Tony Cesario studied the defector like a hawk, toying with what he was going to do with him as he sipped the expensive drink. As he looked him over, he took heed of a metamorphosis; the once cool family member with distinct masculine purpose had turned into a sweating buffoon. Traitor was written all over his forehead. He saw that his fellow Mafioso was leaking his body fluids like a seethe, thinking this Rizzo was definitely one clown short of a circus, unaware that soon all of their fates would be tightly sealed. Big Tony then turned towards the pilot and started giving fatal instructions, displaying his heavy New York Italian accent. “Sammy, just after you takeoff, I want you to get on the radio and contact the control tower . . . and Flight Service. Tell them you want to cancel your IFR flight plan to Grand Cayman Island. Tell them you are going to visual flight rules, and thank them for their time. Say you will talk to them in a few minutes. Then Sammy, as soon as we are in the air, as soon as you can, I want you to turn to a heading of 340 degrees. Exactly twenty minutes after takeoff, twenty minutes, remind me, I will give you a new heading. You got that?” Sammy scanned his instruments through steel blue eyes, knowing better than to ask why. “Got it, boss.”
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