11
The controls had become so stiff that Malone could hardly move them. The chopper twisted sickeningly. At once, it dropped ten feet, with such force that Malone’s lungs seemed to soar into his throat. He needed all his strength to stop it from plummeting farther. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep it steady. For a moment, he was back in Panama, struggling to control his gunship after it had been shot. “Brace yourself! Find a place that’s flat where we can land!”
“I don’t see any!”
Staring down, Malone didn’t see any, either. They were over a rocky, shrub-dotted slope. There was no way the chopper would ever clear the top. The controls shuddered violently. If he didn’t land now, the chopper was going to make the decision for him. Using every skill he could remember, he forced the chopper out of a dizzying spiral, wobbled along the side of the slope, glimpsed a space between boulders, gave one last determined command to the resisting controls, and slammed down.
The impact rammed his teeth together. Ignoring the pain that shot along his jaw, he shut off the engines, unsnapped his safety harness, and spun toward Sienna. Her head was drooped. My God, is she -
But before the thought could be completed, she raised her hand toward the back of her neck and rubbed it, shaking her head in a daze.
“Are you okay?” he blurted.
“… Head hurts.”
“We have to get out of here.” He coughed from the black smoke that swirled around him, stinging his throat. “This thing might explode.”
That caught her attention. After one more dazed look at him, she was suddenly animated, freeing her harness, shoving at the hatch on her side of the chopper. “It’s stuck! It won’t -”
Malone desperately tried his own side and groaned when he found that it, too, was stuck, the impact having twisted it. Sweat stung his eyes as he strained to his limit, his nerves quickening when the hatch reluctantly creaked open. One of the blades had been bent down by the force of the landing. Rotating, it had struck a boulder and frozen, jamming the rotor so that the other blades were frozen also.
At least, I don’t have to worry about one of them spinning out of control and chopping my head off, he thought.
He had plenty to worry about as it was. When he jumped free, then turned to grab Sienna’s hand and help her out, he saw flickers of crimson in the swirling black smoke on top of the chopper. The engine wasn’t just overheated; it was on fire. Jesus, if the flames reach the fuel tank…
Leaping down, Sienna saw the flames, too, her panicked look communicating that he didn’t have to tell her to run as far and fast as she could. They raced, dodging boulders, sprinting past bushes, charging along the slope. Malone’s throat, already irritated by the oily smoke, was made more raw by his quick, deep, strident breathing. His legs stretched to their maximum. Beside him, Sienna strained to run faster.
Hearing a whoosh behind him, Malone recognized the distinctive sound of flames reaching spilled fuel. He barely saw a gully suddenly appear before he had time to jump instead of stumble into it. He landed and rolled, Sienna tumbling next to him, the shock wave from an explosion striking his eardrums. It was far more powerful than the blast from a burning gas tank. Numerous secondary explosions were almost as strong, punctuated by the crackle of bullets. Jesus, had there been munitions aboard? Malone wondered in dismay as something else exploded. Chunks of smoking metal clanged off boulders and rebounded down the gully. Then the afternoon was silent, except for Malone’s and Sienna’s gasping attempt to catch their breath and the muted rumble of the unseen flames.
They stared apprehensively at each other, their eyes asking if either was hurt, each quietly responding, I’m all right, but what about you? Tasting sweat, smoke, and dust, Malone tried his arms and legs. After Sienna did the same and nodded in assurance, they rose cautiously to peer over the rim toward the blazing hulk of the chopper.
“How far is that airfield?” Sienna’s face was smeared with soot.
“Maybe a half mile.”
“We’re wasting time.” She climbed painfully out of the gully. “But if we ever get away, you’re going to tell me how you learned about this place.”
He didn’t know how to respond. Not that it mattered. As they climbed the rocky slope, another sound intruded. Malone now had an added taste in his mouth – coppery, that of fear – as he turned toward approaching engines and saw three four-wheel-drive vehicles speed past trees on a road below him. They swerved into the bumpy field that led in this direction.
People from a nearby farm? Malone wondered. Did they see the chopper go down and come to help? The state-of-the-art vehicles, almost military in design, made his heart sink with doubt. So did the relentlessness with which their occupants ignored the jostling punishment of the uneven terrain.
“It’s Derek,” Sienna said.
Despite her bruised legs, she spun toward the crest and ran.
12
As his vehicle jolted across the field, Bellasar gripped the steering wheel harder and glared through the windshield toward the smoke and flames billowing from the wreckage. “Does anybody see survivors?”
Increasing speed despite the shocks to the vehicle, he scanned the rocky slope. The spreading haze made it difficult to distinguish shapes. His vision was unsteady because of the jouncing shudder of the vehicle. Even so, he thought he saw figures moving to the right of the blazing wreckage. He shoved his foot harder onto the accelerator, stiffening his neck to keep his head from jerking back.
There damned well had better be survivors, he thought, steering sharply toward the right. It no longer mattered to him that he had been making arrangements for Sienna’s death. Now, more than anything, he wanted her alive. And Malone. He wanted to see their faces. He needed to study the fear in their eyes when he made them pay.
“I see movement!” The guard next to Bellasar pointed toward the right, toward where Bellasar steered.
Even the toughest civilian four-wheel-drive vehicle would have long since broken its suspension, so punishing was the rocky terrain. But one of Bellasar’s engineering teams had developed a military version that had civilian styling, rode well, was heavily armed, and would survive just about any hardship demanded of it. A number of drug lords and dictators had ordered the armor-plated model, but before making delivery, Bellasar had wanted to test it further. It gave him great satisfaction that its performance this afternoon left no doubt that it was ready.
You think you can get away from me? he mentally shouted toward the two partially glimpsed figures who scrambled up the slope. You think you have even the slightest chance?
Reaching the bottom of the slope, not bothering to reduce speed as he jolted upward, he saw the smoke disperse enough to verify that the scurrying figures were in fact Sienna and Malone. He raised the lid on a console next to him, exposing a button and two small joysticks. The button he pressed opened a port beneath each headlight, exposing the muzzle of a.30-caliber machine gun built into each wheel well.
Each weapon was capable of swiveling within a thirty-degree radius, of being raised and lowered within a similar range, and of firing independently. Bellasar didn’t worry that shots would bring the police. This was still his property; he sometimes tested weapons here. Farmers in the area would think it was business as usual. Judging the distance and angle, he used his right hand to maneuver the right stick, pressed a button on top of it, and heard a brrrrp, its vibration negligible as a stream of bullets tore up the slope to the right of his targets. He didn’t want to hit them. God no. He wanted to scare them and convince them that running any farther was futile. He wanted them alive, to make them suffer.