She looked down and saw that the front of her white San Diego sweatshirt was covered with a spray of blood, and her right sleeve was soaking red. She pulled up her right cuff; she had a deep gash behind her thumb that was bleeding steadily. “Yes, I guess I did.”
“I cut myself too,” Brian said earnestly. “When I gave Daddy the knife. Look.” He held up his right index finger, and Ranya clutched it in her grip and then kissed his wound. She slid her other arm around his neck and squeezed him tightly, with her eyes closed against everything but tears.
***
Corky Gutierrez didn’t taxi the Otter all the way to the eastern end of the runway. Instead he took a shortcut, saving several minutes. He rolled directly across the apron to the middle of the runway, already halfway down its length, and turned the plane to face west down the abbreviated remainder of its length. Alex approved. Clearly, the pilot was getting the picture. Anyway, for short field planes like a Twin Otter, mile-long runways were just three-quarters of a mile of wasted concrete or asphalt.
The T-shaped throttles for the Twin Otter were located on the ceiling between the pilot and copilot’s seats, hanging down. The flaps were already set, the pilot held the yoke with his left hand, with his right he pushed the twin levers forward, and the plane shook and vibrated while it accelerated. After only three hundred yards as the plane was passing sixty knots, he eased back on the yoke with both hands, and they smoothly lifted away from the ground.
“We’re cleared for Albuquerque,” the pilot yelled across to Alex, who nodded agreement back at him. The fixed-landing-gear Otter was slow, but it climbed like an elevator. The pilot banked to the north and they continued to ascend as they flew up the coastline into the night sky.
***
This wasn’t how it was supposed to end, thought Basilio Ramos, perched on the bottom rung of the ladder as the Twin Otter climbed and turned. He had a phenomenal view, but not one he could enjoy tonight. He could tell that they were flying north and then northeast, he could see the half moon low in the western sky, sending a shimmering orange trail across the ocean.
It wasn’t over, he grimly thought, the wind blasting him in the face, trying to tear him from the ladder. Not yet. They thought it was over, but it wasn’t over. The icy slipstream hurricane buffeted him, but he could endure it. By sheer determination, and using every ounce of his upper body strength, he hoisted his chest to the top of the three horizontal ladder bars, and was finally able to force his right heel into the corner of the trailing lower rung, followed by his left foot beside it. This accomplished, he pushed himself up further, finally getting his shoulders inside of the plane, the wind forcing him against the back edge of the open hatch, and pinning him firmly in place. This was hard work and painful, but pain didn’t matter. Only getting inside of the airplane mattered—nothing else.
Inch by agonizing inch he dragged himself forward, and then he was in—and that was all that mattered. He was in. They were up front, smug with the sweet taste of victory in their mouths—but he was in, and he was behind them. He’d lost his Glock somewhere between being shot behind the van and climbing into the airplane—but he was in. He knew that there were plenty of other weapons packed in the back of the Otter.
***
Even up in the cockpit, the noise was considerable. Alex found the co-pilot’s intercom headset, slipped the earphones on, and adjusted the mike position. He was at least quite familiar with this part of flying. “Can you hear me? Am I on?”
“I hear you,” said the pilot. “We’re out of restricted airspace now. I’m on our declared flight plan, course zero-eight-zero for Albuquerque, at 7,000 feet, speed one-four-zero knots. So, what’s your new course?” Corky Gutierrez looked across at Alex, and at the machine pistol on his lap. “You don’t want to go to New Mexico, do you?”
“Not exactly. But zero-eight-zero is good for now—just get us out of California.” The pilot seemed unperturbed by the unexpected change in “management.” Alex had known other pilots like that. They didn’t particularly care for whom they flew, or what the cargo was in the back, as long as they were flying. Alex guessed that this was especially true when a new “co-pilot” was pointing a hot machine pistol at them after a gunfight.
The pilot asked, “Hey, you think you can get that cargo hatch shut back there? It’ll help with the fuel burn, and it’ll cut the noise way down.” He spoke perfect, unaccented English.
