Page 98 of Burning Justice

During the drive from Hawkin’s house to the airport, Lori had called to notify him she’d spoken with Front Range air traffic control, who’d confirmed Michael Hawkin had filed an instrument flight plan to Mexico, with a short stop at Vaughn Municipal Airport in Vaughn, New Mexico. The manager of the airport had also told Lori that Hawkin shared a hangar with an aircraft stripping and painting company that had recently been shut down by the EPA for unlawfully storing and using toxic chemicals.

Hawkin’s pickup was nowhere in sight. Now it was a waiting game. Brett might never have the evidence to charge Hawkin with setting the Torrance Lane fire, but at least they’d nail him with an arson-for-profit conspiracy and, possibly, the murder of Johnny Nash.

His phone lit with Deck’s name. “I’m pulling into the airport now,” Deck said. “What’s your twenty?”

“East 51st. It’s the third right turn off the main road. Park behind me.” Since Tom Willard and his team hadn’t arrived yet, and the state patrol based at the airport were out on other calls, he was grateful for the backup. Despite Lori’s orders, if Hawkin’s plane so much as twitched, he had no intention of waiting.

“Ten-four.”

Less than a minute later, Deck pulled up behind him. “Stay here, buddy,” he said to Blaze, then met Deck outside. “Thanks for coming.” Deck and Evan always had his back, and he’d always have theirs. It was part of the bond they’d forged over the years, one just as solid as those he shared with his own siblings.

“Anytime. You know that. What’s the plan?”

“I have a strong hunch that Michael Hawkin is planning on fleeing the country with his brother. He’s got a plane in that hangar.” He pointed to Hangar 8. “No signs of movement. Tom Willard and his team are bringing an arrest warrant for Hawkin in case he shows up here.”

“We hanging tight until they get here?”

“Yep.” Brett nodded. “Evan coming?”

Deck looked at his phone. “Yeah, he was with Gemma. She asked him for help with something. Whatever they were doing, they finished, and he’s on his way. Should be here any minute now.”

She what?

After what Brett had done to her, he would have bet a shit-ton of money she’d never call a federal agent for help again. But she had, and she’d called Evan. Not him. At least she’d heeded his warning and called somebody instead of charging off gangbusters on her own.

Evan’s SUV turned the corner and parked behind Deck’s. As Evan jogged over, his expression was unexpectedly upbeat. “You won’t believe what just happened.”

Loud whirring came from behind them. The door to Hangar 8 started opening. Inside the hangar was a pickup truck. Beside the truck was a Cessna. Large plastic and metal fifty-five-gallon drums lined the wall of the hangar behind the plane.

The hangar door continued to rise steadily. A man Brett thought was Michael Hawkin threw a duffel bag through the open left side door of the aircraft. The plane’s tail number solidified it.

N98986. Hawkin’s plane.

“Dammit.” He’d been parked inside the hangar the entire time.

Waiting for Tom Willard wasn’t an option. Regardless of whether the FAA issued him a ground stop, Hawkin could be airborne within minutes. “Hold that thought,” he said to Evan. “Let’s go get him.” Brett sprinted back to his Expedition.

He slammed his foot on the accelerator, gunning the SUV to the end of the road and onto the grass separating the dead end of 51st Avenue and Hangar 8. The vehicle shimmied and rocked as he pushed it harder. Letting this fucker get away…not gonna happen.

As he neared the hangar, he glimpsed another plane, a Beechcraft, behind the Cessna on the other side of the hangar. Brown paper covered the plane’s windows, the silver body of the aircraft completely stripped of paint.

Hawkin bent to pull the chocks from the plane’s nosewheel, then lifted his head. At this point, Brett was close enough to catch the momentary surprise on the man’s face. Hawkin hurled the chocks aside and hopped into the plane. The propellor began spinning.

Brett slammed his foot down harder on the gas pedal. If he didn’t make it in time, Hawkin could roll out of there onto a taxiway before Brett could stop him.

He drove onto the pavement in front of the hangar, only slamming on the brake when he was within a few feet of the now-fully spinning prop. Deck and Evan parked on either side, preventing Hawkin from skirting around Brett’s Expedition.

As Brett jumped from the SUV, he popped Blaze’s door. Between three armed federal agents and Blaze, Hawkin wouldn’t get away.

With Blaze at his side, he charged to the airplane and yanked open the pilot’s door. He’d love nothing more than to haul Hawkin out and throw him to the ground, but if the man’s foot on the brake was the only thing holding the plane in place, doing that would send it on a collision course with their SUVs.

“Federal agents!” he shouted over the noise. “Shut off the engine, and get out!”

The air smelled of chemicals. Blaze snorted. Like a hunting dog, he “pointed” to the plastic drums stacked neatly against the nearest wall. MEK. The aircraft stripping and painting company must have been using it as a paint stripper before they were shut down.

Hawkin’s face twisted with malice as he reluctantly turned off the engine. The plane’s propellors slowly ground to a stop.

“Put the hand brake on.” Brett waited for Hawkin to pull the brake handle before hauling him out of the cockpit and spinning him around. “Hands on the plane.” Not waiting, Brett shoved the man against the fuselage and started patting him down for weapons.