Lynne Heitman's Alex Shanahan Series: Hard Landing, Parts Unknown, First Class Killing, The Pandora Key
2733
Lynne Heitman's Alex Shanahan Series: Hard Landing, Parts Unknown, First Class Killing, The Pandora Key
2733eBookDigital Original (Digital Original)
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Overview
The friendly skies are anything but in these expertly crafted novels of suspense set in the cutthroat world of the airline industry, now available in one volume.
In Hard Landing—called “an edge-of-your-seat thriller that sweeps you up and carries you along for the ride” by Lisa Gardner—Alex Shanahan takes over Majestic Airlines at Logan International Airport, and discovers that her predecessor’s mysterious death may not have been suicide.
In Parts Unknown, black market airplane parts put countless lives at risk, including Alex’s. In the “action-filled” First Class Killing, Alex goes undercover as a flight attendant to bust up a mile-high prostitution ring (The Boston Globe). And in The Pandora Key, a very cold case heats up, and puts Alex in the crosshairs of the Russian mob, as acclaimed author Lynne Hinton brings “the whole shebang to a taut, satisfying conclusion” (Publishers Weekly).
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781626815476 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Diversion Books |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2018 |
| Series: | The Alex Shanahan Thrillers |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 2733 |
| Sales rank: | 622,524 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
When the seat belt sign went out, I was the first one down the jetbridge. My legs wobbled, my muscles ached, and my feet felt like sausages stuffed into leather pumps that had been the right size when we'd boarded six hours earlier. All I wanted to do was get off the airplane, check into my hotel, sink into a hot bath, and forget the five hours in the air, the half hour in a holding pattern, and the interminable twenty-five minutes we'd spent delayed on the ground because, the captain had assured us, our gate was occupied.
The captain had told an airline fib.
When I'd looked out my window and down at the ramp, I'd seen no wingman on my side of the plane, which meant we hadn't been waiting for a gate, we'd been waiting for a ground crew to marshal us in. Hard to imagine. It's not as if we'd shown up unexpectedly. The crew that finally did saunter out was one man short and out of uniform. I made a mental note.
At the bottom of the bridge, the door to the departure lounge was closed. I grabbed the knob and could have sworn it was vibrating. I turned the knob, pushed against the door — and it slammed back in my face. Odd. Behind me, fellow passengers from the flight stomped down the jetbridge and stood, cell phones and carry-ons in hand, blinking at me. I gave it another shot, this time putting my shoulder into it, and pushed through the obstruction, which, to my embarrassment, turned out to be a family of four — mother, father, and two small children. They'd been pinned there by a teeming mob, the size and scope of which became clear when the door swung wide, and the rumble I'd heard became a full-fledged roar.
There must have been a thousand people smashed into the departure lounge, at least twice the number that would be comfortable in that space. Judging by their faces and the combustible atmosphere, they were all supposed to be somewhere besides Logan Airport in Boston. It was Ellis Island in reverse — people trying to get out, not in.
The gate agent who had met our flight was past me before I knew it.
"Excuse me," I said, but my voice evaporated into the crowd noise. I tried again.
"Baggage claim is that way, ma'am." Without bothering to look at me, the agent pointed down the concourse, turned, and vanished into a wall of winter coats.
I stood and watched the current of deplaning passengers flow through the crowd and out to baggage claim, quiet hotel rooms, and hot baths. Technically, I could have joined them. I was anonymous in Boston, and my assignment didn't officially begin until the next day. But in the end, I did as I always did. I worked my way over to one of the check-in podiums, stowed my coat and bag in a closet, clipped on my Majestic Airlines ID, and went to work.
I spotted a senior ticket agent shuttling through the crowd from gate to gate, moving with as much authority as circumstances would allow. When I caught up with her, she was conferring with a young blonde agent at one of the podiums.
"You'll have to wait your turn," she snapped before I ever opened my mouth. "There's a line."
If there was a line at this podium, it was cleverly disguised as an angry throng. I slipped around the counter and stood next to her. "I'm not a passenger. I'm the new general manager."