“Roger that.” Alex wasn’t about to leave the pilot unattended, in case he decided to make a radio call for help, or alter their course. He could have a pistol hidden anywhere on him or in the cockpit. No, he needed to stay in the cockpit, and keep the MAC-10 aimed at him.
Alex turned inboard, twisting around to the left in his seat, and waved to get Ranya’s attention. This sent a new wave of pain radiating from the bullet’s point of impact beneath his ribs, but with the slug on the outside of the Kevlar, he didn’t much care.
Ranya was sitting in the second seat, behind their captive who now had a dark hood over his head. He noticed that their new prisoner’s hands were already bound to his seat’s left armrest. He knew from experience that Ranya was good at tying men to chairs, and he chuckled at the memory of their first meeting.
She unbuckled herself and came forward and stood in the cockpit door, leaning over in the narrow opening. She had pulled off her blood-soaked one-day-old white San Diego sweatshirt, and was just wearing the black t-shirt she had on underneath. He noticed her hands and arms were caked with dry blood—so were his. She had a blood-soaked rag tied around her right wrist and thumb.
“Did I cut you?” he asked, almost yelling to be heard.
“Hell yes you cut me—but it was worth it!” She pointed toward his own hand, the one holding the machine pistol across his lap. “It looks like you cut yourself too. Even Brian cut his finger.”
Alex beamed at her. “Oh, he’s something—he’s a real tiger.”
“Brian said he gave you the little knife. How?”
“He put my keychain right into my hands, through the bottom of the seat—the knife was already open. I guess the keys were still in the bag with him. I told you he was smart! How is he?”
“If you can believe it, he’s sleeping. Poor kid’s just knocked out. This has all been too much for him—but he’s fine. He’s buckled up in the seat behind mine. You know he asked me about you, first thing. He was real happy to hear that his daddy was on board.”
Alex struggled to control his voice and said, “Hey, one thing. Can you go back and close the cargo door? It rolls down.”
“Sure. Just a minute.” She turned and went back into the cargo area.
***
The Otter had obviously been reloaded in a rush, with no order or planning. Ramos had difficulty making out any weapons cases in the heap of bags and boxes piled and tied closest to him against the rear bulkhead, just behind the open cargo hatch. The plane’s interior had been configured for the flight with a single row of six removable seats along the left side, with most of the cargo on the opposite side. He could see the butt of the cased Dragunov where he had left it. It was still on the deck under the seats, on the left side against the fuselage. The four-foot-long rifle was too unwieldy to use within the close confines of the aircraft, but it would do if he could find nothing else.
He remained in a low crouch, hidden behind the row of seats, the wind roaring past the open square hatch just a meter behind him. There was a green canvas kit bag beneath the last seat next to the rifle case. Their pistols and small submachine guns were often individually cased and then packed into these canvas kit bags, the same type that he had zipped the little boy inside, back on the motor yacht. So many types of gear were packed into these big military hold-alls that finding a weapon might be a matter of luck.
Ramos was hunched behind the seat unzipping the bag, when he saw movement forward. He watched Ranya get up and move toward the cockpit, and stand in the narrow open doorway. She had removed her white sweatshirt, and wa
s silhouetted all in black, bending over in the cockpit opening. Even then, Basilio Ramos couldn’t help but observe that she had an exquisite figure, with the hourglass waist and round culo that had originally helped to seduce him and blind his mind to her treachery.
He rushed to check the contents of the open kit bag. On top was a sport parachute. He lifted it up to check underneath, but there was just another parachute. These were only Corky’s emergency chutes, not weapons! He crouched low behind the seat while she turned around, facing toward him. He tried to pull the Dragunov’s case back from under the seats, but it wouldn’t budge. ¡Maldito hijo de puta! Ramos cursed bitterly, desperately trying to yank the rifle case out. He felt for the zipper pull, and opened the bottom of the case, grabbed the rifle’s skeletal laminated wood stock, and tried to pull it out. The maldito Russian rifle slid back a few inches, and then it seemed to catch on something and it would move no further. ¡Maldito Diablo Ruso!
