Too Hard to Handle, page 17
After his wife’s death, he’d tried his damnedest to join her by drinking himself into an early grave. Then, when his liver refused to give out on him, he’d sobered up. But even though he’d stopped actively seeking a way to punch his last ticket, it’s not like he’d clung to life either.
The truth was, when he laid his head on his pillow at night, he didn’t much care one way or the other if he woke up the next day. Life was just something to get through. And he whiled away the hours, the days by making sure he had a job to do. A duty to perform. A task to complete. It was nothing more and nothing less than that.
But now? Oh, now he had something to live for. Someone to live for. Penni and her big, dark eyes. Penni and her smart, sexy mouth. Penni and her hot woman’s needs. She made him excited for the future. And, by God, if he’d gotten to this point only to kick it on a Peruvian runway in the middle of a rainstorm, he was going to be beyond pissed.
Eeeerrrrrtttt! He didn’t have time for any more grand epiphanies because the driver of the truck screamed to a stop not forty yards away.
Who the hell is this guy? Dan wondered as he ducked to yell, “Make a run for it when you can!” to the three terrified men facedown and lying side by side like sardines under the van. Jumping to his feet, he raced after Zoelner and Winterfield, taking advantage of the cover fire Chelsea was providing and happy as could be that Penni—otherwise known as Señorita Weaponless—was having to sit this one out. His didn’t think his heart could take watching another episode of her going all Rambo…uh…Rambina tonight.
Zip! A bullet whizzed by his ear when he jumped onto the plane’s first step. His heart skipped a beat at the feel of the displaced air, but he barely had time for a silent That was a close one because Chelsea yelled, “Reloading!” and he glanced up to see her reach back for the clip in Penni’s hands.
So much for sitting this one out, goddamnit! Penni was on her knees on the floor directly behind Chelsea, Chelsea’s satchel open wide in front of her, another clip up and at the ready should the little CIA agent ask for it.
He should have known she couldn’t stay out of it. The brave, beautiful, beyond consternating woman!
Winterfield dove past Chelsea and into the interior of the plane at the same time Dan and Zoelner spun to take up the slack left by Chelsea’s reloading.
The driver’s side door of the truck was open and the man, whoever he was—not Kozlov, Dan could make out that much through the gray haze of the rain—was using it as cover, turkey peeking around the side to take potshots at them. Dan sighted down the Bersa’s little barrel, aiming for Mystery Man’s ankles, knowing it was a long shot, but still…he had to try. His last two rounds needed to count for something more than simply forcing the guy to keep his head down.
Blowing out a steadying breath, Dan lined up his shot and… Bam! Bam! Click! Click! The little .38 was officially dry and he’d missed the shooter’s ankles by a mere inch.
Hell’s bells! “I’m out!” he yelled.
“I’ll cover you!” Zoelner bellowed as one of his rounds hit the windshield on the driver’s side door and shattered the glass. Dan saw his chance while the shooter was ducking. Careful to stay below Zoelner’s and Chelsea’s lines of sight, he half ran, half crawled up the remaining three steps.
Inside the plane was warm, dry, and strangely quiet compared to the chaos outside. He swiped a hand over his face and hair, squeegeeing away the freezing water. He saw Winterfield curled on the floor by one of the seats like the coward he was and Penni scrounging around in Chelsea’s satchel, no doubt searching for another clip like the courageous warrior woman she was.
It took every bit of willpower he possessed not to yank her with him as he scrambled toward the cockpit. But Chelsea and Zoelner needed her, and he couldn’t sacrifice them just because he was terrified of history repeating itself and losing the woman that he…well, whatever it was that he felt for her. And since he couldn’t drag her with him, the next best thing he could do was get the plane moving out of range of Mr. Mystery’s bullets.
He slid into the pilot’s seat just as Chelsea yelled, “I told you guys we shouldn’t have used Voldemort’s real name. I knew it would be bad luck!”
