Delta Ghost - 02

by Tim Stevens

  She stood up, emotionless. Salazar had to admit, she’d regained her composure quickly after his men had brought her to the airfield in Queens. The only time she’d struggled with her fear was when he’d put her on the phone to Venn, a few hours earlier.

  A Yanqui bitch. Brought up to believe that happiness and freedom were her birthright, and arrogantly disdainful of anybody who dared to threaten it.

  Well, she had a lesson coming. A lesson in humility.

  Salazar drew his Colt. With his other hand, he dialed Venn’s number.

  “Cop,” he said. “I see you’re here.”

  At the end of the line, Venn said nothing.

  “Advance with the car till I tell you to stop.”

  Down on the perimeter, the headlights crept forward till the car emerged under the arc lights on the periphery of the field.

  “Okay,” said Salazar. “That’s far enough.”

  The car stopped.

  Salazar said, “The British kid gets out of the car first. Nice and easy, hands raised. He walks forward and away from the car.”

  After a moment, the front passenger door opened. From his position in the tower Salazar saw the slight, pale figure emerge. He stumbled slightly as he stepped through the weeds and scrub onto the tarmac.

  “Okay,” said Salazar. “You see who I have with me? Up here in the window?”

  In a second, Venn’s voice said: “Yes.”

  “Take a good look, pendejo,” Salazar said. “Because I’m about to ruin this pretty face forever.”

  He raised the Colt, pressed it against the side of the Colby woman’s head.

  “I don’t think so,” said Venn.

  Salazar was taken aback by the coldness of the man’s voice. He’d expected him to yell, to beg.

  “Come again?” he said.

  “You won’t shoot her,” said Venn. “Because if you do, I’ll shoot the Clune kid. I’ve got him in my sights. So has my partner.”

  “You wouldn’t -”

  “Try me.” Venn’s voice was as dark as the grave. “I owe him nothing. You have the person I want. I’ll do whatever it takes to get her back from you. And before you tell me to go ahead and shoot the kid... you know you don’t. All of this, all this hunting for him, all the men you’ve lost along the way, just to get this snot-nosed brat who laughed in your face, who robbed you and got away with it... and he dies, before you can exact vengeance upon him? Come on, Salazar. I’m not stupid.”

  Salazar’s jaw tightened. He glanced down at his men arrayed along the edge of the tarmac, facing the car. One of the men looked back up. Salazar was about to nod at him, when Venn spoke again.

  “And before you order your goons to riddle the car with bullets, understand that I have the trigger of my gun pulled most of the way back. The instant I see one of those guys is about to open fire, I pull the trigger all the way. You’ll kill me, and my partner, but you’ll be cheated of the kid.”

  Salazar said nothing.

  “Bring her down,” said Venn. “Just you and her. Down to the base of the tower. We’ll talk some more once I see you there.”

  The rage threatened to explode from Salazar’s eyeballs, from the very pores of his skin.

  After a moment, he jabbed the Colt at the woman’s head, then jerked it toward the door that led to the stairs down. The two men with him in the tower, who been keeping out of sight of the windows, stared at him.

  “Follow me down,” he mouthed. “Stay inside the stairwell.”

  He stepped out into the warm night air, one arm locked across the Colby woman’s neck, the Colt jammed against her temple. Venn was smart, he realized. He hadn’t demanded that Salazar send the woman down alone, something Salazar would never have agreed to.

  Into the phone, Salazar said, “How are you planning to play this, cop?”

  “Send her ahead of you, toward the car. At the same time, Clune will start walking forward. If he looks like he’s going to reach you before she reaches the car, I’ll tell him to slow down. If one of your men tries to grab him before he reaches you, I’ll shoot him. If he panics and starts running, I’ll shoot him. And, of course, if you shoot her, I’ll shoot him. And you. In the balls.”

  Salazar paused. What did the cop have planned? He’d know that as soon as the woman was in the car, and the British kid was with Salazar, Salazar would order his men to open fire on the car. Squinting, Salazar peered beyond the car at the darkness. Were there others out there? Cronies of Venn’s, who’d crept up on foot?