She was coming—there was no more time! At a loss for anything better at hand, he pulled the top parachute from the open kit bag, to use as either a weapon or a shield. Peeking out by the right side of the seat, he could see a pistol tucked into her belt at her waist. She was no more than five meters away. First he thought that she was somehow aware of his hidden presence, but a moment later a more logical reason struck him. The reason for her approach was as obvious as the four-foot-square opening immediately behind him.
Of course, she was coming to close the cargo hatch! But she was armed, and he was not… She would see him before she reached the hatch, but perhaps not before he could ambush her. If he could subdue her, kill her, or just throw her out of the open door, then he would have only one other enemy on the airplane to overcome. If he threw her out and closed the hatch himself, the FBI agent would believe that she had accomplished her task, and he would remain unaware of the new danger on board. Ramos knew that he would be able to attack the FBI agent in the cockpit with perfect stealth, but only if he dealt with Ranya first. He sank down low, between the seat back and the open hatch, and waited for her.
***
Ranya paused to look down at Brian, curled on his side in his seat, sleeping. She could still hardly believe that they’d made it, they had Brian, and they were on their way out of California! What a roller coaster the last hour had been, beginning with her spraying Karin in the face with happy gas and meeting Brian for the first time on the sidewalk, when she had felt her first brief wave of euphoria. Then from the terrifying moment that they had been pulled from their car and thrown down onto the asphalt and flex-cuffed, she had been flung into the darkest pit of gloom, beyond any glimmer hope. And yet, now they were free, they were in a long-range aircraft, and they could go anywhere!
Free! She had her son, her stolen son, and after five long years she was free!
She could not take her eyes off Brian, sleeping crunched over on the seat, his folded arm for a pillow, looking like an angel with his little lips slightly parted.
They could go anywhere. They could fly back to Caylen Barlow’s ranch in the Texas Panhandle. They could fly to Cantrell County in New Mexico. There were good people and standing invitations in both places.
But no, she thought, she’d had more than enough of the Southwest. “Aztlan” was no place for Brian and her. She had had enough of the dirty war, enough of the civil war, enough of the reconquista. The Southwest was slowly but relentlessly being conquered, county by county, and she knew it. It was time to go somewhere else.
She turned away from her sleeping son and studied the flexible hatch, it rolled up overhead on two curving guide rails. It had to have a latch somewhere. The plane was flying smooth and level, she had to lean over to walk in the five-foot-high main cabin. She could almost touch both sides at once, with her hands outstretched.
It was uncomfortably noisy and cold inside the fuselage; she hoped it would be quieter with the hatch rolled down. After she closed the hatch, she’d go back to the cockpit and ask for earplugs, they must use them on a plane this loud. Earplugs, and a blanket for Brian, if there were any.
Halfway back down the narrow walkway between the seats and the strapped cargo, she looked up for the mechanism to release the door, studied the two roller guide rails that ran down on either side of the open hatch, and then she noticed the aluminum stepladder. It was still hooked to the bottom lip of the hatch. She looked down to see if it hinged upward, or if she should just leave it where it was, blasted by the slipstream, adding to the wind’s roar. The thought of leaning out of the hatch of the airplane in flight to pull back the ladder terrified her, but she would do it if she had to.
***
Basilio watched her approach, he would let her get as close to the hatch as possible before attacking her. If he could take her unawares, if he grabbed her close enough to the open hatch he wouldn’t need a weapon. He could tackle her, choke her, and throw her out. Choke her long enough to whisper goodbye in her ear, to let her know who had killed her, as she plummeted to the earth. He crouched low behind the last seat…
***
Ranya paused before the last seat. The square opening of the side cargo hatch was a black wind-screaming void. Where is the catch to release the sliding door? She wanted to close it without getting too near to the opening. She had a natural fear of the open door, thousands of feet up in the night sky, but her fear suddenly increased ten fold. There was something behind the last seat, she looked down and saw the front of a black shoe, and around the shoe on the aluminum deck was a pool of dark liquid, rippling with the vibrations of the fuselage. She drew the .45 from her belt just as the shape behind the seat exploded up and forward! In an instant she had the pistol out, the thumb safety pressed off, the hammer was already back as always.
And unbelievably, there was Basilio Ramos a yard away from her face, holding something in front of him as he charged! She stepped back at his approach and raised the pistol’s barrel, as he raised his shield.
