No Apologies and No Regrets

Boyd Duncan left his drunk and horny partner Jeremy in Nice and traveled to Bordeaux where he walked into yet another flight service center at Merignac Airport. He’d already been to two others, and no one had any recollection of seeing Anya. This one, operated by Legacy Services was his last shot. Lights blazed inside, but no crewmen were visible on the tarmac. Boyd walked up to the partially open hangar door and observed a man at work. In company coveralls and standing beside a gleaming private jet he was cleaning the windscreen.

  “Hello, mate.”

  The fellow looked in Boyd’s direction and gave him an indifferent smile.

  “Bon jours.” Boyd said making the effort to be polite.

  “Bon jours,” the man responded without enthusiasm as he turned back to his work.

  “Parlez vous anglais?” Boyd’s French was decent, but his accent grated on the natives.

  “Oui.” The fellow reluctantly stopped his polishing and walked to where Boyd stood in the narrow opening. His name, Robi, was embroidered in white stitching on his dark blue Legacy coveralls.

  “Could you tell me if you've seen this woman?” He held out a recent photo of Anya. He had printed the jpeg on a cheap machine, but the likeness was good. The man took the wrinkled paper from Boyd and studied the image for a moment before responding.

  “Oui. I mean, yes.” Robi managed a thin smile and motioned with his hand. “Please, come in.”

  “She is my sister-in-law and I need to get hold of her. A family emergency.” It was a stupid and costly lie.

  “I think I remember. She came here in the past few days traveling out of the country on a Gulfstream. I refueled the plane myself. I can look for the service card if that will help you.” A twinkle showed in Robi's eyes as he rubbed his fingers together representing "money".

  Looks like it'll cost me, but finally, I caught a break. I might make a few bucks yet and get that asshole Serge off my back.

  “Outstanding, mate.” Boyd withdrew a wad of cash as he stepped deeper into the hangar.

  “Come with me.” Robi motioned for Boyd to follow and led him to the rear of the cavernous building and through a door marked “Operations”. They were in a small office with two desks a few chairs and walls filled with charts, schedules and aircraft photos. A battered refrigerator stood against the back wall next to a row of filing cabinets.

  “Would you like a beer while I search for the card?”

  “Sure. I’d appreciate that.”

  Robi opened the cooler and extracted a couple of bottles of beer. When he turned around he held a Browning 9mm pistol with a noise suppressor attached.

  Boyd didn’t have time to process what was happening before Robi shot him once through the forehead. He crumpled to the linoleum floor where he lay on his back, his dead eyes staring at the cold fluorescent light on the ceiling.

  Robi removed the cash from the dead man's hand and calmly returned one of the beers to the refrigerator. He uncapped the other bottle and toasted the corpse.

  “Here’s to ya’ mate.” The compact Frenchman quietly set about disposing of the late Boyd Duncan’s mortal remains.

  46.