Hotter Than Wildfire

  This was probably his plane. He could fly out whenever he wanted, without asking anyone’s permission. He could fly anywhere he wanted.

  Bearclaw had a small airfield of its own. Gerald’s pilots could land after dark and no one would ever know she’d been on the plane. If he did to her what he’d done to Arlen and that Mikowski and Roddy and poor Kerry—whatever that devil’s voice from hell said, Kerry was dead—well, Gerald owned more than seven thousand acres of land, much of it swamp.

  He could bury her where no one would ever find her. Not all the police officers and all the dogs in the world would find her.

  She was lost and had no cards left to play.

  Both front car doors opened as the men got out. Ellen squeezed her eyes shut. The only tiny advantage she had was the fact that they couldn’t know she’d regained consciousness. Drugs affected different people in different ways.

  If she could just pretend she was still unconscious, she could…she could what?

  Live.

  Live just a few moments more. Feel her body, racked with pain though it was. Breathe, even if it was dust and diesel fuel fumes. Think. Think of Harry and what, maybe, they might have had together.

  Tears seeped from her eyes, though she didn’t have the use of her hands to wipe them.

  Harry.

  Would what they’d found be true, lasting? Oh God. Images, dense, full of the color and the weight of truth, flashed through her mind. Harry laughing, sipping wine while she cooked. She wasn’t much of a cook, but he loved her—he’d choke it down. Sitting with a half smile on his face while she sang for him. Unearthly joy on his face as he held their newborn child.

  Hours, days, weeks, years spent together. Loving each other, loving their family. Their children would grow up together with Sam and Nicole’s children in a tight and loving circle, utterly protected and safe. So unlike her childhood and Harry’s. Mike would be a doting uncle.

  Watching them grow up, day by day, year by year. She’d record songs, maybe play a few gigs in the San Diego area. Harry’s company would expand because he and Sam and Mike were so good at what they did. She’d keep their books because she was good at it.

  At the end of the working day, a happy family to come home to. Christmases, Easters, birthdays, anniversaries. All celebrated with love.

  The mess and fuss of kids. Fights, laughter, triumphs, the dramas of the young. They wouldn’t have to keep the tight rein on themselves she’d had to, because there’d be solid earth beneath their feet.

  Strong, happy kids. Kids who grew up to follow their dreams. She and Harry would grow older, weaker, happier. Grandkids…

  It was all something that would happen to another Ellen and Harry, in an alternate universe. In this one, she’d disappear, and he’d mourn another Lost One he couldn’t save.

  She’d die, lose all that love and laughter, and for what? So Gerald could keep his empire built on larceny and murder and greed. So he could kill with impunity. Just snuff out people’s lives because it suited him.

  It was monstrous. He was a monster.

  Thank God she’d e-mailed the FBI and thank God Harry and Mike and Sam had the information Nicole had uncovered. They’d make sure it got into the FBI’s hands.

  Maybe Gerald would go down after all. The FBI was good, thorough, uncorrupted. They wouldn’t be like Gerald’s tame officers back home. They’d dig and dig and dig.

  Utter hatred for Gerald pulsed in her. Hatred for all of them—for the man who’d battered Harry’s little sister to death, for the man Kerry had been so afraid of, but above all, hatred for Gerald and all his men—prickled through her veins like some kind of drug.

  She was going to die, but by God before she did, she was going to hurt Gerald, somehow.

  The back door opened, and the engine noises and sharp diesel fuel fumes assaulted her senses. She stayed completely still, eyes closed and unmoving. She’d be deadweight. Good. Make them work at getting her out of the car.

  “You get her.” Gerald’s cold voice. She’d recognize it anywhere.

  “Yeah. I’ll take her up into the plane.” The second man had an odd accent. The accent everyone spoke in a Clint Eastwood film, Invictus. South African.

  “You do that. I’ll talk with the pilots. They’ll be ready for takeoff. Let’s get in the air.”

  Ellen tried to will herself to be unwieldy, but the blond man was really strong. He didn’t try to carry her across his front. He pulled her up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, steps loud on the concrete floor, moving swiftly up the plane’s stairs, holding her legs with one arm around her knees.

