|Justin Magnus (standard:romance, 1134 words)|
|Author: Cyrano||Added: Aug 28 2015||Views/Reads: 744/474||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Thinking about writing a novel...1st draft beginning|
When he regained consciousness, he was lying face down in a rubbish-filled alley. It was dark, muggy, raining hard, and music filled the air. He staggered, trying to find his feet, and leaned back against a graffiti covered wall trying to protect his shoulder. He felt his collar bone; it had dislocated. Blood swamped his head. He felt he might be falling into unconsciousness. With blurred vision, one eye swollen closed, he picked out the shapes of three teenage boys standing under a street lamp. He patted his pocket for his spectacles. They were smashed. The indistinct images appeared to be playing steel drums, and he heard the rhythmic tap of steel-tipped shoes on a metal grate. He moved, agonizingly, protecting his shoulder, toward the lit area, still semi-conscious from a wound to his scalp. Blood had congealed and matted his gray hair. He kept one hand against the wall to prevent himself from sinking to his knees until he reached the corner of the street. Once there, he slumped onto his haunches and flattened his back against the wall. The rhythmic tapping faded to quiet as he clutched at his chest. The engine note of the executive jet changed as it began its descent through clear blue Brazilian skies. That sudden change stirred Katie Robinson from an uneasy slumber brought on by exhaustion after twenty hours flying, with just an hour on the ground in Panama to refuel. Justin Magnus turned on his headset. “Santos Dumont Approach, Golf-Oscar-Lima is descending from four-five-zero to two-five-zero.” “Roger, Golf-Oscar- Lima, continue the approach. The wind is at four, visibility clear.” The reply was crisp, official, and with a Portuguese accent. “Continue with the approach,” Justin confirmed. “This is it, Katie. Give your belt a tug,” he said, looking over, offering a reassuring smile. The second leg of the flight had been uneventful; both were glad it was coming to a close. A cross wind buffeted the small jet, causing Katie's knuckles to lose their color. It had not been her first flight, but it was the first time she'd flown with the famous Justin Magnus, Vice President of Magnus Oceanic. And it was certainly the first time she'd watched the landing approach from the cockpit. Justin Magnus sounded different. He seemed, well somehow more professional and under different circumstances she would have been impressed, but she'd come to know him through a series of faults and knew too well his reputation for fooling around. He was, in almost every circumstance, an arrogant son of a bitch with a well of charm. “Santos Dumont approach: Golf-Oscar-Lima on the ILS for zero-two-left. Speed two-sixty knots,” Justin confirmed. “Roger, contact tower on 122.8. Good Day,” came the reply into his headset. Out the left window, Sugar Loaf Mountain dominated the scenery. Justin flicked the radio dial a couple of notches. “Santos Tower, good evening, Golf-Oscar-Lima is over the inner marker. Speed two-six-zero, slowing to one-ninety, on the center line for zero-two-left.” “Roger, Golf-Oscar-Lima, you are cleared to land, zero-two-left.” “Cleared to land,” he repeated. He reached for a lever with hisn right hand. There followed a mechanical whirring of flaps being lowered. The Gulf Stream slipped its wings through light sea mist, then kissed the steamy tarmac with a rubbery smack and rolled down the runway. “You think you're going to find your father in Santos? It's a big place,” Katie asked, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease. “Well, it's the last point of reference.” He was interrupted momentarily. “Golf-Oscar-Lima, wheels down at 17.22. Expedite right, follow on the greens. Contact ground on 123.4. Good Day.” Justin responded to the Portuguese accent and steered the jet along the green lights. The ground shimmered with the early evening's heat. Click here to read the rest of this story (61 more lines)
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