  He released his grip across the woman’s neck and gave her a small shove in the back with the Colt. She staggered but kept her footing, and began to walk slowly toward the car, fifty yards away.

  At the same time, Clune took faltering steps toward Salazar.

  They were heading directly toward one another, Clune and Colby, and they’d pass each other in ten paces.

  “Cop,” said Salazar. “You got cojones. And smarts. I respect that. For what it’s worth, I give you my word that I’ll leave you in peace once you’ve got the girl, and I’ve got the Brit. I’ve got nothing against you personally.”

  He waited.

  Venn didn’t reply.

  There was something odd about the silence, and in a moment Salazar got it.

  Venn was no longer on the line.

  Salazar heard the cry of one of his men lurking in the stairwell of the tower behind him a split-second before he felt the cold metal press against the back of his neck.

  At his ear, Venn said, “Hello, asshole.”

  Chapter 44

  Venn grabbed Salazar’s wrist and twisted the gun out of his hand and threw it across the tarmac and swung the man round.

  He said, to the men emerging from the door of the control tower, their handguns leveled on him: “Don’t even think about it. You fire, and your boss dies.” He looked at the four guys lined up along the tarmac, the ones with semiautomatic weapons. “Same goes for you.”

  He glanced at Beth, who was looking back at him. He jerked his head fiercely, and she obeyed, and started jogging to the car.

  She passed Clune, who was standing uncertainly, looking from her to Venn. Then he turned and ran after her.

  They were ten yards away from the Subaru, where Harmony sat behind the wheel, when Salazar signaled with his hands and the four men with rifles dropped to firing positions and raised their weapons and aimed them at the car.

  Venn said, “Tell them to stand down.”

  Salazar laughed softly.

  “Unless you tell the boy and the bitch to stop where they are, my men will kill them.”

  “And I’ll kill you.”

  Salazar flicked his fingers again and the men fired a burst.

  Venn was at the point of pulling the trigger of the Beretta when he saw the shots had been aimed high. The noise of the guns rebounded off the slope.

  Beth and Clune stopped, almost at the car, crouching and turning in bewilderment.

  “So you know that I’m serious,” said Salazar.

  “God dammit,” Venn hissed. “You think I’m not?”

  Again Salazar laughed, a soft sound like a snake shedding its skin. “You don’t understand us, cop. Our organization. Our family. This kid, Clune, has shown disrespect to all of us, collectively. Punishing him is the priority. What happens to me is a secondary concern. I am quite prepared to die, if it means the boy receives justice.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  Another gesture from Salazar. One of his men swung his rifle to bear and fired a single shot. The tarmac spanged just six inches in front of Salazar’s feet.

  Venn stared at the gunmen, at Beth and Clune hunched beside the car, at Salazar a couple of feet away from him, with the Beretta still rammed against his neck. This is some kind of complicated goddamn stalemate, Venn thought.

  He said, “Okay. Your guys kill the girl, I kill you, and my partner there in the car kills Clune. You lose and I lose. Your guys shoot me, I kill you first and my partner kills Clune.
We both lose. Your guys shoot up the car to kill my partner, they kill Clune in the crossfire. And I kill you, just before your guys kill me. We both lose again. And so on.”

  “So how do we both win, cop?”

  Venn said, “Clune gets on that plane over there. While she, my girlfriend, gets in the car. You get on the plane and take off, while we leave in the car.”

  “And what’s to stop my men killing you all before you have a chance to drive away?”

  “I’ll show you,” said Venn.

  With his free hand he took out his phone and dialed.

  “Harmony,” he said. “Our friend here requires a little demonstration.”

  “Got you,” she said.

  Salazar said, “Don’t try any moves, cop. My men won’t hesitate to open fire.”

  “Shut up,” said Venn. “And watch.”

  He looked over at the Subaru.

  Salazar followed his gaze.

