Free Skyhammer by Richard Hilton

lowering the nose almost imperceptibly, initiating level-off to 31,000. When the altitude had stabilized, the annunciators
     again flashed, changing to Mach cruise, and the autothrottles began working to establish the speed Boyd had commanded—Mach.78.
     Even though 555 was cleaving the air at over 460 knots, a ferocious headwind was reducing their rate over the ground, nearly
     six miles below, to about 360.
    A minute later, the cabin call chimed. Boyd pulled the handset back up to his ear.
    “Cockpit.”
    “Hey, Kevin. Mariella. You ready for a refill?”
    “Yeah, sure. Sounds good.”
    Boyd had to reach back and rotate the lock on the cockpit door. With a little difficulty, Mariella pulled it open from the
     other side, then leaned in and passed a fresh cup to Boyd.
    “Emil? You still okay?”
    “Fine,” Pate said, willing her to leave.
    She closed the door. Thankful—suddenly and acutely sorry for her, though—Pate turned and made sure it was locked again. Then
     he faced forward. He checked his watch. It was time. His heart thumped once heavily. He glanced at Boyd, at the smug set of
     his mouth, his young, nearly seamless face. Still a kid. It was not good that he had to do this, Pate thought. But it was
     necessary. He had considered all other ways.
    Boyd sipped his coffee and set the cup down on the panel beside his left armrest. “Sounds like a beautiful day in Phoenix.
     Too bad we can’t stay there.”
    Pate couldn’t reply. He ran his palms along his thighs, wiping the sweat from them. Then he reached down to his flight kit
     in the well under his side window and flipped open the leather pocket cover. He sat erect again, then let his head swivel
     slowly as if he were making a routine scan of the horizon. He pretended to detect something, off to the left of the aircraft’s
     nose.
    “Traffic, eleven o’clock, on the horizon,” he said.
    Boyd directed his attention to the area, leaning forward a little and searching intently. “I don’t see anything,” he said
     irritably, still looking.
    Pate by then had reached down into the pocket of his kit.
    “I’ve lost him too. No problem. He was no factor.”
    Boyd turned and scanned the instrument panel. There came a moment of doubt, a tremor that passed through Pate’s mind, as his
     hand closed, his finger found its place. He could not do this after all, he realized. Not in this way.
    But Boyd’s head turned, and now he could see what Pate had taken from his kit. Behind the amber lenses of his sunglasses,
     his eyes frowned, then widened in disbelief. In another second he would react. Then it would be too late.
    Boyd reached out, tried to grab hold of the barrel of the gun. But the silenced.22 in Pate’s hand snapped softly, a sound
     barely audible above the normal cockpit noise. The ejected shell casing tinkled off the instrument panel. “Oh!” Boyd said
     sharply, his hand flying to his chest, where a sudden stain was already spreading on the white uniform shirt. “God damn it!”
     he said, staring at Pate in angry astonishment. Then he collapsed forward, trying to shield himself, shouting, “Son ofabitch!”
    For a moment, Pate stared at him. But with the shock came only clarity of purpose. He fired a second time, into a point just
     under Boyd’s arm, hoping the bullet would hit the heart. He didn’t want Boyd to suffer. But Boyd flinched and groaned sharply,
     and then his right arm lashed out. He wasn’t going to die so easily. Pate grabbed his hand at the wrist, pulled Boyd toward
     him and leaned in. He pressed the barrel of the pistol into Boyd’s left breast pocket and fired once more. Boyd shuddered,
     his head snapping back against the seat. Pink foam spilled out of his mouth. Then he slumped, his hands moving feebly, as
     if trying to find something. Pate recoiled away, horrified again, then lunged forward and slapped the hands from the control
     yoke, the radio handset. They dropped, useless. Boyd’s head fell onto his