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CHAPTER 1 OF A FIVE PART SERIES

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The Buick Electra’s Purr

Ben C. Padilla gripped the wheel of the 1976 Buick Electra Limited Coupe with a sense of certainty only born of sheer desperation. The white exterior, marked with age and nicks like the weathered faces of old ranchers, shone with an odd, almost ironic splendor under the searing Angolan sun. The burgundy velour upholstery inside—the kind that screamed “discount luxury”—clung to his damp skin. It wasn’t the car he’d hoped for when he imagined his escape from everything that had gone wrong in his life. No, he had always imagined something sportier, a sleek coupe, maybe something with chrome that caught the sunlight just right. But here he was, in this damn Buick—fate’s little joke.

The Landau top, with its faded white vinyl, made it feel like a coffin on wheels, but in his gut, Ben felt the adrenaline buzzing. This Buick, with its replacement fiberglass tail fins, hadn’t been what he expected, but it was what he got, just like every other part of his life. As he stared out the window, he saw the vast stretch of runway before him, filled with nothing but heat and dust—a stretch of freedom, but only if he could keep his hands steady and not think too hard about the insane plan he was about to execute.

Beside him, John M. Mutantu—hired mechanic, part-time dreamer, full-time conspirator—was holding a crumpled map of Quatro de Fevereiro Airport, his finger tracing the path of their impending heist. They’d gotten into this mess when John had, one too many times, overheard talk about big cargo planes making late-night flights out of Angola, and Ben had listened, then let the idea take root.

“Ben, you sure you can do this?” John asked, not looking at him but instead squinting at the flight route as though it were some sacred text.

Ben nodded grimly. “I’ve flown before. It’s just a bigger plane, right?”

John raised an eyebrow. “It’s a Boeing 727-233, Ben. Not a crop duster.”

“I can figure it out,” Ben muttered, checking the rearview mirror. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince more—John or himself.

Their unlikely plan had started with a simple need—escape. Ben had left his career in shambles, washed up like an old, rusted-out car left on the side of the road. John, originally from the Republic of the Congo, was trying to prove that he could be more than just the hired mechanic who never got the glory. Together, they’d found an opportunity when the airport staff at Quatro de Fevereiro had grown lax, distracted by the routine of loading crates, unloading passengers, and the usual tedium of airport operations.

Ben had spoken to a few old contacts—just enough to get the inside track on a 727 that would be sitting idle in the back lot. It was perfect—a giant metal bird with a cockpit that Ben could, theoretically, understand. Sure, he didn’t have a pilot’s license for the 727, but there was a first time for everything, wasn’t there? It wasn’t as though they had any other choice.

As Ben revved the engine of the Buick, the familiar rumble of the 455ci V8 filling the cabin with sound, he felt the gravity of what they were about to do. There were no mistakes here. This wasn’t some half-baked idea—it was a getaway plan that had one goal in mind: escape. For good.

The Buick cruised down the tarmac with ease, its 15” wheels turning smoothly, the Nexen whitewalls glistening under the afternoon sun. The car had been through hell—the shrinkage of the lacquer finish had made it look like it had been peeled from a 1950s postcard. The chrome bumpers were starting to dull and the fiberglass tail fins gave it a look that was both outdated and out of place—just like them. Yet, it had all the power they needed to get to the plane.

The Takeoff

Ben’s eyes flickered toward the airplane. There it sat, a Boeing 727-233, grounded in all its unflinching glory, ready to be their ticket out of here. The crew in charge of it had long gone home, and no one thought to pay attention to the noise coming from the rear of the airport.

Ben took a deep breath and pushed open the door. He and John stumbled out, clumsy but with purpose. Ben’s white polyester button-up clung to his sweaty chest as they walked toward the jet. John held a small toolbox with him, the kind used for quick fixes, though neither of them had any clue what they were getting into.

“Here it is,” John said, glancing around as they approached the plane. “Do you remember how to turn this thing on?”

Ben hesitated. “I know the basics. All we need to do is get in the cockpit, and I can figure it out. It’s just like a car with wings, right?”

John looked dubious but nodded. “Let’s get in before somebody sees us.”

They climbed the stairs into the belly of the beast—this 727, whose cockpit seemed so distant and imposing, like a castle under siege. Ben sat in the captain’s seat, running his hands over the instruments. They were far more complicated than he anticipated. There were horizontal 100-mph speedometers, fuel gauges, a whole mess of indicators blinking in front of him. He’d flown before, but this was a different kind of beast altogether.

“John, start her up. You remember the ignition switches, right?”

John grimaced. “Not really. But you’re the pilot, remember?”

Ben gritted his teeth and fumbled with the switches. The sound of the three-speed automatic transmission in the Buick still rattled in his ears, and as he pushed buttons, toggled switches, and hoped for the best, he felt like a man on the edge of a cliff with nothing but a string to catch him.

To his surprise, the engines roared to life. The rumble beneath his feet sent a rush of excitement straight to his gut.

They were in the air.

The Plot Thickens

Ben and John pulled the 727 out of the runway with a mixture of anxiety and triumph. The wheels touched the tarmac for a few moments before lifting off, and then they were airborne—unbelievably so. They were flying.

There was no radio contact with the tower, no clearance. They were completely on their own. For a moment, it seemed like the whole thing might work. Then Ben noticed something through the cracked cockpit window: the plane was swerving. The autopilot wasn’t cooperating, and the wind was pushing them sideways. He tightened his grip on the controls and fought back against the pull of fate.

John leaned over. “You sure this is the right way?”

“Absolutely,” Ben gritted through his teeth, feeling the sweat collecting on his brow. “I have no idea, but we’re in the air, aren’t we?”

The plane lurched again as Ben wrestled with the controls. He could see the coastline of Angola receding beneath them, a green stretch of land slowly slipping into the deep blue of the Atlantic.

And Then, It Was Gone

Ben’s hands shook as he steadied the plane. They were headed southwest, cutting across the Atlantic. The flight was turbulent. They had made it out, but their luck could only hold for so long.

“What now?” John asked. He didn’t seem to grasp the enormity of what they’d done, but his smile showed a kind of giddy excitement—a kid who’d just realized he’d stolen the best toy in the toy store.

“We get to Cape Verde,” Ben said, eyes narrowing as he watched the horizon. “That’s the next stop. After that, we head to the Azores. We can refuel there and keep going.”

John leaned back, eyes full of disbelief. “And then to Fort Stockton?”

Ben nodded. “Fort Stockton. Texas. Where we start over.”

A long silence stretched between them.

“Where the hell is Fort Stockton?” John finally asked.

Ben laughed, his voice carrying a dark humor. “Hell, I don’t know. But wherever it is, we’re going there. And once we land? Well, we’re free.”

The 727’s engines hummed in the background as the plane continued its steady course toward the unknown. Behind them, the faded Buick sat like a forgotten monument to absurdity, parked in the shadows of fate. They had done the impossible.

And no one would ever believe it.

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