From there, it was no match. Braun was far stronger, far more experienced. In seconds his hands were wrapped securely around the Tokarev. Braun twisted the short barrel toward the German and jammed it into his bulging gut. He looked at Heinrich, saw his face flush with fear, saw the eyes bulging. Brauns own gaze was steady, composed — both men knew who would win.
Braun found the trigger. On the first shot the Nazi looked stunned. On the second he let out a churning wheeze. With the third, angled higher, into the heart, the body of Die Wespe fell completely limp across the hard crushed coral. Braun pried the gun away and looked at Kovalenko. The Russian was lying perfectly still in a spreading pool of red. The MP's had not reacted yet — Braun knew he had only a minute, perhaps two, and his brain did the calculations. He reached a solution in two parts — the suitcase containing Heinrich's documents, and the aircraft waiting a few steps away.
Braun snatched the case and bounded up the steps into the Ilyushin. The next problem was seconds away. He knew the pilot was an aviator — the man had brought them here from San Francisco — but was he also NKVD? Was he armed? Braun rushed the flight deck, gun leveled, and the answer was instantly clear. The man sat half turned in his seat, strangely calm. Resigned. He knew what Braun would ask of him.
"Where we are going?" the pilot asked in broken English.
"I don't care!" Braun yelled, pointing the gun at the man's head. "Anywhere! Just go!"
The pilot released his parking brake and gave power to the big radial engines. The Ilyushin began to move, lumbering toward the runway. They'd gone less than fifty feet when the pilot slammed on his brakes, nearly throwing Braun to the deck.
The pilot spewed a stream of obscenities in his native language.
"What is it?" Braun shouted.
The pilot gestured with both hands for him to look down, over the glare shield. Braun scrambled up to the empty copilot's seat and looked low under the nose. Some suicidal idiot had just cut them off with a loaded bomb cart.
Chapter 43
Lydia s mission had been to bring the MP's as quickly as possible. She'd only made a hundred feet across the parking apron when she heard their whistles and saw them coming at a dead run. The alarm had been raised, but they were still two hundred yards away.
She turned back and spotted Thatcher as she ran. He was driving the tug wildly, careening across the ramp with a load of bombs still in tow. He brought it all skidding to a stop smack in front of the airplane. Thatcher jumped off as a collision seemed imminent, but the pilot slammed on his brakes and the big airplane's nose rocked down as it ground to a halt. Thatcher did a half circle around the right side of the airplane, just clearing the propeller that still spun in a blur. Lydia couldn't imagine what he was up to as he crouched down behind the big right wheel.
She was close now, and Lydia ducked into the shadow of another airplane. An instant later, Alex came bounding off the Russian craft. He had his gun poised, sweeping left and right in a crouch as he ran to the tug. He climbed on, started it, and drove the thing clear.
With Alex distracted, Thatcher moved on the opposite side of the airplane, scurrying toward the back. He stopped just in front of the tail and began prying against the side of the cabin. Lydia realized there was a door. It was farther back and larger than the entry door on the other side — probably used for loading cargo. Thatcher expertly released the latches and had it open in a matter of seconds. He boosted himself up and disappeared, the door swinging shut behind him.
Against the churning vibration of the airplane's engines, Lydia heard a whistle. The MP's were closing in, but they'd never make it in time. Alex was already scrambling back inside, and the big airplane began to move. She had to do something. She'd just seen Alex kill a man. Now Thatcher was with him, alone. And Alex still had the gun. He had every advantage.
Lydia eyed the cargo door. It was still hanging loose on its hinges, the latches undone. There was no time to think. She scampered from her hiding spot and ran like she'd never run before.
Braun pointed the pistol at the pilot and screamed, "Go/"
There was no hesitation — the airplane began to move. He looked out the entryway and saw MP's running, handguns drawn. Braun reached for the handle to draw the door closed, but it was locked in place. He was trying to find the release mechanism, his body squarely in the opening, when the blow came. Something smashed into his left arm. The Tokarev went flying out onto the ramp. Braun went for balance, spreading his feet and arms to the corners of the door frame. A flash came from behind and he ducked as hard steel glanced off his head. Braun was stunned. He tried to hold on as he strained for consciousness.
At that moment, the big airplane turned and accelerated under full power. He senses that his adversary was thrown off by the movement, and it gave Braun time to recover. He turned, his stance was wide, his hands up to deflect the next blow. But nothing came. The blurry shape in front of him was struggling to right itself.
Slowly, Braun's vision cleared. He heard the other man curse. Lifting a sleeve to wipe the blood from his face, Braun could not believe what he saw. The gimpy little Englishman. The same man who had started all his troubles back at Harrold House.
"You!" he hissed.
The Englishman stood. He was hanging onto the aft bulkhead, and they stared at one another as the aircraft sped down the runway. A window suddenly exploded, and Braun threw himself to the deck as bullets plinked into metal and glass. He saw the shooters flash by outside — two MPs emptying their handguns into the huge Ilyushin. An instant later, the hail ended.
The big airplane levitated slowly, lumbering into the cairn morning air. Braun got back to his feet. The Englishman was brandishing a wrench. If he was hopelessly outmatched, his eyes didn't show it. They held nothing but fight. The man lunged at Braun with agility that belied his infirmity. The wrench whizzed by Brauns ear, and whacked painfully into his shoulder. But then Braun used his size. He kept the Englishman close and clamped down on the arm that held the wrench. A head butt caught Braun flush in the face, crunching against his nose. The pain was excruciating, but anger and adrenaline overcame it. He twisted toward the Englishman's bad leg and sent him spinning. His skull smacked hard against the metal sidewall, and he crumpled to the deck.
Grimacing, Braun spit out a mouthful of blood. He looked up front and set eyes on the pilot, who was watching the events in back. Braun had no idea who the man had been rooting for, but everything was clear now. "Keep it headed west!" Braun demanded. The pilot turned back to his controls.
Cautiously, Braun moved closer and inspected his adversary. Thatcher, he remembered. Major Michael Thatcher. The man was dazed, but not dead. Not yet. Braun looked at the still open door. Wind whistled past the opening, a rush of noise that Braun remembered from his parachute training. He contemplated tossing Thatcher out, as he'd done with old Mitchell. But then he had second thoughts. Thatcher might have valuable information.
Braun looked across the deck. Heinrich's suitcase, at least, was still there. Its tremendous value remained in his grasp. But he had to get away, and to do that Braun needed to know exactly who was after him, how much they knew. He might very well throw the little Englishman out the door — just not yet.
Lydia watched intently from behind the steel bulkhead that separated the main cabin from the aft cargo compartment. A heavy sheet of canvas was strung across the small opening that connected the two sections. It was loose on one edge, and Lydia supposed that was how Thatcher had gotten forward to confront Alex.