Another fine mess you’ve got yourself in, Wolfe.
The Purity mechanic uncovered the last of the drones, then turned—
“What the fuck,” the mechanic said. “Who—”
Wolfe rolled, jumped to his feet, came up face to face with the man, and cold cocked him hard on the forehead with the butt of his gun. The mechanic went down.
Wolfe turned—saw that the engine noise had once more saved him from notice. The other two weren’t looking over.
Wolfe dragged the mechanic to one of the canvas tarps, and rolled him up in it, locking him in place with its clips.
The he turned and started toward the other two…
He got within a few feet and one of the men turned to see how the mechanic was getting on. The Graywater’s eyes widened. He unhooked his seat belt and jumped up, pulling his Mack into play. Wolfe just had time to recognize the merc as the one who’d killed Doolin and Kiskel, before he shot him in the face, twice.
The other merc, a chunky man with round cheeks, was struggling to unbuckle his seat belt. In his panic he couldn’t quite get it done.
Wolfe stepped up to him and pointed the gun at his face. “You want what the other one got?”
The merc shook his head.
“What’s your name?”
“Prebo.” The name came out like a squeak.
“Okay, Prebo. Very slowly unbuckle yourself, and stand up, and drop that gun. If it looks like you’re gonna do anything else with it I’ll blow your face off your skull.”
Prebo swallowed, and nodded his head several times, fast. “Sure. Sure. You got it.” He looked at his seatbelt as if it were a complicated puzzle. He licked his lips, then he reached down and slowly unbuckled it.
Wolfe stepped back, a little unsteady in the plane’s turbulence. “Put the gun on the deck carefully and shove it toward me with your foot.”
Prebo obeyed. Wolfe picked up the gun, keeping his eyes and the .45 on Prebo.
“Now,” Wolfe said. “Look at your friend there, the one I shot.”
Prebo stared at the dead man.
“You see his face?” Wolfe asked. “See how I put one through his right eyes and the other right in his teeth? I bet if anyone does an autopsy they’ll find teeth in his brain. You see all that, Prebo?”
“Mm-hm, yes,” Prebo said, his voice still squeaky. “You don’t do what I tell you, you’re gonna look at least as bad as that when I’m done with you. Only it’s your nuts I plan to blow up into your skull. I’ll start with that. Sound good?”
Prebo blinked. “Good?”
“Not so good, right? Let’s avoid that ugliness. Just go over to the cockpit door there, and pound on it. Stand right in front of that peephole. Tell them that something’s stuck out here. Problem with the drones. You hear me?”
Prebo nodded. “You won’t shoot me?”
“Not if you obey me to the letter. Be convincing! Go on—the door!”
Prebo went to the cockpit door. Wolfe followed closely, and flatted to one side of it, and whispered, “Stand close to that peephole so they can’t see anything but you. And do what I told you!”
Prebo cleared his throat, and then banged on the door. “Uh—boss! Mr. Verrick! Um… Mr… Mr Starling? We got a problem out here with the drones! We can’t get ’em flight ready!”
Wolfe nodded and mouthed, Good.
A few seconds passed. Then the door opened—quicker than Wolfe had expected.
Wolfe grabbed Prebo by the collar and shoved him through the door, to make sure it couldn’t be shut quickly.
Then he stepped up behind Prebo and pointed the gun—right at Verrick.
Roger Verrick was just pulling a .44.
“Hold it, Verrick!” Wolfe shouted. “Don’t touch that—”
He didn’t get the word gun out because Verrick was firing his.
Unfortunately for Prebo, he’d straightened up, trying to get out of the line of fire, and stepped right into it. He caught two rounds from Verrick.
One of them went through Prebo, and into Wolfe. He felt it tear open his right side. The other one caught Prebo in the throat. Prebo was going to his knees, clutching at his throat, spitting blood.
“Out of the way you fat slob!” Verrick snarled, shoving Prebo back at Wolfe.
Wolfe was trying to figure out where to place his shot without risking the pilot, or Starling—two guys he needed. He decided to shoot Verrick in the heart and hope it didn’t go through him into the instruments.
Verrick snapped off another shot, catching Wolfe in the outside of his left shoulder, just missing the bone.
Wolfe grunted with the impact, staggering back—the plane shivered in turbulence and he fell onto his back.
“Starling—star the launch now!” Verrick shouted.
Wolfe sat up, grimacing with pain. Spots swam in front of his eyes. He knew the drill—he was experiencing some shock from the bullet wounds. Symptoms of blood loss would start soon. He raised his gun and aimed at Verrick
Verrick stepped awkwardly over the dying Prebo. Whose body was still blocking the door. “Wolfe…”
Verrick’s mouth contorted into a stressed grin and he pointed his gun at Wolfe’s chest.
Wolfe fired first, but the plane was shaking as the rear cargo hatch opened and the shot didn’t go where he wanted it to—it caught Verrick in the trapezius muscle, between his neck and shoulder. Verrick shouted wordlessly. Blood spurted, but it wasn’t a killing wound. Verrick tried to steady himself to fire again.
Wolfe got to his feet, Wind roared through the cabin. They were at a fairly low altitude still. He stepped to the side, close to the bulkhead in front of the seats. A bullet zipped by. Wolfe was conscious of losing blood. It was trickling down his sides, thick and hot and sticky. He could smell the iron scent of his own blood.
A clacking sound drew his attention to the left. He could see the drones were already offloading.
They were rattling out through the back of the plane, on their railings—and dropping.
Maybe it was too late. Maybe he’d failed. He needed to call Pearce, tell him to—
Then Verrick was there, stepping into view, swinging his gun up toward Wolfe’s head.
Wolfe knocked Verrick’s gun hand to the left, brought his own weapon up to fire. Verrick grabbed the wrist of Wolfe’s gun hand and they scuffled for dominance—then Verrick went over backwards, falling onto the deck with a pained grunt, Wolfe on top of him, Wolfe catching the wrist of Verrick’s gun hand in his own left hand.
Wolfe brought his right knee up hard as he could into Verrick’s crotch.
Verrick groaned as Wolfe connected with his testicles. “Fuck! Goddamn you! You’re too fucking late!”
Wolfe felt his strength ebbing. He was losing too much blood.
He put his all into ripping his gun-hand free of Verrick’s grip.
He fired—but Verrick had blocked the shot with his arm. The bullet shattered the bone of Verrick’s left forearm.
Verrick shrieked in pain, arched his back, and pitched Wolfe off him.
Weakened, Wolfe fell back, but managed to struggle to his feet—and he fired again, hitting Verrick in the left shoulder. Verrick spun around, staggered back, floundered blindly toward the rear of the plane, looking for cover.
Wolfe raised the gun and aimed. But the plane jolted and Verrick fell onto the last of the drones. He clutched at it, just as it went down the rail and launched.
It took Verrick with it.
Wolfe turned toward the cockpit, saw Starling struggling to move Prebo’s dead weight out of the doorway.
Wolfe pointed his gun at Starling and shouted, “Starling! Back up! Get in the cockpit and siddown!”
Starling looked up, paling, and raised his hands. He backed up.
Wolfe got the phone out with his left hand, hitting the speed dial. The signal was good.