Helicopters aren’t what they used to be. Not a bad thing. Fuel injected, fewer parts, not reliable but more reliable. Rico has managed to secure one, or, more precisely, secure the services of a helicopter pilot who has one. A Spinoza Whirlyjet, fast, small on radar, and silent. Relatively speaking, as even the quietest ‘copter will still out-shout the loudest Ford Fiesta.
His manly man-breath, hot, spicy, redolent of tacos al pastor, cheap tequila, cheaper putanas. Caresses the microphone on his headset, bathes it in humidity, making it wet and shiny like a lover’s taut nipple. “There,” he says.
Why am I shivering, the pilot, Forutna, thinks to herself. This is Solis, a tropical island nation. Mean temperature: 27 degrees. Celsius. I’m 27. I’ve been 27 for what feels like years now. And still not a woman. And yet this man. What did he say? She’s a little girl again, warm, safe in her papi’s arms, pretending to sleep as he carries her up to her room. His calloused, strong hands laying her gently in her bed, the kiss on her forehead, and the sweet, sweet succumbing to sleep. Papi always smelled of cerveza, sweat, she remembers, like every other man in the village. But something else, something more. Leather.
“A little lower, I think,” he says. A growl, but smooth, like a puma’s, seduces her. She’s shivering. She’s sweating. Her heart is pounding in rhythm to the Whirlyjet’s Turbo Mecca Ariel. She wants to abandon the controls, rip off her headset, leap over the seat, sink her teeth into this desperado’s neck, and as the chopper falls out of the sky, devour him whole, coming alive, finally, at 27, with the fiery crash setting the jungle ablaze and splashing the atmosphere with the stink of this man’s lambskin-soft leather jacket, her lust.
Rico belches. Lime, cilantro, onions. Opens the door, throws himself out without ceremony. Six hundred feet above the Bautista building. Trades the roar of the Whirlyjet for the roar of Galileo’s nine point eight meters per second per second in his ears. Five hundred. Three hundred. One. Pops his ‘chute, conquers the din, floats. His contact waits below. Her name is Izzy. She’s a spy, gathering intelligence for the Army of Chaos, a rebel born.
Later, Izzy and Fortuna will discuss Rico. Oh yes they will.