by Sean Black
Cowboy hard-stared him. ‘Operation’s started. You smoke that, you make sure and bag the butt.’
Trooper flicked up the Zippo and lit his cigarette, finding a free middle finger to flip Cowboy the bird.
‘I ain’t joking,’ Cowboy said.
Trooper sucked the freshly lit cigarette into his mouth and chewed down on it — one of his many gross-out party tricks acquired during too much time spent with outlaw biker gangs.
Chance laughed. Cowboy and Trooper fought like family, worse sometimes. ‘No arguing now, boys,’ she said, giving first Cowboy and then Trooper a hug.
Cowboy took a step back and stared at her. ‘Nice job on those buildings.’
Chance felt herself blush. ‘Wasn’t nothing. This is gonna be the difficult part.’
She ushered them back over to the pick-up and spread out a recon map on the hood. It showed the airfield and surrounding area. She stabbed at a point on the map, then pointed in the direction of the stand of trees, which would obscure the helicopter from the area beyond. ‘We’ll wait in there,’ she said. ‘Now, help me get this gear unloaded. We don’t have long.’
No sooner had they dug into their respective positions and settled in to wait than a Medford Police Department cruiser appeared at the gate at the far end of the airstrip. Chance raised her M-4 to her shoulder and peered through the scope for a better look as the front passenger door of the cruiser opened and a female deputy waddled out and sprang the padlock securing the gate.
Chance guessed they were here to ensure that nothing was amiss before the Marshals team from the court arrived to collect Reaper from the aircraft. It wasn’t a big deal. They’d drive round, see nothing, wait for the Marshals transfer team to arrive, then leave. All they had to do was sit tight.
Chance took another peek through her sights. The gates were rolled open but the female patrol officer was stood stock still, staring directly to her left. Worse, she was waving to her colleague inside the vehicle. He clambered out and joined her. Chance strained to hear what was being said, but they were too far away. Whatever it was, though, it wasn’t good, because the male cop started to walk in their direction while the female patrol officer ducked her head back into the car to get on the radio.
‘Shit,’ said Chance, crawling on her side into the brush and motioning for Trooper, who was on her right, to start moving round so that he would be in a position behind the male cop if he made it this far.
Chance’s mind was racing. If he came over, he’d get shot, they’d have no alternative. And then their operation would be mortally compromised. They’d have to go for the extraction they’d originally planned, and that would make this seem like a picnic.
Once she was happy she couldn’t be seen from the road, Chance got to her feet. Her breathing was heavy and her back was killing her. She started to skirt round to her left. On the way she began to discard her cammo gear. She stripped down to bra and panties. That would work fine. She grabbed a handful of dirt and rubbed it over her face and into her hair. Then she headed back towards the service road.
One minute, Patrol Officer Michelle Hulsey was watching her partner, gun drawn, head towards the line of trees, the next, a woman appeared on the edge of the airstrip screaming her head off. The woman was semi-naked and seemed to be in some distress.
Hulsey saw her partner turn round and wave Hulsey out of the car and towards the woman. ‘See what she wants,’ he shouted.
It figured, thought Hulsey, with no little resentment. She had to be the one to deal with the hysterical female. She put her head down and walked towards the woman.
‘Ma’am, are you OK?’
‘You’ve got to help me!’ screamed the woman.
Hulsey was close enough to get a better look at her now. Something was off. Slowly, it formed in her mind what it was. The woman’s face was dirty, like she’d been dragged through the undergrowth, but the rest of her naked flesh was clean.
Hulsey’s hand slipped to the butt of her service weapon just as she heard a gunshot behind her. She spun round and saw her partner hit the ground. His legs were on the edge of the road, the rest of his body splayed on the grass. Whatever had just happened, it was going to require back-up — and fast.
She started backing up towards her cruiser, fumbling for her gun. But the woman had already pulled out a handgun, seemingly from nowhere, and was pointing it at her.
‘If you want to live, do exactly what I say.’
