Shoot Him If He Runs

59

Teddy sat in the front seat of the two-seater ultralight aircraft, his case strapped into the rear seat. A map image appeared on the Garmin portable GPS he had fixed to the frame ahead of him. He tapped in the identifier for Nevis airport and pressed the “Direct To” button. A line appeared on the map; all he had to do was to follow that. He pushed the throttle forward for takeoff, and the engine died. He hadn’t had time to warm it up properly.

“Shit!” he practically screamed. He pulled the choke out halfway and pressed the starter button, hoping to God he wasn’t flooding it. The engine began turning over again, but more weakly than the first time; the battery was a small one.

“Teddy!” he heard Thomas yell from up the hill somewhere. “Teddy!”

The engine caught and roared to life. Teddy pushed the throttle slowly forward, letting the rpms build, trying not to let it die again. Finally, it was wide open. Teddy took the knife from his belt and turned to cut the light rope that was all that was holding the little aircraft back.

Holly rounded the corner of the old guesthouse ahead of Thomas and Stone, clawing at the pistol stuck in the belt of her jeans. “Teddy!” she yelled. “It’s Holly Barker! Don’t do anything stupid!” She came to a sliding halt and fell on her ass. Teddy Fay was sitting in what looked like a large bird, made of aluminum and cloth, and he was reaching behind him with a knife. The noise from the propeller was deafening. Holly got to one knee and aimed carefully at Teddy’s upper body. “Don’t do it, Teddy!” she yelled and began squeezing the trigger.

Teddy cut whatever was holding the little airplane back, and, finally freed of its tether, it shot down the hill, as Holly fired, missing him.

Teddy concentrated on keeping the ultralight airplane in the concrete spillway, which was all the runway he had. The little craft gained speed, and as the end of the spillway rushed at him, he pulled back slightly on the stick, clearing the rough ground, but still headed downhill, picking up airspeed. He heard another gunshot, this one a little different-sounding. Two of them were shooting at him. It was now or never.

Teddy pulled firmly back on the stick, and the ultralight started to climb toward the thick clouds above him.

Holly braced herself against the corner of the house and sighted carefully. This time he was hers. She squeezed off the round, then, suddenly, the ultralight disappeared.

Teddy felt a blow on his right calf as the ultralight entered the clouds, but he couldn’t let that distract him. He was going to have his hands full, keeping the wings level with no visual references. All he had was a compass, mounted at eye level, and it was moving, signaling a turn to the south. He corrected gently to his right, and the wind through the rigging began to sing louder. He was in a descent, and he yanked back on the stick.

“There!” Thomas shouted, as the aircraft partly descended from the clouds to the south, but before he could get off a shot, it climbed into the clouds again, and from the noise, seemed to be turning north. In desperation, Thomas began firing at the sound, and Holly joined in.

Teddy heard the whistle of bullets, much closer than he would have liked, and a tear appeared in the right wing. He thought he had the aircraft stable now, headed north and climbing. The firing stopped.

Holly popped out the magazine and dug in her pocket for the spare Dino had given her. “Are you out, Thomas?”

“Yes, and I don’t have any more ammo,” he replied.

She rammed in the fresh magazine, racked the slide and listened. The sound of the engine had grown a little fainter. “Where is the fucking thing?” she yelled.

“More to your right, I think,” Thomas said. “He seems to be headed north.”

Holly raised the weapon and emptied the magazine, knowing that her chances of hitting anything were remote. “That’s it,” she said finally. “I’m out, and Teddy is gone.”

“Good,” Stone said quietly.

“Whose side are you on?” Holly demanded.

“There aren’t any sides now,” Stone said.

The thick cloud around Teddy began growing brighter and suddenly, like flipping a switch, the airplane was flooded in sunlight. He was on top of the clouds, and he leveled off. How high was he, he wondered. He had been airborne for what, two minutes, three? The ultralight could climb at about five hundred feet a minute, so he must be a thousand, maybe fifteen hundred feet high. He kept the airplane just above the clouds, in case a helicopter or another airplane appeared. If that happened, he could duck back into the undercast and change direction. He eased back on the throttle to what seemed a decent cruise power setting, not wanting to waste fuel by running at full throttle.

The tank held five gallons of fuel, enough for about two hours of cruise. The prevailing winds were from the southeast, and that would help his speed and extend his range a bit. The GPS told him he was making forty-one knots over the ground, or the sea, whichever he was over. He did a damage assessment.

As far as he could tell only two rounds had had any effect. One had struck the wing, and the tear was getting worse. He slowed the airplane, bringing the ground speed down to thirty-five knots. He sure as hell didn’t want to stall the thing at a low airspeed, but the fabric of the wing had now stopped tearing, and that was good.

He pulled up his trouser leg and looked at his right calf. He could see an entry wound and an exit wound, and the exit wound was bleeding profusely; his shoe had begun to fill with blood.

He took off his belt and made a tourniquet just below the knee, and the blood stopped flowing. That would hold him until Nevis airport, he reckoned, and he had a first-aid kit in the Cessna, which was secured in its hangar. He stopped thinking about the pain and concentrated on keeping the ultralight level and on the GPS line to St. Martin.