Liquida quickly filled four of the bags with hundred-dollar bills and tied them closed with double knots. He lifted each by the tie string until he was satisfied that the thick canvas tie would hold the weight of the bag without breaking.
He went back to the cadaver on the floor and stripped the dead man’s belt from his pants. The alarm outside was still blaring. Liquida fished for the guy’s electronic key card and found it in his pants pocket.
He went back to the money bags and made a separate loop from the remaining ends of the ties on each of the bags. He threaded the leather belt through the loops and then buckled it. He hoisted the load over his shoulders so that the bags were evenly balanced, two in front, two behind, roughly eighty pounds total. It was heavy. The weight swayed as he moved, but Liquida could handle it.
What he couldn’t do was take his eyes off the safe. He had barely made a dent in the bottom stack of bills. He set the load down and grabbed two more canvas bags.
Chapter
Fifty-Nine
As they came in low over the trees, wheels and flaps down, the pilot could almost feel branches scraping the belly of the plane. He feathered the engines to try and keep the noise down.
Suddenly a flock of birds flew up in front of him. Several hit the windshield, feathers and blood flying. Fortunately the plane wasn’t going fast enough to break glass. A few of the birds went through the props. The pilot pushed the throttles forward for more power. The four large Allison engines roared as the plane nosed up.
“Shit!” The pilot shook his head. “If they didn’t know we were coming, they know it now.” He eased back on the throttles once more. He could see the runway ahead of them now. It was paved and long. At least that was good news.
He glided in over the last set of trees, goosed the engines, and aimed for the end of the runway. The plan was to hit the ground as quickly as possible, reverse the props, gun the engines, and stand on the brakes while the loadmaster in the back was lowering the ramp. If they hit it right, the drop-down door on the second container would fall at the same time. The Jeep with its recoilless rifle would be on the runway before anyone knew it. Adin, with two of the commandos riding in the back, would open fire on anything that moved. Ben Rabin and the other men would push the ammo trailer onto the ramp and allow gravity to do the rest. In the meantime, two of the commandos would drop out through the forward cargo door on the port side while the plane was still moving, cross the runway, and set up two squad machine guns for covering fire.
The plane passed over the first threshold markings on the runway. The pilot pushed the yoke forward. Suddenly the portside window on the flight deck exploded. Pebbles of glass sprayed the pilot’s face as bullets whizzed past his nose, punching holes and blowing out dials in the instrument panel above his head.
A second burst of fire riveted the side of the plane, thumping the metal. The screen in front of the navigator exploded as the twenty-millimeter rounds sliced through the plane, blowing the man out of his chair and cutting him in half. Electrical shorts ignited flames in the wooden panel behind the screen. The aluminum in the plane began to burn as the flight engineer grabbed a fire extinguisher and began to spray.
“Keep it out of my eyes!” screamed the pilot. He struggled to control the plane as he tried to wipe blood from his face using his shoulder. The wheels on the undercarriage hit the ground hard, jamming the pilot’s lower back into the seat. It threw the flight engineer to the floor.
The pilot reached over and reversed the props, then pushed the throttle controls all the way forward. The plane nearly stood on its nose as it slowed. The pilot pressed on the brakes, his gaze fixed on the runway, when suddenly his eyes widened in horror. Coming head-on, the propellants’ exhaust was almost invisible as the rocket-propelled grenade smashed through the windshield and exploded inside.
The plane veered to the right. The guard with his rocket launcher still at his shoulder stood at the edge of the runway smiling for almost a second before the windmilling prop on the outboard engine sprayed him like chum into the open air.
The plane’s forward wheel rolled into a swale at the edge of the runway, then ran off the pavement. It buried itself in the deep gravel at the edge of the concrete.
The plane came to an abrupt stop with the four Allison engines racing in reverse. Ground fire, including tracers, poured into the two starboard engines from the buildings along the right side of the runway. One of the engines started to smoke, then sputtered and died.
“Could have warned him ’bout that,” said Herman. He grabbed Sarah by the arm and tried to pull her along behind him as they crawled low in the center aisle. She was anchored by the dog next to her. Bullets rattled against the plane, punching holes in the aluminum fuselage. Herman could hear them hitting the other side of the steel container, but none of them seemed to come through.
Up at the top of the ladder, the aluminum bulkhead to the flight deck was perforated with so many holes that it looked like lacework. The exploding grenade had peppered it with shrapnel.
Sarah jumped and Bugsy barked at the jarring clang as the heavy steel door on the second container dropped onto the deck of the cargo bay. A second later, the Jeep, its engine revving, shot out of the container and down the plane’s rear ramp.
The Hercules was stopped with its nose pitched down at an angle. This set the bottom of the ramp at a sharp angle to the concrete runway. The Jeep went airborne before it hit the ground. When it did, one of the commandos was jolted off the back of the vehicle. Sarah saw him go flying. She held her breath. He bounced and rolled like a rubber ball, landed on his feet, and started to run.
At the same instant two of the other commandos dropped out of the forward cargo door on the other side of the plane and disappeared.
Sarah looked back for the commando who had fallen from the Jeep. She watched as he took three strides before he was spun around and cut down by a swarm of bullets that sparked and chipped the concrete all around him. Sarah lay staring in shock as the man’s body continued to take hits, his life snuffed out in front of her eyes.
