Hunter (13 page)

He laughed. "We'll drop the piece of shit onto the cliffs once we're airborne"

Meanwhile, even with wrists and ankles bound, Charly bucked, squirmed and twisted with all she had to make it as difficult as she could for them. But, despite her fierce, unwavering resistance, they managed to get her up the short ladder, shoving her unceremoniously into the plane. In a last-ditch effort to summon help before she was closed up inside the plane, Charly let out a blood-curdling scream. Muscles stepped across and pushed the lackeys aside. Charly looked up into his eyes, paralyzed with shock; recognition written all over her horrified face.

"You!" she cried. "But, you were—" Before she could finish, Muscles back-handed her across the side of the neck. The expert blow concussed her, buying the lackeys enough time to tie her into a seat.

"Hey, who the fuck is that up there watching us?" It was the pilot, troubled, pointing urgently toward the cliff top above them. He'd stepped out of the aircraft to do his routine checks before takeoff and happened to look up to where the young Serb had disappeared to collect the other prisoner from the car. "That doesn't look like your guy?"

The big Serb turned around with his usual economy and realized that the man standing at the top of the 
cliff was not his young offsider. It was the prisoner.

In the instant that the big Serb's eyes locked onto him, Morgan disappeared from view.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he spat; the cigarette tumbled from his lips. "You two untie us," he barked at the lackeys and, stabbing a finger at the pilot, said, "And
you
get this fucking thing in the air!"

*

Sprinting back from the cliff's edge, Morgan tore the car keys from the trunk and dived into the driver's seat. It was an old Peugeot and took its time to start.

"Come on! Come on!" he ordered and the old car coughed into action. He pumped the gas, revving the engine to life, wrenched the gearshift into first, stamped on the accelerator and threw the car into a tight U-turn around the comatose body of the young Serb. Gravel and dust sprayed from the spinning tires. The Peugeot fishtailed wildly on the loose rocky surface of the dirt road until the Intrepid agent tore the wheel back around, straightened the car and hurled it down the hillside. His eyes were fixed on the pier.

In the distance the sun was already hanging heavily in the sky, slipping toward the horizon. Dusk. He had less than an hour of daylight left, if that.

Aboard the seaplane, the big Serb bellowed at the pilot to take off.

"I can't. We're still tied up!" the pilot replied from the cockpit. "Those two assholes—"

"What the fuck?" the big Serb fumed impatiently. He punched the seat in front of him in frustration and then spun toward Muscles. "Sort those motherfuck-ers out!" he barked in Serbian, spit spraying from his mouth.

Muscles sprang from his seat, threw open the back door of the aircraft, clambered down onto the float and, with the Stechkin in hand, roared at the two lackeys on the pier to get the mooring ropes untied.

*

At that moment, Alex Morgan was hurtling down the ancient fisherman's track, skidding, braking and accelerating all the way. He saw nothing but the seaplane and every inch and bend in the road that lay between him and Charlotte-Rose Fleming. His mind focused only on negotiating the car as fast as humanly possible along half a mile of dangerously narrow dirt road. There was nothing on either side but cliffs until a last-minute drop down to the pier. He had no idea what he would do when he got there or even if the plane would still be alongside. But he could see it. His 
objective was within reach. He knew she was onboard and nothing was going to stop him getting to her.

With sweat pouring from his brow and fierce determination chiseled across mission-hardened features, Morgan's limbs were in a state of automatic reflex, expertly responding to his subliminal instructions, manipulating gearshift, steering wheel and pedals to hurtle the aging vehicle down the rollercoaster ride of bends, sweeps and dips. At every perilous left and right turn, the Peugeot came close to careening over the edge. If it did, Morgan would plummet to a god-awful end among the rocks and crashing waves that were the hallmark of the Gozo coastline. But he couldn't think about that. If it happened, it happened. His eyes were locked onto the seaplane with the precision and singular purpose of a state-of-the-art guidance system in a surface-to-air missile.

*

At the controls, the pilot was anxious. He didn't know who the crazy bastard in the car was but he'd picked up enough listening to the Serbs to know he was Interpol or Europol or something. The pilot had his own reasons for not wanting to get caught: he was as desperate to get airborne as his clients. He brought the de Havilland up to maximum revs, ready to power off but the rope was jammed at the mooring and two pairs of inexperienced hands were making a dog's breakfast of it. He slid open his window.

"Come on, you assholes! Cast us off!"