  She felt the South African dip and they passed into the cabin. The quality of the air changed immediately. Fresher, cleaner. The outside noise abated then disappeared when she heard a door thump close.

  They were in the airplane.

  She was unceremoniously dumped in a leather chair. She lolled, making her whole body limp, arms dangling.

  Everything hurt, but she was alive.

  Maybe they would stay here for a while, in the airplane. Maybe they were waiting for someone. Maybe the plane needed refueling.

  Would there be a way for the FBI to find Gerald? Would a flight plan have been filed?

  When she disappeared, Harry would read her e-mail and contact the FBI immediately. As her head slowly cleared of the drug and she was able to put two thoughts together, hope surged through her.

  Harry’d be pushing the FBI to find them, they’d be on the lookout, canvasing all roads, trains, buses, planes.

  Maybe all she needed was for Gerald and this South African guy to stay in the plane while the FBI and Harry did their thing.

  Stay here, she ordered the plane.

  As if in answer, there was an incomprehensible announcement from the pilot’s cabin over the speakers and the engines fired up. A minute later, the plane started slowly moving.

  Ellen chanced cracking an eye open and saw that the plane was taxiing from the hangar out into the sunlight.

  The place looked utterly deserted. Even if she sprang to her feet and pounded on the windows, there was no one to hear. No one to care.

  The notes on the engines changed as the pilot engaged a higher gear. They were moving out.

  This was it. She was as good as dead.

  “How much farther?” Sam asked.

  Harry made the calculations in his head, looking at the green dot, still now, looking at the overlying map. “Two miles. Couple of minutes.” He lifted his head. “There!” He pointed straight ahead, where the airfield was slowly coming into focus. Several medium-sized hangars, a couple of small jets parked outside them. While he watched, a Boeing 707 lifted off.

  Somewhere on that airfield was Ellen.

  Hold on, honey. I’m coming.

  “Where’s the entrance?” Sam asked. He didn’t even dare flick a glance Harry’s way. He was pushing the vehicle to the max.

  Harry ran his finger over the map, around, around…

  “Shit! It’s on the north side! If she’s already on the plane, we don’t have time to circle the perimeter.”

  “Hold on.” Sam’s face was grim as he gripped the wheel hard, wrenched it, brought the vehicle around forty-five degrees in a swirl of dust until they were facing the fence. He pressed the accelerator down to the floor and was doing at least a hundred miles an hour when they burst through the carbon-wire fencing, posts popping out on either side. “Which hangar?”

  That was harder, and Harry had to get it right. He stared at the small monitor as if Ellen could post a message to him there. Where are you, honey?

  There. His finger tightened on the green dot on the screen. She was there.

  “Two o’clock. Green hangar. Mike—you got our gear set up?”

  “Count on it,” Mike’s deep bass came from behind. And Harry did, because Mike was good with gear. “You got your head screwed on straight?”

  Harry knew what Mike was asking. Was he going to be a member of the team or was he go
ing to be an uncontrollable wildcard, capable of jeopardizing the mission, costing them their lives?

  Harry looked ahead at the hangar, the size of a thumb on the horizon but growing fast. When they got there they would have one shot at saving Ellen. One. Any misstep and he could end up with a dead Ellen and dead brothers and his life in smoking ruins.

  He was scared shitless he’d fuck up. He had to get his head out of that space, fast. He pressed his head against the head-rest, bracing himself, feeling every nerve and muscle in his body tense, heart pounding, the refrain Ellen Ellen Ellen beating fast in his head, hands curled, thick and clumsy, on his knees. His head felt light and for a second he just watched the hangar getting bigger and bigger on the horizon.

  A sharp blow to his shoulder from behind. “Harry!” Mike said sharply. “Come back!”

  And his head cleared, his hands felt normal again, and the palm-sized building on the horizon had Ellen in it, a hair’s breadth from dying.

  He hadn’t been able to save Crissy, though God knows he’d tried. That fuckhead Rod had just picked her up and smashed her against a wall as if she’d been a doll instead of a delightful little girl.

