Skyshooter, an Ezra Hooten Novel by Rod Lindsey
It was early Saturday morning the
week before Thanksgiving. Cloudy. Cold and wet when the plane from Seattle to Mazatlan
took off three hours ago. Sipping his
fifth coffee refill, black, Air Marshal Ezra Hooten was feeling somewhat überamped on caffeine. His pulse had quickened a bit, and he was
beginning to feel a little fidgety.
Truthfully,
Hoot was always a bit fidgety on a flight.
At sixty-three years-old and six-feet, four-inches tall, he was physically
as well as mentally uncomfortable on a plane.
His ears popped
again – a normal function, Hoot knew, eardrums constantly equalizing pressure
lost or gained from altitude changes, but knowing what caused it didn’t keep
him from feeling as if his head had become caught in the jaws of a vice upon
takeoff, the vice ever tightening since.
And the relentless sound! – the neverending background
roar of massive twin jet engines mounted under wings just outside the
aircraft’s thin-skinned fuselage, engines large enough to swallow entire
automobiles without choking laboring to move a full load of eager passengers
across a vast distance with mind-numbing speed – that roar was both amplified
and contained by the pressure in Hoot's ears until it felt as if the very core
nugget of his concentration was about to crack.
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