The Export by J.K. Kelly (read along books txt) 📕

airport. He checked his missed calls and saw there was one from Dale. Before he could hit redial, his phone rang again, CD appearing in lieu of her name on the caller ID.

“You okay, Matt?” she asked. “You in the air yet?”

“Soon,” he told her.

“Stop screwing around. You left here hours ago!”

“Had to stop at the mall and get some hiking gear. Your girl forgot to pack mine,” he teased. “What’s up?”

“We got Helene’s bloodwork back, and everything was clear, nothing out of the ordinary, no drugs, nothing suspicious.”

Matt shook his head. There had to be something. Most times, in the presence of a heart attack, certain enzymes are produced and detected in the blood.

“Okay, I’ve got another sample back at my condo. I’ll get it to you so you can run the second one, but do it under another name, okay?” Matt waited for her response. He knew that if there was a planned or developing conspiracy, a tech could have been told to say the sample had no traces of foul play. Another tech, another fake name, and the sample might yield something different.

“Where is it? I’ll get it. You need to stay away from there, or damn it, Matt, if I find you anywhere near there, I might shoot you myself!”

He smiled. “Under the vodka,” he answered. She’d know it was in the freezer, stashed beneath the bottle of vanilla vodka he always kept literally on ice.

“Good, now hit the road and text me tomorrow, okay?”

“On the road again,” he began singing. It was the only Willy Nelson song she liked.

A short time afterward, his phone rang again.

“Miss me already?” he answered, assuming it was Dale again.

“Oui,” a female voice with a French accent replied. It was Eve.

“Your timing is impeccable, young lady. I was just thinking about you.”

“You tell all the ladies that, don’t you,” she teased.

“No, seriously, I’m just headed for the airport. I’m going on holiday for a bit. Do you want to come?” he asked.

Matt did need to get away, wait for the smoke to clear, develop an offensive plan, and then wait for the moment to strike. Spending time with someone he clearly had chemistry with, and who intrigued him with her penchant for trouble, might be just what the doctor ordered.

Soon after, Matt parked the car in the high-rise parking garage at Philadelphia’s airport, grabbed his bags, now three, and walked into the departure terminal. He took the escalator down to arrivals and jumped into one of the waiting taxis. If anyone was trying to track his movements, any amateurs, they would have suspected he’d fly out of Baltimore, Dulles, or Reagan. Philly wouldn’t have been on their radar.

“Atlantic Aviation,” he told the driver.

“That’s right over there,” the driver protested, pointing at the hanger across the airfield.

“I know, I know,” Matt responded. “You’ve been waiting in line for an hour, and now this jackass wants you to take him on a shitty $10 ride.” Matt made eye contact with the driver. “What part of Egypt are you from?” Dialects were a specialty Matt had picked up at a much younger age. They’d always intrigued him and had become a challenge guessing them.

But this driver wasn’t interested in playing any games. Matt smiled. Okay, he thought and then handed two twenties to the driver through the slit in the clear plastic wall between them.

The cab dropped him off at the front entrance to the private jet facility. Matt could see the plane he had arranged for on the drive up from Annapolis – a beautiful white-and-gold Bombardier Global 6000, capable of taking him just about anywhere he wanted to go without stopping. His original plan was to fly straight to Munich and from there perhaps drive down through the Alps, maybe Austria this time, or maybe the lakes of northern Italy. The plane would cost a small fortune, but his perspective was different from the average person. He was already wealthy, had his health – despite the recent near-drowning – and now had inherited a $34 million estate in Wyoming. If the Good Lord was going to call him home soon, he intended to have a little fun beforehand.

The beauty of private aviation was that anyone who could afford it could charter a jet, pay for it, walk right aboard without metal detectors, answering questions, or suffering through annoying security checks. The rich did as they pleased. Matt had told the charter company the flight plan would be Philadelphia to Munich. When two attractive, uniformed flight attendants greeted him, one wearing her jet black hair pulled back tight in a high ponytail and the brunette parting hers dead center and letting the sides fly, he handed over two of his bags and kept one for himself. And he suggested a slight change in plans.

“We need to make a stop in Montreal first, skipper,” he said, addressing the pilot in the cockpit. “Any problem with that?”

“We’re all yours, Mr. Christopher,” he replied. “Just need to adjust the flight plan a smidge and inform Canada we’re dropping in.”

“Perfect,” he stated. “I’ll be in the back,” he said with a smile. With wheels up, Matt took a few minutes to stow the Glock and holster along with three other weapons he had picked up from a storage shed he rented in Maryland. While many flew across the ocean with long guns to go on safari for big game, Matt was going to focus on other, more dangerous prey. He now had everything he needed. All he had to do now was find them.

When the jet landed and taxied to the Can Charter tarmac at Dorval airport, Matt could see Eve standing outside with a backpack at her feet. She had brought a guest, though, something he hadn’t expected. As he got up to go greet her, the captain reminded him that if his feet touched the ground, he would have to meet with Canadian customs. And that could take some time to arrange.

“Thanks for reminding