  They won. They always won, the fuckers. Always.

  This stopped right here, right now. Ellen was the love of his life, light in darkness. She’d saved his life over those long painful months of rehab, that lovely voice in the darkness singing just for him. Understanding pain and turning it into magic. Magic. The woman was magic, the woman of a lifetime, and he was not going to lose her to Gerald Montez or to Piet van der Boeke.

  His whole life came down to this, to this one moment. If he lost this, if he lost Ellen, and if his brothers got hurt or killed, his entire life was gone.

  Wasn’t going to happen.

  He was back and he was going to win.

  “Yeah,” he said to Mike. “I’m okay. Get your weapon ready. We’ll circle round—”

  “Oh shit,” Sam said.

  All three of them stared in the distance, where a plane was rolling out. Harry checked the monitor, the green dot moving slowly. “It’s her. We’ve got to stop that plane.”

  If that plane took off, Ellen was lost, and he was not going to lose her. Not an option.

  A plan formed in his mind, fully blown, as if he’d had time to plan it over days. He mapped it out in his head, knowing that it would only work if he could trust Sam and Mike totally.

  He could.

  “Sam!” he rapped out. “Can you catch up with that plane? It’ll taxi until it reaches the runway. Can you reach it and line up with it before the runway?”

  “I’ll have to, won’t I,” Sam replied calmly as the van took another leap and was now traveling at the outer limits of its capacity. Strong as the vehicle was, it started shuddering as if it were going to shake itself to pieces.

  Sam kept his foot on the pedal as the shuddering grew louder, stronger. But the plane was now large in their windshield, gathering speed. With a swerve, Sam caught up with it, kept pace right behind the starboard wing.

  He was probably in the blind spot, where the plane’s radar couldn’t see them, because the pilots showed no signs that they saw the vehicle. The plane was taxiing. The airfield wasn’t full and they had the immediate area to themselves.

  “Mike, take out their tires.”

  If anyone could do it, it was Mike, but even his abilities would be stretched to the limit. At this speed, it was hard for Sam to keep the vehicle steady.

  “On it.” He cracked open the back panel.

  There was a small bench running around the perimeter of the spacious back section of the Sprinter, there for when they had to transport an entire team to an op. Mike placed one knee on the bench for stability, shouldered his rifle, a move smooth with years of practice.

  “Sam…” he said.

  “Steadying.” Sam locked his arms on the wheel, providing as steady a platform as was humanly possible from a moving vehicle for Mike.

  No one spoke. Mike needed to concentrate.

  A loud blast followed instantly by another one as two of the four front wheels exploded. Immediately, sparks shot out from the wheels as the rims touched the tarmac.

  Mike hadn’t gone for sound suppression, which would have made the shot even more difficult. No one was going to hear a shot inside a plane with the engines revving.

  The plane wobbled for a second, then Mike shot out the third and fourth tires of the front set. The plane was now trailing a bloom of sparks.

  A beep in Harry’s ear and Aaron’s voice came over. “Harry, we’re about seven minutes out. I viewed that video your lady sent. Whoever sent it, whoever did this, man, he’s going down. I told the tower to stop all flights.”

  “Well, there’s a plane going up, now, Aaron. She’s on it. A Learjet, and they’re taxiing for takeoff. Mike’s shot out the front tires but they’re not stopping. What the fuck?”

  “Maybe the pilot’s under orders not to stop.”

  “But they can’t land the other end without their goddamned tires!”

  “They can crash land and hope to walk away. If he’d rather crash land than face you guys, either he’s really crazy or really wants to hurt that woman. Either way, it’s bad news. Stop him, Harry. We’ll get there and help you take him down.”

  “Roger that.”

  Stopping Montez was easier said than done. The plane’s speed was increasing, even with four missing tires. Harry didn’t dare have Mike shoot out anything important from the fuselage. He had no idea if a bullet would hit the gas tanks and blow the whole fucking plane up, with Ellen inside. The plane veered left and got onto the runway. It was accelerating, though slowly. But if the pilot pushed it, or had a gun to his head, in another five minutes it would reach V1, take off speed, and they’d be gone.

