked. He hyperventilated. Lightheaded and dizzy, Sancho knew what was happening. He’d studied it in psychology class. A classic panic attack. But knowing that didn’t help. It felt like he was dying. Like he couldn’t catch his breath. He wanted to rip his seat belt off and run, but there was nowhere to go but down. Thousands of feet down. Images of the plane plunging to Earth popped up in his brain. His imagination ran wild with flashes of fire and bloody carnage, the plane crashing, the metal ripping him apart, the jet fuel igniting and burning him alive.

“Sancho! Look at me.” Dr. Nickelson gently put his left hand on Sancho’s shoulder, his right hand on Sancho’s face and looked directly into his eyes. “Breathe.”

“I can’t. I can’t breathe.”

“You’re okay. You’re safe.”

“You’re gonna die too!”

“Sancho. Look at me. What you feel isn’t real. You’re not going to die.”

Tears sprung to Sancho’s eyes. “Everybody dies!”

“Indeed, they do,” Flynn replied. He unbuckled his seat belt and knelt on the floor next to the terrified orderly. He took Sancho’s sweaty left hand in his and held it tight. “Everyone dies. But not everyone lives. You can’t live fully unless you’re willing to risk it all. You must push past the fear if you ever hope to become who you were meant to be. Most people give up. Surrender to mediocrity. But that’s not you. I’ve seen what you can do. I’ve seen your courage. I’ve seen who you are. What you are. This world needs you, amigo. Alyssa needs you. I need you. So, do me a favor and buck the bloody hell up!”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

Flynn squeezed Sancho’s hand. Sancho squeezed back. Flynn’s confidence pushed away his fear, and in that moment it didn’t matter if that courage was irrational. All courage was irrational. Everyone knew they would grow old and die, but somehow people ignored that fact and kept their fear at bay and moved forward as if they were going to live forever. That was truly irrational, yet that ability to disregard reality made life possible. Once Sancho grasped that, the fear faded.

“Your hand is quite sweaty,” Flynn said.

“So, stop squeezing it.”

Flynn did and Sancho wiped his sweaty paw on his shirt. The turbulence eased up and before long the plane once again flew smoothly.

“Feeling better?” Nickelson asked.

“No, but I’m okay with that,” Sancho said.