She checked my badge, eyes dark with suspicion, thinking perhaps I was an imposter volunteering to be in charge of this mess.
"I'm Alex Shanahan. I came in on the Denver flight."
"The new GM? That didn't take long."
"What's the problem here?"
"You name it, we've got it, but basically we're off schedule. Nothing's left on time for the past two hours. In fact, nothing's left at all."
I read her name tag. "JoAnn, maybe I can help. If I could —"
"Are you deaf? Or are you stupid?"
We both turned to look across the podium at a man who was wearing an Italian suit with a silk tie that probably cost more than my entire outfit. As he berated the younger agent, she stared down at her keyboard, eyes in the locked position.
"Do you know how many miles I fly on this airline every year?" He pointed his phone at her and her chin started to quiver. "I will not sit in coach, I will sit in first class, and you will find me a seat if you have to buy someone else off this goddamn airplane."
Even in a lounge filled with angry people, this guy was drawing attention. I leaned across the podium so he could hear me. "Can I help you, sir?"
"Who the hell are you?"
I took him aside and listened to his patronizing rant, maintaining eye contact and nodding sympathetically so that he could see my deep concern. When he was finally out of steam, I explained that the situation was extreme and that we might not get him up front this time. I asked him to please be patient and work with us. Then I promised to send him two complimentary upgrades. Frequent fliers respond to free upgrades the way trained seals respond to raw fish. It took a promise of five upgrades, but eventually, with one more parting shot about our "towering display of incompetence," he took my card and my apology and faded away.
I found JoAnn heading for another podium. "At least give me the number to Operations," I said, tagging after her. "I can call the agent there."
She scribbled the number on the back of a ticket envelope and handed it to me. I used my own cell phone and dialed.
"Operations-this-is-Kevin-hold-please." Kevin's Irish accent seemed far too gentle for the situation. When he came back, I told him what I needed.
"Have you talked to Danny about this?"
I plugged a finger in my non-phone ear and turned my back to the crowd. "If he's not standing there with you, Danny's too far away to be in charge right now. I need help now, Kevin. If you can't help me, someone's going to get killed up here."
There was a brief pause, then, "Go ahead."
I spoke to Kevin for five minutes, taking notes, asking questions, and getting advice. When I hung up, the noise, much like the frustration level, was on the rise and JoAnn was contemplating a call to the state troopers. I couldn't see how a couple of big guys with guns and jackboots would calm the waters, so I asked her to wait. I found a functioning microphone, pressed the button, and took a deep breath.
"I'm Alex Shanahan, the general manager for Majestic here at Logan."
The buzz grew louder.
I kicked off my shoes, climbed on top of the podium, and repeated my introduction. When people could see and hear me, it made all the difference.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the inconvenience of this evening's operation. I know you're uncomfortable and you've had a hard time getting information, so that's where we're going to start. Is anyone out there booked on Flight 497 to Washington, D.C.?" A few hands shot up hopefully. Others followed more hesitantly.
"Your flight was scheduled to depart at 5:15. The aircraft just came in, and the passengers from Chicago are deplaning as I speak at Gate" — I checked my notes — "Forty-four." Heads popped up here and there as people stretched to see the gate. "We can either clean the cabin, or we can get you on board and out of town. How many of you want to leave now?" I had to smile as every hand in the place went up.
"I'm with you, people, but right now I'm asking the passengers booked to D.C. Be prepared, ladies and gentlemen, that the cabin will not be as clean as you're accustomed to on Majestic, but you'll be gone and we'll still be here." As I continued, flight by flight, the noise began to recede, the agents worked the queues, and some semblance of order began to emerge.
Four hours later, at almost ten o'clock, the last passenger boarded. I closed the door and pulled the jetbridge. The agents had either gone to punch out or to other parts of the operation, leaving the boarding lounge as littered and deserted as Times Square on New Year's Day. I was hungry, I was exhausted, I was wired, and I hadn't felt this good in almost eighteen months, not since I'd left the field. There is nothing like an epic operating crisis to get the adrenaline surging.