‘Whatever is going on here-’ Hulsey stuttered, putting her hands up slowly.
‘That doesn’t include talking, bitch.’
Two men wearing full camouflage gear, including tactical body armor, stepped from the trees carrying automatic rifles. One of them was wearing a black cowboy hat; the other had long blond hair. Matter-of-factly, they began to drag her partner back towards the trees, leaving a smear of blood on the grass.
The woman spoke again as she advanced towards her. ‘What have you called in so far?’
Hulsey’s mouth was dry. She had to will herself to form words. ‘Nothing.’
‘Good. So now we’re going to get back in that car of yours, and you’re going to get back on the radio and say that it checked out fine. And remember this. One false move and you’re dead, OK?’
28
Dawn nudged against the darkness, revealing curls of black clouds set low against the unforgiving frontier-industrial landscape of Medford, Oregon. Lock’s motivational talk had quietened Reaper right down, and there was no talking between the Marshals either.
Hollywood might script dramatic courtroom assassination attempts, Lock reflected now that the flight was coming to an end, but both he and everyone on board knew that their real challenge lay in the transfer between airplane and courthouse.
Lock got up from his seat and made his way over to the Marshal in charge.
‘What do you have on the ground for the transfer?’
‘Six Marshals in three separate vehicles.’
This made sense to Lock. One vehicle would have Reaper in it. One would be out in front scoping out likely trouble and clearing a path through any traffic. The third would, if they had any sense, contain a counter-attack team in case anyone was stupid enough to give them any problems.
‘The Marshals evenly split among the vehicles?’
‘No, we got three in the CA vehicle. Transfer vehicle just has a driver. We’ll make up the numbers in it when we land. Anything else you want to second-guess me on?’
Lock’s reply was cut off by the captain on the intercom. His message was brief: no weather report or thank you for flying JPATS, just a curt ‘Buckle up, we’re making our final approach in about a coupla minutes, gentlemen.’
Lock fastened his seat belt as the plane looped round to the east. From his window he could see the postcard-size airfield below. It was surrounded by dense woods. On the ground he could see three black SUVS — no doubt the transfer vehicles — rolling up towards the entrance.
Then, much further back, not even within the confines of the airfield itself, he saw a helicopter. It was small, black and, judging from the hardware mounted either side of the cockpit, very definitely military.
Then he spotted something else. A patrol car, recognisable by the lights and number painted on the roof, parked in tight to the perimeter fence. And crouched behind it two figures holding what even at this height were clearly heavy-duty assault rifles.
Lock unclipped his belt, stood up and waved the Marshal in charge over.
‘What the hell is it now?’ the Marshal said.
‘Did you order a helicopter as a back-up transfer vehicle?’
The Marshal looked at Lock like he was crazy. ‘No. Why?’
‘Because there’s one down there.’
‘Probably some black ops shit. This place gets used for all kinds of stuff.’
That didn’t explain why a helicopter was in plain sight outside the airfield.
‘What about your CA team? Where are they?’
&
nbsp; The Marshal was clearly losing patience. ‘In their vehicle, I’d guess.’
What he’d just seen still made no sense to Lock. Again and again in his career, saving the principal’s life had come down to one simple mantra. Look out for two things: the absence of the normal or the presence of the abnormal.
‘Then who the hell are those guys?’ Lock said, pointing out the two figures crouched behind the patrol car, automatic weapons trained on the runway.
The Marshal followed the trajectory of Lock’s finger and froze. ‘I’ve no idea.’
There was a hiss of noise from the intercom, then the captain’s voice: ‘Final approach, folks. Hold on tight.’
29
‘Abort the landing!’ Lock bellowed as he and the Marshal raced towards the cockpit door. The Marshal made it there first but Lock pushed past him and grabbed the door handle. It wouldn’t turn. ‘Get this plane back up in the air!’ he shouted. He stepped back and took a kick at the door, but it didn’t budge. He guessed that no amount of kicking would do the job, JPATS aircraft doors having been specifically designed to resist such attempts.