Bad timing and bad luck. It’s like Learn Your Fuckin’ Lesson Day around here, he thought, eyes zooming over the console, checking the gauges even as he was strapping in and slipping on his headset. Flight controls were free and correct. Altimeter was set. Flaps? Check. Tanks? Full. Parking brake? He flipped down the toggle switch. And when he saw that his mixture was a full-rich, just as it should be, he blew into his wet, frozen hands and reached for the controls.
“Let’s blow this Popsicle stand!” he yelled into his mic so the others would know they were about to start taxiing.
Fear and purpose fueled his movements as he powered up. The plane responded like a dream, engines providing thrust as he used his feet to steer them down the tarmac and away from the man in the truck. The rain sheeted off the front windshield as the wipers worked like crazy to combat it. The runway lights were a dim blur. The radio squawked with air traffic controller jabber, but it wasn’t coming from the local tower, as it was closed for the night.
Cusco airport was remote enough that it only saw a handful of flights each day, and those stopped long before sundown. So the good news? He didn’t have to worry about air traffic on takeoff. The bad news? It was going to be a hell of a ride. The wind had to be blowing damn near 20 mph.
The boom and the pop of Zoelner and Chelsea’s weapons came to an abrupt halt once he’d gone thirty yards down the runway. And when he heard the stairs fold in, the door close with a thunk, and the light on his console told him the door’s lock was engaged, he wiped a hand over his wet brow, wincing when he inadvertently touched his wound. A second later, Zoelner, drenched and shivering, slid into the copilot’s chair.
“We good?” Dan asked him. Just two words that conveyed about ten separate questions.
Zoelner knew what he was after. “The ladies are fine. I’m fine. Winterfield is still alive and still a fucking traitor. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Dan said, turning the plane around when he reached the end of the runway. A quick look to his left told him the wind sock was standing straight and pointing fifteen degrees off center. The rain was still coming down by the bucketful. And the mountain peaks were completely obscured by clouds. He and Zoelner were going to have to rely on their gauges instead of their eyes.
“This is going to be one suck-ass takeoff,” Zoelner said after checking the conditions outside and sneaking a peek at the wind sock.
Dan smiled. Getting his pilot’s license had been part of his recovery. Initially he’d done it because it accomplished a few important things. One, it had filled a hole that had been left in the Black Knights’ personnel. They’d needed another fixed-wing pilot besides Zoelner. There had been too many times in the last few years when the Knights had had to rely on contracted pilots to get them to and from where they were going. And in their line of work, where mum’s the word, that was a problem.
Two, it had given Dan a goal to shoot for. Which, let’s face it, he’d desperately needed. You know, that whole not-caring-if-I-wake-up thing.
Three, it kept him away from the bottle since flying drunk or hungover was out of the question. He was an asshole but he’d never be that much of an asshole.
And four, when he had the yoke in hand and he was up in the clear blue, the world seemed to come into focus, and all his problems, all his hurts and regrets seemed…less somehow. Smaller somehow. Maybe because at twenty thousand feet, the world was smaller.
But regardless of why he’d originally decided to get his license, the truth was he loved flying. And in the last dozen months he’d logged over a thousand hours through rain, sleet, snow, and gale-force winds. He was like the motherfucking U.S. Postal Service—nothing kept him from his rounds. And not to toot his own horn or anything, but he was a damn good pilot. A natural, according to his instructors.
So even though Zoelner was right that this takeoff was going to suck something fierce, Dan had no doubt that between the two of them, they could pull it off without a hitch. Chelsea wasn’t as convinced.
“I don’t like the sound of a suck-ass takeoff,” she piped up from the back, their mics still keeping them all connected.
“I second that opinion,” Penni’s dear, sweet voice thrummed through Dan’s ears.
He could have told Penni any number of truths right then, starting with We don’t have a lotta options to I’d sooner die than put you in any more danger, but what he ended up going with was, “Don’t worry, ladies. We got this.” He winked over at Zoelner and saw one corner of the former CIA agent’s mouth twitch. Though neither one of them liked to admit it, they absolutely lived for this shit.