Hearing the pilot, Muscles knew that two was just making matters worse - both pairs of hands were a 
mess of red rope. He saw the Peugeot gaining ground, rapidly - a long trail of white dust billowed in the car's wake as it screamed down the hill toward them at breakneck speed. The cop had only two or three turns left and he'd be on the direct approach to the pier. Fuck! With that, Muscles turned back to the lackeys, took aim with the Stechkin and fired. A round hit the closest one straight through the side of the chest. He toppled into the water, dead.

Stunned, the remaining lackey looked up. All he could
see
was the barrel of the automatic trained directly on him from backdoor of the aircraft.

In seconds, he'd unraveled the chaos and jumped into the water, clear of the firing line.

The plane was finally set free.

With a fierce burst of power, the 750-shaft-horsepower PT-6 engine of the DHC-3 responded to the release like a thoroughbred breaking away from the starting gate. The propeller bit into the wind and tore the seaplane clear with a jolt. Still leaning from the rear door, the unexpected forward thrust forced Muscles to grapple for a hold, but he missed. Dropping the gun, he fell clumsily down into the ladder, struts and tension cables that connected the port-side float to the fuselage. The pilot was oblivious, focused only on getting airborne. The big Serb didn't notice either. His eyes were fixed solely upon the looming image of the Peugeot, his Peugeot, racing toward them.

Morgan was perfectly aligned. The nose of the car pointed straight for the long concrete pier that ran along the port side of the seaplane. He was so close he could hear the de Havilland's propeller whining as the pilot headed from the bay to the open sea. Designed for short take off and landing, the seaplane needed only 200 yards of clear water to get in the air and Morgan could see it would be a matter of seconds before the pilot would be lined up. If they took off, he would miss his only chance to reach Charly.

Morgan stamped on the gas and the Peugeot charged forward, shuddering and bouncing across the rough dirt track, hungrily grabbing at the final 30 
yards, tossing each aside, one by one, until the tires gratefully reached the long flat surface of the pier.

In the cockpit, the pilot was determined to take off. A strong headwind came straight toward the coast, perfectly lined up across the nose of the aircraft. Facing into the wind would give him more lift and reduce the distance he'd require to get into the air. He set the flaps and checked the instrument panel. Oil pressure and temperature gauges read green. He lined up. Ready. He took the aircraft to full throttle. The airspeed indicator came to life: 35 knots. Keeping the long finger of the pier to his left, the pilot pumped the pedals to keep her straight, increasing speed all the way.

Morgan was running out of options. Only twenty seconds away from the end of the pier, his foot was flat to the floor. He knew the seaplane was about to fly, but he was gaining ground. The yards and seconds ticked by. Faster and faster he pushed the car, eating up the concrete that flashed beneath. He was close enough to see Muscles fumbling about on the float closest to the pier, trying to climb back into the aircraft. Morgan pushed the car harder. The needle of the speedometer leapt from 35 to 40 mph, but it felt like 60 mph. Water on either side raced past in a blur. His only tactical advantage was that the pilot had been forced to stay parallel to the pier to avoid a number of old fishing boats that sat anchored on his far side.

Morgan saw what he had to do. The most minute flash of red was all he needed to formulate a plan.

There was no time for second-guessing and no margin for error. Alex Morgan changed down and rammed his foot to the floor. The Peugeot howled in 
protest but the needle flashed to 45 mph. He'd closed the gap so quickly that the nose of the car was now level with the tail of the seaplane.

Muscles, clinging to the float, looked back. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. The Peugeot was bearing down hard and the end of the pier was just feet away when he saw the driver's door fly open.

Morgan hurled himself out into thin air as the car cleared the end of the pier, crashing into the bay.

Alex Morgan surrendered to the dive, allowing the Peugeot's momentum to propel him straight at the retreating seaplane. He'd no other choice. If he failed, he was back to square one and Charly would be left to the mercy of the Serbs.

Soaring through the air, Morgan sucked in a huge lungful of oxygen and prepared for impact with the churning water. He hit it in a flat dive, scything through the aircraft's wake. Miraculously, but as planned, he caught the long red tail of mooring rope snaking behind the seaplane. Gripping on tight as the plane picked up the slack, Morgan was pulled behind, a huge bow wave forming in front of him as he ploughed through the water. He gasped for breath.
Another suit ruined,
he thought humorlessly.

"What the fuck just happened?" the pilot shouted. "Something rocked the shit out of us."

"Keep going," the big Serb ordered, stunned. He'd seen the car hit the water. He knew exactly what had rocked them. "Get us out of here."