‘It’s Brody,’ shouted the Marshal. ‘Let me in.’
There was a whirr beneath them and a hard clunk as the landing gear went down.
The Marshal pounded on the door. ‘You need to get us back up in the air.’
The cabin door opened and a shaken co-pilot stood there. He had a SIG P250 in his hand, no doubt a precautionary measure in case Reaper had somehow overthrown his guard.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ he demanded.
‘We got a problem on the ground. Abort the landing,’ the Marshal barked.
Lock could see the trees below rushing in on them fast. Dead ahead, a police cruiser was making its way on to the runway. The two armed figures who’d been standing behind it were now nowhere to be seen.
‘It’s too late,’ the co-pilot replied. ‘Get back to your seats, now!’
They were almost on top of the trees; then, for a fraction of a second, they were below them. Lock and the Marshal turned round just as the plane’s wheels made contact with terra firma. The jolt sent both of them tumbling back down the aisle. Lock grabbed an arm rest to steady himself as the pilot slammed on the brakes.
Through the window next to him, Lock could see the police cruiser driving parallel to them, a female deputy at the wheel. The look of terror on her face told him everything he needed to know about the situation they’d just landed themselves in.
Chance was shouting instructions from a prone position on the rear bench seat of the police cruiser.
‘OK, now slow down.’
Hulsey took her foot off the gas. The plane sped past them, revealing the three SUV transfer-convoy vehicles five hundred yards away on the apron.
‘Now, lower the rear window.’
‘Please, don’t do this,’ Hulsey pleaded.
‘Lower the goddamn window, bitch.’
Hulsey did as she was told, her fingers trembling.
Chance grabbed the RPG launcher from the footwell and took aim at the rear SUV parked on the apron. She pulled the trigger, the recoil throwing her back on to the seat. Clawing her way back up, she watched as the SUV took a direct hit, the impact of the grenade twisting the frame and punching the SUV over on to its side.
So much for the counter-attack team, she thought.
Beyond her, Chance could see Cowboy and Trooper making their move, emerging from their positions and laying down covering fire as they made their way towards the two remaining SUVs. Rounds pinged off the vehicles. She spotted Trooper stopping to reload as Cowboy let off a three-round burst from his M-4. She smiled as Trooper finished the reload, his moves sharp and balletic, so at odds with his shambolic appearance.
The passenger door of the lead SUV opened and a Marshal appeared in full tactical gear. Trooper, lying flat on the floor in a sniper position, took aim and shot the Marshal full in the face from a hundred yards. The Marshal’s mouth caved in on itself, dragging his nose and eyes with it.
Chance grabbed a fresh RPG round from her backpack and rearmed the launcher. It took her a moment. In front, Hulsey was yammering into her radio: ‘Officer down, officer down! Back-up requested immediately!’ Chance ignored her. The pleas were already redundant; not even a factor. The Marshals on the ground and the pilot of the plane would already have communicated to the authorities in Medford and beyond that there had been a different sort of welcoming committee than the one they’d anticipated.
She finished reloading and looked at the digital timer hooked to the front of her bra. They had three more minutes.
Reassured that they were on schedule, Chance hefted the reloaded RPG launcher over her shoulder again and aimed for the lead vehicle.
She hit it dead centre. Another Marshal emerging from it took the full force of a front panel of the vehicle as it was blown from the carcass. His arms were ripped from his shoulders and arced behind his back and up into the air, landing just a few feet from her.
Chance threw the launcher back into the vehicle, opened the driver’s door and pulled Hulsey out by her hair, leaving her on the runway. Then she clambered into the driver’s seat, threw the cruiser back into drive and took off after the plane.
In the cabin, all Lock could hear was the sound of explosions on the runway behind them. The plane was slowing dramatically, and behind him the remaining Marshals were scrambling to the windows, trying to get a visual on the unfolding chaos. Better than anyone else on the plane, Lock knew there was only one objective in a situation like this: get the hell out of it.