He heard the ladies grumbling through his earpiece, their voices competing with the squawk and the chatter of the radio. And even though he would have loved to continue to listen to Penni, to have her voice in his head, he and Zoelner couldn’t afford any distractions. Dan flipped off the power on his mic and saw Zoelner do the same. Then he reached under his headset, pulled out his earpiece, and stuffed it in the hip pocket of his sopping wet jeans before grabbing the throttle and shoving it forward. He got a little giddy when the thrum of the twin-turbo engines shoved them back in their seats.
The King Air ate up the runway like the aerial beast she was, gaining momentum by the second, the front edges of her wings gripping the air, impatient for lift. They’d just about reached takeoff speed when Mr. Mystery came barreling down the runway toward them. The truck’s bare rim sparked against the tarmac and flashed yellow through the driving rain.
“Motherfucker!” Zoelner yelled, his knuckles white around the copilot’s yoke. Water dripped from his hair and his ears as the Beechcraft shimmied and shook in anticipation of jumping into the air. “Whoever this guy is, he’s a damned lunatic!”
Dan did not disagree, and he could not wait to leave the bastard behind. “Hold on!” he yelled, knowing his voice carried through the open cockpit door. And to borrow a line from Chelsea, “This one’s gonna be a doozy!”
* * *
George slammed on the brakes, roaring his rage and frustration through the truck’s broken window as the plane zoomed over his head. He laid on his trigger, aiming for the engines, but his clip was dry and he was forced to duck back inside to escape the nauseating scent of aviation fuel and the hot wash of air that buffeted the truck from side to side. He watched helplessly, impotently, as the plane climbed higher and higher into the night sky. Its red taillight blinking, taunting him when it disappeared into the rain and clouds overhead.
“Fuck!” he screamed, slapping the steering wheel over and over until his palm ached and his bones creaked warningly. “Bloody fucking hell!”
An image of his daughter flashed in front of his eyes. Bella. Beautiful, sweet Bella. She would pay for this mistake. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know when, but he knew it would involve pain. Spider would make sure of that. He he almost vomited up the bean salad he’d eaten at the bar.
He had not banked on the foursome splitting up back at the square. He had imagined they would all be on site to apprehend Winterfield, and his plan had been to catch them by surprise and take out the lot in one go. When only the men arrived on scene, he’d had to make a split-second decision. Wait and follow, and hope the quartet met up again so he could kill them together with Winterfield as he’d intended. Or take his shots when he had them and count on locating and dispatching the women afterward.
He’d gone with the second option. Unfortunately, it had turned out to be the wrong choice. Because he’d been the one taken by surprise by the former Secret Service agent who’d hammered his location with gunfire, forcing him to duck and cover. So now not only were Winterfield and the two blokes still alive, but both women as well. Bringing the total up to five witnesses and five loose ends.
Bella…my sweet, innocent Bella…
A lump grew in his throat like a metastasizing cancer, threatening to strangle him. He wondered when exactly his life had turned to shit. Was it the moment he received a surprise leave from Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force and came home to find Bella’s duplicitous whore of a mother in bed with his squadron leader? Or was it the instant he killed them in a red-eyed rage?
No. In reality, it was neither of those.
His life had turned to shit the second he tossed his revolver in the Thames.
Because some of Spider’s “employees” had been in the shadows—doing what exactly George had never discovered, probably disposing of a body or something equally sinister—and they’d fished the gun from the murky water the minute George walked away.
Yes, that was it. That was the moment. Because even though George escaped being convicted of the crime—without the murder weapon, there was no solid proof he’d been the one to pull the trigger—he hadn’t escaped Spider’s web. He’d been caught up, trapped, and forced to quit the RAF and join Spider’s minions, or else Spider would hand over the weapon to the police, sealing George’s fate and leaving Bella all alone in the world.
But perhaps being alone is better than living with the shadow of Spider’s wrath hanging over her head. If he could go back, he’d do it all differently.
“Fuck!” he screamed again, resuming his abuse of the steering wheel, trying to see a way out, and finding none. But just as he was about to give in to the fear and regret, the sorrow and shame, an idea occurred and his heart thundered with renewed vigor.