It seemed impossible, but here he was, crashing into her, his eyes wide and his teeth bared like fangs as he screamed his rage! She tried to hold him off with her left forearm; the .45 pistol was held back by her right side while she roughly pointed the muzzle at his chest and pulled the trigger, the booming of the pistol lessened by the ambient noise.
Ramos was still standing in front of her, still coming—her bullet must not have penetrated the rectangular pack he was holding in front of him. She quickly lifted the barrel to snap off another shot, but he followed the barrel’s movement and blocked that one too. Without pausing she dropped the muzzle to shoot him in the groin, she moved the pistol faster than he moved his shield and again she pulled the trigger—and nothing! A glance down showed the .45’s slide was locked back after the last shot, empty!
She was out of ammo, she had never counted the bullets since taking it from Genizaro, and she’d lost count of the rounds she’d fired. She was out of ammunition, and Basilio was laughing, standing erect now and approaching casually; grinning, winking and nodding his head gleefully.
But suddenly he went quite still, his smile completely erased.
***
Alex heard a pistol shot in the cabin and his content reverie was exploded. A second later there was another boom and he unbuckled and launched himself from his copilot’s seat, nearly falling as he twisted himself around and through the narrow cockpit door, and down the cluttered aisle between the seats and the cargo.
There seen in the dim emergency lighting in the cabin was Basilio Ramos, holding something up as a shield, moving toward Ranya. The slide of her .45 was locked back, empty. Well, his MAC-10’s magazine wasn’t empty—he’d checked it in the cockpit. He had six or seven bullets left, enough for a good burst, enough to shred Ramos from belly to head. But the machine pistol was loaded with copper-jacketed .45 caliber hardball ammo. Over penetrating rounds or misses could do serious damage to the aircraft. One bullet cutting a cable or wire behind Ramos could result in the loss of the rudder or elevator, and send them spinnin
g into the earth. Plus, Ranya was still in front of him, in his line of fire. All of these calculations took place in under one second, with detailed, crystal clarity.
***
She couldn’t understand why Basilio suddenly hesitated, stopped and
even backed up, until she heard Alex’s steady voice behind her.
“Ranya, get out of the way so I can shoot this piece of shit.”
She immediately jumped between two empty seats to give Alex a clear field of fire, turning sideways and pressing her back against the fuselage, watching them both.
Alex yelled to be heard over the engine and wind noise. “Ramos— this is for my friend, Luis Carvahal.” He raised the MAC-10 to eye level, holding it out like a normal pistol in a two handed grip, taking careful aim from ten feet away.
Then in a flash the Comandante dropped and disappeared. The .45 caliber MAC-10 was unwieldy with its heavy suppressor and Alex didn’t fire. Basilio Ramos was already out of the cargo hatch into the black night wind. The both stared at the square opening, then Ranya threw her arms around Alex’s neck and squeezed him hard, saying nothing.
He dropped the MAC to his right side, put his other arm around her back and held her tightly in return and said, “It’s over Ranya. It’s finally over.”
***
For Basilio Ramos, it wasn’t over, not yet. He’d been through other impossible situations before, and made it out alive. He was a survivor if nothing else. When a grenade landed in his jeep in Brazil, killing his bodyguard, he was the only one unhurt. When his helicopter crashed in the jungle in Colombia, only he walked away, uninjured and uncaptured.
He couldn’t tell how much altitude he had left, but he had a parachute clutched to his chest. As he leaped away from the Otter, he thrust his left arm through a leg strap, hooking it firmly at his shoulder. He ignored the tumbling and turning, there was no time to achieve a stable freefall position, no realistic way to put the parachute onto his back. With his right hand he felt for the deployment drogue, the small parachute used to pull out the main chute. He found it, and tore it away and threw it into the slipstream where it was grabbed by the passing air. In a second the nylon main chute erupted out of the pack and up, while he grabbed his left arm with his right, and held on literally for dear life. The opening shock felt like it had torn his elbow and shoulder apart, but he still held on. He had a canopy above him, and the entire earth below to land upon.
Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista Page 75