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I was ten years old. We lost the farm and mom died and all we had left was the fucking airplane. You could make a living barnstorming and that’s when we became airborne hobos.For four-bits, we’d take the local yokels up for a half hour. We lived in rooming houses or camped out under the wing on hot summer nights. We saw a lot of the Country. We were relatively happy. We had each other and there was food on the table, most of the time.Dad did aerobatics, while I did wing walking. Most modern parents wouldn’t put their fourteen-year-old kid out on a Jenny’s wing; with no safety apparatus except a rope around their waist. But it was the middle of the Depression. People did what they had to do to survive. And believe me, walking for a few seconds on a wing moving at forty miles an hour sure beat standing for half a day in a bread line. Plus, I was a teenager. You never think about dying.My daring-do DID make me popular with the ladies. I was taller than most, big, blond and sturdy. So, I. The men hidden from sight could pour a deadly hail of fire into the confined entranceway. All Chang had to do was duck and get out of the crossfire.But Chang had no plans of ducking. He would kill the intruders himself. Two new, silver notches in his belt would be good for his morale and cement his status as leader of the small squad. He intended to move up in the organization, no matter what the cost.The alarm flashed momentarily, then blinked out. That's strange, he thought. Chang slid his chair over to the monitor that usually displayed the security camera views. He tried to flip through the different cameras, but nothing happened. He pounded the keyboard in frustration. Suddenly, a skull and crossbones popped up on the screen. "Shit," he muttered, gripping the MP-5 and warily scanning the entrance.Outside, the snow was coming down hard. Chang could barely see ten feet past the glass doors, and some unseen person was messing with the security system.Chang motioned for his men to.
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