Snatching his mobile from the pocket of his overcoat, he shoved the stolen truck into gear. He’d managed to hot-wire the rusting old banger not thirty seconds after the group had careened out of the square with Winterfield in tow—another handy skill he’d picked up since coming to work for Spider. Pressing on the gas, he gritted his teeth when the bare rim screeched against the tarmac. He headed straight for the van and the ground crewmen who scrambled from beneath it. At the same time, he dialed Benton.
“Is it finished?” Benton asked once the call was connected.
“No!” was all George allowed on the subject, trying to see through the shattered windshield and the frigid rain blowing in through the broken window. “I need you to monitor air-traffic control for a flight with tail number…” He rattled off the twin-turboprop’s designation, raising his voice above the sound of the wind and the truck’s engine. The little plane didn’t have the fuel capacity to get Winterfield and his captors all the way back to the United States.
If George was lucky, he could follow them to whichever Central or South American airport they were forced to land in and kill them while they were refueling or waiting to catch another flight. It was a long shot, but it was a shot. And he had to take it. “I’m going to steal a plane and go after them! But I’ll need you to find out where they’re headed!”
“This does not sound at all reassuring,” Benton said, censure in his voice. “What happened, Georgie Boy?”
“Later!” George growled. “Just do your Boy with the Dragon Tattoo routine and track that flight!”
He hung up before Benton could say anything more. Standing on the brakes, he slid to a jolting stop, the truck’s bumper barely an inch from the van’s. In the next instant, he was slapping on his cap and slamming in a new clip.
“Get that Pilatus PC-12 gassed, greased, and ready to fly,” he barked at the trio, gesturing with his weapon toward the plane parked in front of the nearest hangar. It was smaller than the Beechcraft twin-turbo. But it was just as fast and could cover the same number of miles before needing to stop to refuel.
“No hablo inglés!” one of them yelled.
Through the rain dripping from the brim of his hat, George aimed and put a bullet right between the tosser’s eyes. The man’s lifeless body crumpled onto the tarmac, blood mixing with the freezing rain to form an inky puddle behind his decimated skull.
The two remaining crewmen blinked down at the corpse before turning dark, terrified eyes on George. “Either of you two claim not to hablo English?” he asked.
“I speak English, sir,” one of the men said, the shorter, fatter one.
“Good.” George nodded, shivering as a drop of icy rain snuck down the front of his coat and shirt. “Then do as I say or join your friend there.” Of course, even if the fat man did do what George said, he’d still end up like his friend. But George would save that little surprise for later.
Chapter Fourteen
2,600 feet over Colombia
Saturday, 12:10 a.m.
“You stupid bitches! You’re both dead, do you know that? Ow! Watch it, you ham-handed cunt!”
For a while there when Dan and Zoelner struggled to control the little plane against the turbulence kicked up by the storm and the wind sheers around the mountains, Penni had been absolutely green, we’re talking so green Kermit the Frog would have been envious of her hue. And she was pretty sure her fingerprints were permanently embedded in the armrests of her seat. But eventually, what seemed like eons later and after she’d made about a dozen grabs for the barf bag but never actually barfed, they’d gained altitude and the ride evened out.
A couple of quick breaths of relief, and she and Chelsea had unbuckled so they could tend to Winterfield’s wound. Can’t have the traitor dying of blood loss before he’s interrogated and made to stand trial, don’t you know? But he’d started to fight them and then he’d started doing that rocking thing, and Penni had whispered to Chelsea, “I think this guy is about to go forty on us all.”
“What does that mean?” Chelsea asked from the corner of her mouth, giving Winterfield the stink-eye.
“It’s what we in the boroughs say when someone looks like they’re thinking about climbing into a clock tower with a rifle.”
“Ah.” Chelsea nodded her agreement. “Well, since there aren’t any clock towers around, I’m afraid he might try to go forty on the door and attempt his hand at flying without a parachute.”