  The driver’s door opened and Franciscus stepped out. The men with the AK-47s tensed immediately.

  Franciscus hauled something out after him, awkwardly because of the pain in his cracked wrist. Methodically, he began to assemble the parts.

  “Venn,” Salazar warned. “The moment my guys see -”

  “Just watch.”

  Franciscus dropped to one knee. He raised the metal tube, almost five feet long, onto his shoulder, grimacing.

  “Son of a bitch,” Salazar snarled. He lifted a hand.

  “Shh,” whispered Venn. “He’s not aiming at them. It’s a demo, like I said.”

  The silence hung for a few seconds, oppressive as a shroud.

  Franciscus fired.

  The rocket left the Shoulder-launched Multipurpose Assault Weapon at a velocity of more than 200 meters per second, the boom thundering across the airfield as the projectile streaked through the night.

  An instant later, the top of the control tower exploded behind them, the fireball bursting across the starry sky in a nova of flame and metal and glass.

  Salazar flung himself instinctively to the ground, Venn following him with the Beretta kept secure against his neck.

  The men at the base of the tower fled, yelling, while the ones with the AK-47s kept their nerve and aimed down the lengths of the weapons at Franciscus, fifty yards away.

  Venn stood up, hauling Salazar to his feet.

  “That’s what’ll happen to your plane,” he said. “If your guys try to stop the car from leaving.”

  Salazar dusted off his trousers.

  “Okay, cop,” he said. “I can work with that.”

  Chapter 45

  Clune felt himself propelled along by the rough hands on his arms, the gun barrels at his back. He stumbled towards the aircraft, feeling colder than he’d ever felt before despite the heat of the summer night.

  This is it, he thought. The end.

  At least it’ll be a dramatic death.

  The thought didn’t console him in the slightest.

  He hadn’t even made it to twenty-seven, that mythical age at which so many rock legends had met their end. Like Joplin, and Morrison, and Hendrix. And Cobain.

  Just before Venn had released Salazar and Salazar had run over to him and dragged him back towards the runway, Clune had looked over his shoulder and caught Beth Colby’s eye.

  He couldn’t read what he saw there. Or rather, he could, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  It was a look of pure, appalled horror.

  As he was hurried across the runway, where men were sprinting from the building, climbing aboard the plane, he thought that Dr Colby’s face would probably be the last thing in his mind when the end came. She was the oasis of kindness at the center of all this, the one person who seemed normal.

  And that was the supreme irony. Because he’d come to America, escaped his life of waste and petty crime and disillusionment back in Britain, because he didn’t want his life and the people around him to be normal.

  The plane’s engines had already started up as he was bundled aboard. It seated only four passengers, he noticed, in addition to the pilot who was strapped in at the front. Salazar jammed himself beside Clune, two of his men behind them.

  Salazar turned his gaze on Clune, and there was cold triumph there.

  And relish.

  As the small jet rolled forward and began to taxi along the runway, Clune craned his neck and stared back through one of the windows. He saw the car, far away, and Venn backing towards it, the four men with machine guns covering him.

  Venn was too far away for Clune to read his expression, but he imagined what the detective was thinking.

  Do it, kid. Do it now.

  The plane began to gather speed.

  Clune was wearing an outsized duffel coat they’d found in the storeroom Franciscus had taken them to, where the arms cache was kept. With trembling fingers, he reached up and unzipped the coat.

  Salazar glanced down at him.

  Clune pulled the sides of the coat open.

  Salazar stared.

  “Mother of God,” he whispered.

  Clune looked down. Strapped across his chest were four bands, holding in place a flat device with a digital timer attached.

  One of the men behind them leaned in, and screamed. He leaped up from his seat and punched a button on the wall of the cabin and the door slid open.

  Without waiting for an order from Salazar, the man grabbed Clune by his bony shoulders and lifted him out of his seat and hurled him through the open door.

  As Clune tumbled out, he managed to turn, whether through deftness or, more likely, by chance.