Shocked by the spectacle of the car launching into the bay, the big Serb shook his head before realizing Muscles wasn't inside. He pushed roughly past Charly to reach the door. She was starting to regain consciousness. When he looked outside, he saw his compadre shouting, desperately trying to get back in.

"Give me your hand!" cried the big Serb, leaning out to him. The plane was picking up speed. The engine noise and howling wind was deafening. He could see Muscles was yelling but couldn't make out a word he was saying. "Just give me your fucking hand!" he bellowed.

Strung out behind the seaplane, Morgan buffeted across the wave tops. He was struggling. With his boots on and the fact that he hadn't waterskied in years, the odds of getting into an optimum position weighed heavily against him. The DeHavilland was rapidly reaching takeoff speed and Morgan guessed that they were close to 70 knots already; the equivalent of 80 mph.

Hand over hand, against the pounding impact of the bow wave, he began the excruciating task of clawing his way along the few feet of mooring rope left between him and the floats. Morgan was unfaltering in his resolve. Every second brought him closer to the seaplane, as he methodically moved forward in a series of reach-twist-and-breathe movements. The speed picked up on the plane. The pilot was taking off.

Morgan was almost there.

The engine roared. The aircraft bounced. The pilot brought the nose up into a steep climb. As the floats lifted from the surface, Morgan was dragged from the water into the slipstream, clinging to the bight of the rope.

With 80 mph winds hammering him, Morgan twisted and turned on the rope like a ribbon on a car's radio antenna. His hands were bleeding and he felt that he'd drop at any moment. He couldn't see or hear
anything but the azure haze of the sea below and the screaming howl of wind and engine noise.

The Intrepid agent locked his legs to what he could of the flailing rope and determinedly clung on with every muscle in his body. Inch by inch he pulled his way to the port-side float.

The big Serb had Muscles by the arms and was trying to pull him inside, but he was still yelling.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" the big Serb yelled. "Get in—"

Exasperated, Muscles shouted back and the big Serb finally heard him. "The fucking cop," he said, "is on the fucking plane!"

Just as the revelation hit home, the big Serb grimaced as a bloodied hand grabbed Muscles' face. He watched, transfixed, as an entire arm locked around the man's neck, pulling him from the door.

A bizarre tug-of-war death struggle exploded between Morgan on the outside and the big Serb inside, each pulling with all their might to overcome the other, Muscles stuck in the middle.

The de Havilland was gaining height but the pilot struggled to control the ascent. Distracted by the ruckus, he'd lost his concentration at a crucial moment in the climb. The aircraft gave a splutter and began to sway.

The fight threatened to bring them all down.

Alex Morgan was at a serious disadvantage. He'd been hanging on to the aircraft with one hand while trying to dislodge Muscles with the other. Meanwhile, both the Serbs were working hammer-and-tongs to dislodge him. Faced with impossible odds, they soon got the jump on Morgan and he slipped as the big
Serb hoisted Muscles inside. But Morgan never gave up easily. As the big Serb dragged his man in, Morgan came in too, firmly attached to the lower half of Muscles' tree-trunk legs.

It was then that he saw Charly, her mane of flaming red hair instantly recognizable.

Blue tear-filled eyes locked onto his.

"Oh my God!" she cried. "Who ...?"

The big Serb silenced her with a slap across the face as he fumbled for a gun sitting within a holster on the back of his seat.

Muscles, trying to kick free of Morgan's grip, had spun around, bashing down hard upon Morgan's back, his clenched fists clasped together as one.

"Hang on, Charly!" Morgan managed to call out, catching a flash of acknowledgment from her eyes.

Charly could scarcely believe what she was seeing. Her would-be rescuer, a sodden, bedraggled wreck, was hanging half in, half out of a rapidly ascending aircraft, with one man beating him senseless and another about to shoot him. Charly couldn't miss the gun brandished right beside her. The big Serb had torn an old Makarov from the holster and fired recklessly at Morgan.

"No! No!" Charly screamed, thrashing against the ropes tying her to her seat.

The seaplane lurched to the left and began to drop from the sky. In a desperate attempt to recover the takeoff, the pilot was forced into a drastic new maneuver. As the Makarov erupted in the back of the fuselage, the pilot pulled the seaplane through a slow arc to port, dropped the nose and headed down toward the sea. The descent enabled him to build 
up speed and stop the engine from stalling, which it had been dangerously close to doing. His move had extreme consequences.