I went to the closet to retrieve my coat and bag, and in my hyped-up state nearly missed what was tacked to the inside of the closet door. It had been crazy when I'd first opened this door, but even so I would have noticed a sheet of notebook-size paper at eye level — especially this one. I took it down and stared at it. It was a crude drawing of a house with a sharply pitched roof. At the apex of the roof was a wind vane resembling a rooster. Inside the house in the attic, a woman hung from a rope, her head twisted to a grotesque angle by the coil around her throat. Limp arms dangled at her sides, her tongue hung out of a gaping mouth, and her eyes, dead eyes, had rolled back in her head. My adrenaline surge receded and I felt a thickening in my chest as I read the caption. The name Shepard, scrawled below, had been crossed out and replaced with my name — Shanahan.
"It's a message."
I jumped, startled by the sound of the voice, loud and abrupt in the now-deserted terminal. JoAnn stood behind me, arms crossed, dark eyes fixed on the drawing in my hand. "That's part of the message, and tonight's operation was the rest of it."
"What are you talking about?"
"I didn't get it until you showed up," she said, "but now it makes sense. They must have found out you were coming in tonight."
"Who?"
"The union. The boys downstairs are telling you that you may think you're in charge of this place, but you're not. And if you try to be" — she pointed to the drawing in my hand — "You're going to end up just like the last one."
"Ellen Shepard killed herself," I said.
"Yeah, right." She gave me a sour smile as she turned to walk away. "Welcome to Boston."
CHAPTER 2"I can see the fucking aircraft from my office, Roger. It's sitting on the apron waiting for a gate. Send someone out there, they can hand the goddamned thing through the cockpit window."
The voice emanated from behind one of two closed doors. It was lean, tough, and rapid-fire, with a boxer's rhythm of quick cuts and clean jabs. I couldn't place the accent exactly, but Brooklyn was a good guess. Whoever it was, he was in early. I'd wanted to be the first one to the office on my first day.
"Roger, listen to me. Would you listen to me? We can't wait one more minute. The hospital's been on call for this thing for hours. For all I know, they already got the guy cut open."
The second office, I assumed, had belonged to my predecessor and would now be mine. I tried the knob. Locked. With nothing else to do, I checked out my new reception area. It was a typical back office operation for an airline, a neglected pocket of past history filled with forty-year-old furniture built to last twenty. This one had the extra-added features of being small and cramped. There was a gunmetal gray desk — unoccupied — that held a phone, a ten-key adding machine, a well-used ashtray, and an answering machine, of all things. Behind the desk on the floor was a computer. I could have written "wash me" in the dust on the monitor. The copy machine was ancient, the file cabinets were unlabeled, and the burnt orange chairs and low table that made up the seating area cried out for shag carpet. The whole office was light-years away from the smooth teakwood desks, sleek leather chairs, and turbocharged computers at headquarters in Denver.
I was so glad to be back in the field.
"I'm trying to tell you," thundered The Voice, "you don't need a gate for this. There's gotta be somebody around. Jesus Christ, Roger, I gotta do everything myself?"
The phone slammed, the door flew open, and he was past me, his voice trailing him down the corridor along with echoes of his hurried footsteps. "I'll be with you in a minute. I just gotta go ... do ..." And he was gone. I looked into the office he'd just vacated. Sitting quietly in a side chair was an uncommonly spindly young man, probably early twenties, with wavy blond hair, a pale complexion, and long legs covered with white cotton long johns. He wore a tight lime green bicycle shirt that emphasized his narrowness, and a pair of baggy shorts over the long underwear. A praying mantis in Birkenstocks. "Oh, hey," he said when he saw me.
"How are you?" is what I said, when "Who are you" would have worked much better.
"Kidney."
"What?"
"I'm waiting for the kidney," he said. "It was supposed to come in early this morning, but someone at the airlines screwed up. It just got here. I think the dude's going to get it himself."
Something clicked and the alternative dress made sense. "You're a courier."
He nodded. "Working for the hospital."