  He raised his middle finger to Salazar, whose face was filled with his wide-open, yelling mouth.

  Then Clune hit the ground hard and felt himself rolling and the pain exploded in his head and he knew nothing more.

  *

  The plane’s wheels would clear the ground in ten seconds, Venn estimated.

  He held his breath.

  Dammit. The kid had lost his nerve.

  Then he saw the door swing open and the distant figure launch out.

  “Go,” he yelled, slapping the roof of the car.

  On the other side, Harmony smashed the barrel of the Armalite M16 through the window and opened fire.

  The four men with AK-47s had been distracted by the yell from the plane, and while they hadn’t all turned to face it, their reactions were delayed. The Armalite sprayed them from left to right and back again, sending them dancing like grotesque puppets. Venn felt the Subaru rocking with the recoil from Harmony’s rifle.

  The other two men, the ones who’d been in the tower with Salazar, began running in the opposite direction, across the airfield and away from the carnage. Venn watched them go.

  He turned, because he hadn’t heard the accompanying explosion from the SMAW.

  And saw Franciscus, several yards farther back than he should have been, with the rocket launcher on his shoulder, the business end enlarged horribly by perspective, like an open mouth.

  It was pointing straight at Venn.

  Venn dived away from the car, flinging himself onto the tarmac just as the flame erupted from the end of the launcher and the rocket whooshed past, its slipstream catching the back of his jacket.

  He hit the ground with his shoulder and rolled and came up and swung his leg round in a great swooping kick that caught Franciscus’ bent knee before he could straighten up and knocked him sideways.

  Venn was on him, pummeling him into the ground with fast, hard blows. Franciscus had dropped the SMAW with a clang but didn’t get his hands up in time. His head rocked back and he slumped, supine.

  Venn picked up the hot, smoking tube. He scrabbled in the canvas sack beside the car, found a third rocket, rammed it home, and hefted the fifteen-pound weapon onto his shoulder.

  He raised it and squinted down its length.

  The plane was airborne, arcing into the sky, climbing steadily.

  The SMAW was an anti-tank weapon. It wasn’
t a surface-to-air missile launcher, and it had a range of 550 yards maximum.

  The plane was maybe 400 yards away, and rising fast.

  Venn gave it a second, to be certain of his aim.

  He fired.

  The launcher jolted, threatening to wrench his shoulder loose, and he felt the spew of the backblast behind him, scorching the earth.

  In the distance, the left wing of the plane splintered in fiery fragments.

  The aircraft veered crazily, its engines screaming, and cartwheeled through the air, over and over, losing the little altitude it had gained as it spun across the sky.

  It hit the ground somewhere behind the airfield building, beyond Venn’s line of sight, and in the waves of thunderous noise that juddered across the airfield he thought he heard human screams.

  Chapter 46

  At first, Clune thought he was dead, and that Hell wasn’t fire and brimstone but unbroken darkness.

  Which was, in some ways, worse. Eternal monotony was something he didn’t think he could cope with.

  Then he realized, when his body began to hurt all over, that he was still alive.

  But he was blind.

  He tried to yell out in terror and despair, but it felt as though a fist wrapped in sandpaper was being wrenched out of his throat.

  Then he opened his eyes.

  The brightness was too much to bear and he quickly squeezed them shut again. Besides, the lids felt gummed together and it was an effort to prize them apart.

  In that instant, when the outside world intruded, he saw a familiar face a few feet away.

  “You awake, kid?” came Venn’s voice.

  Clune used his other senses to investigate his environment. The back of his head was pressed against something soft and yielding. He tried to lift his hand to confirm that he was indeed lying on a pillow, but the movement caused a flame of agony to shoot across his chest and he abandoned the idea.

  “Drink,” he managed to croak, surprising himself.

  He felt a plastic cup nudge his fingers and with difficulty he took it and felt another hand guide his up to his lips. His mouth found the end of a straw and he gulped greedily.

  “Steady,” sad Venn. “A little at a time.”