“Gun left,” he snapped, for Adara’s benefit. He gave the man behind the counter a quarter-second benefit of the doubt. There was a slim chance he was protecting himself from the newcomers outside.
Nope.
The night manager swung the gun in a wide arc, crossing Adara first. Both she and Chavez fired at the same time, both rounds catching him center-mass.
“One down inside,” Chavez said over the radio. “We’re still good, but the cops can’t be far away.”
“Bad news,” Jack said. “I’m thinking these are the cops.”
Adrenalized, Chavez forgot about his pounding headache. Unfortunately, it hadn’t forgotten about him, and he swayed on his feet as he moved toward the door that led to the ramp. “Do not let these guys ID you.”
“Copy,” Jack said. “We’re still sitting in the vans. So far they don’t even know we’re here.”
“They’re gearing up to come in,” Caruso added. “Jack can go; I’ll stay and help you out.”
“Negative,” Chavez snapped, regaining his balance by sheer force of will. “Adara and I will slip out the back door to the flight line before they come in. We’ll work our way around to the south if we can. Jack, you sit still. Midas, you guys wait until they are about to hit the door, and then haul ass. Peel out, make a lot of noise like you’re bolting. Hopefully they follow you. Jack, if you can, slip away after they leave. We’ll rendezvous at the alternate site in four hours.”
The alternate site was a church downtown that he’d designated when they first arrived in Manado. It was a long way from the airport — and the F-15s — but if Chavez sat still, Calliope would be long gone before they got here — and he and Adara would likely be dead.
Pistol in hand, Chavez grabbed the door and gave Adara a nod to let her know he was ready. He could barely see out of his left eye, his head was on fire, and he was sure he had at least two bruised ribs. Yeah, things were just peachy.
Adara grabbed her pack and threw her body across the counter, reaching for the button to buzz open the exit to the ramp. Chavez held the door until she got there. A quick peek outside said they were clear, and they ran into the sticky blackness.
The sound of squealing tires carried around the building. Chavez caught a glimpse of the Toyota’s taillights heading away from the FBO. He counted one, and then a second pickup truck sped past, giving chase.
Chavez and Adara stopped next to a parked fuel truck. The smell of the tarmac rose on the warm night air, reminding him of a racetrack. On any other evening, one where he wasn’t running for his life with some stolen computer tech in his pocket, he would have enjoyed the smell.
“Looks like they’re buying it,” Adara said, watching the taillights.
“Hope so,” Chavez said. “Now Midas and Dom just need to get away.”
Jack came across the net. “Heads up! They left three behind. One’s watching the parking lot; the other two are coming your way.”
“Stay where you are,” Chavez said, panting more than he should have been.
“You okay?” Adara asked.
“I’m good.” He was able to muster a grin. “Just a little smashed up from my beating.”
The men coming inside would be finding the dead FBO manager about now. They’d slow down to check the building if they had any sense, but there wasn’t much to check besides a back office and the restrooms. It was a matter of seconds, not minutes, before the men were right on top of them.
“Tell me you have a surprise Ding Chavez plan up your sleeve,” Adara hissed. Crouched in the shadows with her pistol at low ready, she looked formidable. Chavez had little doubt they’d be able to handle the two men, but he hoped to get out of Indonesia without engaging any police officers, even if they were on Suparman’s payroll. He thought about going to the Gulfstream for about half a second, but a thin-skinned aircraft was a terrible place to make a stand.
A Batik Air commercial airliner roared overhead, vibrating the ground as it took off to the south.
“Ryan’s penned down,” Adara said. “Short of hijacking an airplane, I’m not sure we have many options besides duking it out with those guys when they come out. I guess we could always give up.”
Chavez nodded, half standing. “That’s it.”
“Give up?” Adara scoffed, her face blue in the scant ambient light. “That was a joke. I don’t think these guys plan on taking us to jail.”
Chavez gestured toward the Piper Cheyenne with his pistol.
“I’m not talking about giving up.”
46
The Piper’s rear door hung open at the back of the aircraft, integral stairs extended. The only light inside came from the faint glow of cockpit instrumentation. The two pilots were already on board, while the rest of the loading crew had gone between the ramshackle metal buildings to see what all the noise was in front. Adara pointed out at least one long gun, which meant there were surely more.
Two seats faced aft, back to back with the pilots in the open cockpit, one on either side of a narrow aisle. The rest had been removed to make room for the cargo — which consisted of several dozen bales of something wrapped in black plastic bags and copious rolls of duct tape.
The Cheyenne IIIA normally carried only nine passengers with full seating, so Chavez was almost in the cockpit in one good bent-over stride from the time he breached the door.
The Indonesian pilots both turned as Chavez bounded up the steps, his pistol trained toward the cockpit. Adara followed close on his heels, lifting the door and folding stairs before the pilots realized what was going on. The one in the left seat, older than his copilot by at least a decade, raised his hands and grinned, giving an amused shake of his head.
“You won’t get very far if you shoot us.”
“I only need one of you to fly the plane,” Chavez said, dead serious. “Your copilot looks capable enough.”
He didn’t have a problem popping a drug smuggler. It would, in fact, not be a new experience for him. Any hint of bravado bled from the pilot’s face.
“I assume you are running from those people who are making all the noise out on the street?” he asked.
Chavez smacked the headrest with his free hand. This was a tricky time. In reality, the pilot held most of the cards. All he had to do was sit on his hands while the men he worked for stormed the plane. Chavez banked on the fact that the pilots were smart enough to realize they were highly likely to catch a few bullets themselves if their companions stormed the plane. Drug smugglers weren’t known for their discerning shot placement. Chavez leaned farther into the cockpit between the two seats, partly to check for weapons, but crowding the men in the process to keep up the tension.
“Let’s go! And no headsets. I want the radio on speaker so I can hear everything. And keep in mind that I know the transponder codes, so you can forget about sending a message that way.”
The pilot turned and looked at him full in the face, as if he’d been about to do that very thing.
Squawking 7700 on the transponder alerted air traffic control to an emergency. A squawk of 7500 meant the aircraft had been hijacked.
The pilot did as he was directed. The little airplane began to shudder as he fired up one Pratt & Whitney turbine engine at a time. He glanced over his shoulder as he let the props come up to speed.
“My name is Deddy,” the pilot said, an obvious attempt to humanize himself to the man who had a gun to his head. Chavez couldn’t blame him. He would have done the same thing if the situation were reversed.
He kept his voice firm and direct. “You’re doing fine, Deddy. We’ll get through this no problem as long as you do exactly what I tell you to.”