"Was that Dan Fallacaro?"
"That's what he told me." Something out on the ramp drew his attention. "There he is, man. Cool."
He unfolded himself from the chair and stepped over to the side wall of the office, which was a floor-to-ceiling window onto our ramp operation. Sure enough, the figure that had just about plowed me under was now sprinting across the concrete through the rain toward a B737 idling on the tarmac. He had on a company-issued heavy winter coat, but no hood or hat, and he carried a lightweight ladder. The courier and I stood side by side in the window watching as Dan Fallacaro climbed the ladder, banged on the cockpit window with his fist, then waited, soaked to the bone, to receive a small cooler about the size of a six-pack. He cradled it under his arm as he stepped down and collected his ladder. When he turned to jog, gently, back to the terminal, I saw that he hadn't even taken time to zip his jacket.
"Awesome," said the courier. "I didn't know you could do that."
"Some people wouldn't do that."
The courier checked his watch. Thinking about that fragile cargo, I had to ask, "Are you a bicycle courier?"
"In Boston? You think I'm crazy? I've got a Ford Explorer. See ya."
While I waited for Dan to reappear, I went back to the reception area. When the phone on the reception desk rang, I grabbed it. "Majestic Airlines."
"Hey, Molly ..." It was a man's voice, strained, barely audible over the muffled whine of jet engines and the sound of other men's voices. "Molly, give Danny a message for me, wouldya?"
"This is not —"
"I can't hear you, Molly. It's crazy down here. Just tell him I got his package on board. I handed it to the captain myself. Make sure you tell him that part, that nobody else saw it."
"Who is this?"
"Who the hell do you think? This is Norm. And tell him I put her name on the manifest, but not the Form 12A, like he said. He'll know."
Norm signed off, assuming to the end that he'd been speaking to Molly.
The heavy door on the concourse opened and shut, those same hurried footsteps approached, and he was there. Dan Fallacaro in the flesh, out of breath, and sans cooler.
"Nice save," I said. "I'd hate to be responsible for the loss of a vital organ on my first day."
"Thanks." He peeled off the wet winter coat. Underneath, his sleeves were rolled up, his tie was at half-mast, and the front of his shirt was damp. It clung to his body, accentuating a chassis that was wiry, built for speed. From what I'd seen, his metabolism was too fast to sustain any spare fat.
"I'm Alex Shanahan," I said, extending my hand.
"I know who you are. I work for you." He wiped a wet palm on his suit pants and gave me a damp, perfunctory handshake. "Dan Fallacaro. How you doing?" Even though he looked past me, not at me, I could still see that he had interesting eyes, the kind that gray-eyed people like me always coveted. They were green, a mossy green that ran to dark brown around the edges of the irises. His phone rang and he shot past me into his office.
I waited at a polite distance until the call ended, then waited a while longer until it was clear he wasn't coming back and he wasn't going to invite me in. I moved just inside his doorway and found him sitting at his desk, drying his face and hands with a paper towel. If he felt any excitement about my arrival, he managed to keep it in check.
"What's the story with the kidney?" I asked.
"It got here late."
"How'd that happen?"
"Somebody in Chicago put it on the wrong flight. Had to be rerouted."
"You didn't have enough gates?"
"Nope."
"Because you're off schedule?"
"Yep."
"How come?"
"Winter."
"Uh-huh. Why'd you have to go get it yourself?"
He unfurled another towel from the roll on his desk and snapped it off. "Because Roger Shit-for-Brains is on in Operations this morning, I can't find my shift supervisor, and even if I could, no one would do what he says." He bent down to wipe off his shoes.
"By any chance, is Norm your shift supervisor?"
He popped up. "Did he call?"
"Just now," I said. "He gave —"
Dan grabbed the phone ...
"He gave me a message for you."
... slammed the receiver to his ear ...
"Do you want the message?"
... started to dial ...
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Alex Shanahan Series (Omnibus Edition)"
by .
Copyright © 2001 Lynne Heitman.
Excerpted by permission of Diversion Publishing Corp..
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