Lock stormed the short distance back down into the cockpit and pushed past the still open door which was swinging back and forth on its hinges.
‘OK, we need to turn this thing round and get back up in the air,’ he said, assuming command.
Brody, the Marshal in charge, was standing behind him, his face pale. ‘We have armored vehicles on the ground, we can still make the transfer,’ he said, doing a bad job of trying to inject an air of authority into his voice.
‘What the hell do you think those explosions we just heard were?’ Lock demanded.
‘I’ll need clearance from air traffic control,’ said the pilot.
Lock put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder and squeezed hard, trying to snap the guy back into the real world. ‘Do you have fuel, and is there enough runway behind us if we turn round?’
The pilot looked at Lock like he’d just been asked for the square root of pi.
The co-pilot seemed to be faring slightly better. ‘We’ve got enough fuel to get up but not to go anywhere.’
‘Enough to circle for ten minutes and get back down again?’ Lock asked.
He checked the gauge. ‘Sure.’
‘And what about taking off? We got enough runway between us and those trees back there?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good.’
The pilot was still staring wall-eyed at Lock. ‘But we need clearance.’
Lock did the only thing he could under the circumstances: he opened the palm of his hand and slapped the pilot hard enough across the face to pull him back to reality. ‘Forget the clearance and do your job or we’re all going to die. Do you understand me?’
The pilot rubbed his cheek, his pupils dilating, the sting of the slap acing the shock he was already in. He nodded, and turned his attention to the controls in front of him.
Lock turned to Brody. ‘You going to second me here?’
Brody hesitated as the nose of the plane slowly swung round, giving them a head-on view of the twisted, smoldering wreckage of the SUVs. Then he squared his shoulders. ‘Let’s do it.’
Chance flicked on the lights and siren, then buried the gas pedal of the cruiser. The plane was turned towards her now, but it had come to what looked like a temporary stop. Behind her, Trooper and Cowboy had jacked the remaining Marshals Service SUV, Cowboy executing the driver on the runway as they did so. The female cop had suffered a similar fat
e as she’d tried to crawl her way across the debris-strewn runway.
Chance skidded to a halt next to the door side of the plane and waited. She could see men’s faces at the windows peering out. No sign of Reaper though. He’d be last out.
She started as the twin engines growled back into life, a warm tide of gasoline-air blowing her long hair from her blackened face. The whine of the engines grew more insistent, rising in pitch and volume, then the pilot slipped the brakes and it was careering down the runway.
She slammed down on the gas, one-eightied the cruiser and took off after the plane. But it was a losing proposition. Even though the aircraft wasn’t the fastest thing on three wheels, it was still more than a match for the piece-of-shit Crown Vic she was helming.
She gestured frantically at Trooper and Cowboy in the SUV, who took the hint and drove their commandeered SUV directly across the flight path, reaching the centre of the runway near to what she imagined would be the take-off point of the JPATS plane.
Lock and Brody were thrown forward again as the pilot jammed on the brakes. Lock grabbed the edge of the console and hauled himself up. They were closing in fast on an SUV parked in the middle of the runway. He braced himself as best he could for the impact that would surely come.
Chance caught up with the plane just as it came to a shuddering halt only yards from the SUV, boxing it in at the rear. Reaching for her rifle, she ran to the front of the plane. She could see the pilot, his face ashen.
She raised her M-4 and sprayed the front of the cockpit with a three-round burst. The engines whined again as the pilot slumped dead against the controls.
She felt a surge of triumph. Reaper was going nowhere.
In the cockpit, Brody and the co-pilot were also hit. The co-pilot had taken a bullet to his right thigh and Brody was bleeding from the side of his face, his body armor having spared him more serious injury. Two of Brody’s colleagues dragged them back into the main body of the aircraft while the remaining Marshal stayed close to Reaper, who hadn’t moved through the whole ordeal.