  “Mike!” he yelled. The engine noise was almost overpowering. They were right under one of the big Pratt and Whitney engines and it was like being inside a cement mixer. “Give me the grapple gun!”

  Mike slid back from his station, still holding on to his Remington with his left hand, and opened up one of the gear boxes lining the back. The right box. Mike never got the gear wrong.

  He handed it over, a brand-new toy that had only been tested in the lab, from a young company run by former soldiers who were also enthusiastic gearheads. A long, thick weapon that looked like a space ray gun, except that it shot a powerful grappling hook.

  It was a one-shot deal. Miss, and you missed your chance. But even if there were two shots in it, it would be too late to try a second time. The plane was laboring and wobbling, but if Harry didn’t stop it, it could take off. He’d watch Ellen climb into the sky taking his heart with her, knowing that nothing could ever save her.

  So he just wasn’t fucking going to miss.

  Their van had had a sunroof carved out—not for sightseeing or sunbathing, but because sometimes that exit option was useful, like now. He rolled the roof back, stacked a couple of boxes and climbed on top. He lifted himself out onto the roof, a knee on either side of the opening.

  He reached his hand down and Mike slapped the grapple gun in his hand. Their eyes met. If this didn’t work they were fucked. Even if it worked, he had a one-in-a-thousand shot at getting Ellen back.

  “Steady!” he yelled at Mike, knowing he would relay it back to Sam. Sam was keeping the vehicle straight and firm—not easy, because the plane created strong crosswinds and was wobbling a little. Sam had understood what Harry was trying to do and was trying to keep him as close to the wing as possible without being sideswiped by the almost-out-of-control plane.

  Focus.

  It all fell away—the danger to Ellen, the runaway plane, two killers inside. There were only two things in his world: him and the leading edge of the wing. Between them was going to stretch the grapple, with its wire cable made of carbon nanotube fiber, the strongest material on earth, so strong that if they ever built the space elevator, this cable would run it. It was a closely held Navy secret that
Sam had gotten his hands on.

  Mike reached up and handed him thin shooting gloves with Kevlar palms. It would interfere with his shooting aim a fraction, though since he was aiming at a span of sixty-one feet, he was hardly likely to miss. But he was going to climb his way up on the wing, hauling himself over a wire cable, and he needed gloves to protect his hands.

  Mike looked up at him, waiting to relay instructions to Sam. It would be nice to wait for the exact right circumstances, but the situation was deteriorating by the second. Harry nodded, shot the grapple gun, dropped the gun so Mike could wrap the cable around a spar in the van, felt the bite of the grapple’s engagement with the leading edge of the wing, heard Mike shout brake! to Sam, all in one second that seemed to last an eternity.

  The noise of the van braking, Sam literally standing on the brakes, rose above the noise of the plane. The cable went taut, vibrations of tensile stress singing through it. Harry could feel the stress in his hands as the twenty-four-thousand-pound plane bucked against the fifteen thousand pounds of the armored vehicle.

  To take off now, it would have to do so dragging fifteen thousand pounds behind it, because that cable was not going to break.

  Harry took a deep breath and launched himself in the air, landing at the halfway zone between the Sprinter and the plane. The plane was wrenching around, wobbling heavily, shaking, the sound of sheet metal tearing so loud it overrode everything.

  The instant his hands made contact with the wire he started hauling himself hand over hand along it until he reached the trailing edge of the wing. He held as tightly as he could with his left hand while he pulled himself up and over the wing. He rested for a second, feeling the airframe shuddering under his belly, panting, waiting just long enough so that he could breathe.

  He lifted himself up on his hands and knees, looking down briefly to see Sam looking up at him. Sam lifted his fist, stuck his thumb in the air. So far so good.

  The plane was slowing. One of the ailerons had sheared off, a section of the sheet metal of the leading edge had buckled.

  The cockpit would have registered this. There would be alarms going off, visual and aural. No pilot on earth would ever try taking off under these conditions. The engines disengaged then throttled back.