The Last One Out by Victor Adams
English | 2020 | Mystery/Thriller| ePUB | 3.2 MB
Montana dodged it once. Teri relies on its corruption. Chris is baffled by it. And Lainey desperately wants to believe in it. Welcome to the U.S. legal system.Corruption is now basically legal, and Teri Bradshaw has no problem with that. She built a hedge-fund by selling all the goods that the TSA steals from your luggage. Her problems aren’t legal ones. Her young COO committed the firm’s resources to building a disastrous selfi-park franchise. Problem. That she slept with her lawyer doesn’t bother her. That his wife Lainey is her accountant and has disappeared into Latin America to expose the scam? Problem.Far south of the border, Christian has discovered a lost Spanish treasure. It’s his ticket out of his collapsing country. He needs help from his business partner Montana, but he’s trapped in the U.S. by its failed legal system…and something called an expectation lawsuit. Lainey can prove Teri’s a crook, but she’ll have to decide; with Lady Justice long gone and a new life beckoning, does she really want to return to the States and risk being The Last One Out.
Montana Ainsley saw actual faces in the tiny windows of the big Boeing 777 as it rounded the last corner of the runway, revved its engines, and shot down the concrete away from him. He stood less than a football field away. Behind sunglasses, he closed his eyes to the blast of super-heated air. Even through headphones, his eardrums rang from the whine of the GE-90 jet turbofans. He reopened his eyes as the big plane lifted into the sky and another wheeled into the starting blocks. The line of departing planes extended as far as the eye could see.
Montana had never seen a plane take off from this distance. Had anyone? Weren’t there rules about things like this? Wasn’t it illegal to stand on the airport tarmac?
Oddly, he wasn’t standing there alone. A line of passengers from various flights stretched out behind him. The human line appeared nearly as long as the line of departing flights. Montana estimated perhaps six hundred passengers awaiting access to a gray warehouse labeled Customs Annex, some thirty yards from where he now stood.
In front of him, one of mankind’s greatest inventions thundered up and down the airport highways. Behind him, an endless line queued to enter what looked like a government-run Wal-Mart. The buses, which met them planeside, intentionally deposited him here. This appeared to be by design.
Back home in his departmento, the rough equivalent of a U.S. state, they handled about one aircraft a day. People hung out on the tarmac all the time. It was normal. It was also Central America.
Well, he thought, trying to reason through the problem, I was asleep when we landed. Maybe we diverted to Jamaica? It’s certainly hot enough. And this whole warehouse-Customs thing seems on par with the Caribbean. Surely the safety-conscious U.S. isn’t dumping civilians onto an active runway.
Montana pulled off his worn Panama hat, swiped his brow, and turned a 360. He’d stood under the blazing sun for nearly an hour.
This is all too weird.
He looked at the guy in front of him. Khaki shorts, flip flops, baggy t-shirt. Clearly a tourist of some stripe. Surely this guy knew what was up. Montana removed his sunglasses, earphones, and tapped the guy on the shoulder.
When he turned around, Montana nearly laughed out loud. Six feet and three inches of frighteningly sunburned human glared at him through bulging eyes. The burn was so deeply red it actually looked hot. Were his eyebrows singed?