“Son of a bitch!” Just as Herman said it, a stitch of bullets penetrated the side of the plane in the gap between the two steel containers. Instantly four neat holes appeared in the stainless-steel fuel tank. Three of them started hemorrhaging high-octane aviation fuel into the cargo bay. “Time to go,” said Herman. “Stay with me and stay low.” Crouching down, he moved toward the open cargo door on the other side of the plane. When he looked back, Sarah was still lying on her stomach staring out the back of the plane at the dead man on the tarmac. Herman skidded across the aisle on one knee and grabbed her arm as if in a steel vise.
The pain broke her trance. Sarah shot him a glance.
“It’s too late to help him,” said Herman. He jerked her up onto her knees.
“Ow!”
“Sorry, but you gotta stay alive.” Herman gave her a look to kill.
Suddenly she smelled the aviation fuel. Sarah nodded. “Go. I’m right behind you.”
Herman got to the open door. A second later, Sarah and the dog were huddled up close behind him. Herman pulled one of the pistols from inside his belt under his shirt and cycled the slide to chamber a round. He looked out the door. He could see no incoming fire on this side of the plane. All of the rounds seemed to be coming from the buildings on the other side.
Every few seconds a tracer flashed by overhead and disappeared into the jungle in the distance. Rounds ricocheted off the concrete in the narrow gap under the belly toward the rear of the plane.
The reversed propellers created a virtual wind machine, all of it blowing in their direction, ahead of the wings. Herman was getting ready to jump when he looked down to his right and saw the body crumpled on the concrete a few feet away. The commando’s squad automatic weapon, the SAW machine gun, lay beside the man. One of the commandos made it, at least far enough to get away from the plane. The other one didn’t. He had gone to the rear where the belly of the plane
had lifted up because of its nose-down position. At that location, there was no defilade behind the plane. It made him an easy target.
“As soon as you get out, move toward the front of the plane but stay flat on the ground,” Herman yelled over the roar of the engines. “Keep the plane between you and those buildings. And keep your head down.” As soon as he said it, Herman dropped out from the door. He landed on his feet, turned back, and grabbed Sarah by the waist as she crouched in the door. She jumped and he eased her out onto the ground.
Bugsy jumped from the plane. The noise of the engine and the sudden wind from the whirling prop scared him. He jerked on the leash and ripped it from her hand. Instantly he was gone.
Sarah looked over Herman’s shoulder and yelled: “Bugsy!” But her voice was swallowed in the din of the engine. She watched as the dog raced across the runway ahead of the ricocheting bullets. She couldn’t believe that they were actually shooting at him. For the first time she wanted a gun, something with which to strike back.
Herman tried to push her to the ground. Sarah would have none of it until she saw the dog disappear into the trees at the edge of the jungle. For a moment Sarah thought she might cry. Then she remembered the dead man on the tarmac.
She got down flat on the ground. Herman got down next to her.
“You OK?”
She nodded. “I’m not leaving without him.”
“Worry about staying alive,” said Herman. He looked around, trying to figure out their next move.
“What do we do now?”
“Sit tight,” said Herman. “Stay here.”
“Where are you going?” Before she could turn to look, Herman was gone toward the tail of the plane. He hugged the side of the fuselage as he approached the spinning props. The wind nearly peeled him off the metal. One of the engines on this side was already smoking.
The incoming fire seemed to diminish. Now there were only occasional bursts and single shots that could barely be heard over the roaring engines. Herman wondered where Adin and the Jeep had gone.
He got down on his hands and knees and scurried with the pistol in hand toward the dead commando and the SAW machine gun. Under the belly of the plane Herman could see several men in uniforms with assault rifles moving on the other side coming toward them. Between the approaching hostiles and the plane was a chain-link fence with a gate. The three armed men were maybe seventy meters beyond the fence.
Just as Herman reached the automatic weapon, a hand grasped his shirt. He looked down. The commando wasn’t dead. Herman came face-to-face with his open eyes. The soldier gestured toward his legs. He was wounded in both thighs and couldn’t walk.
Herman nodded, handed the machine gun to him, and grabbed the web harness at the back of his neck. “Ready?”
The guy nodded.
Herman dragged him twenty feet behind the belly of the plane where Sarah lay prone on the concrete.
The wounded soldier rolled onto his back. “Where is the colonel?”
Herman had to read his lips over the massive noise from the engines. He shook his head. “Don’t know.” He hadn’t seen Ben Rabin or any of the other commandos since the Jeep took off. He assumed they were still inside the plane. Herman fished in the guy’s backpack. He got up close in his ear and asked him if he had a medical kit. Herman wanted to stanch the bleeding from the wounds in the man’s legs.
The smell of fuel was becoming pungent as it dripped from the belly of the plane and ran into the concrete swale underneath. Herman took one look at the overheating engines. The plane provided cover for the moment, but he knew they couldn’t stay there for long.
Chapter
Sixty
Leffort hugged the walls on the inside of the corridor as he listened to the massive gunfire outside. The place was a goddamn war zone. All he wanted now was to find a car and get as far away as he could.
The buzzer was still ringing in his ears, though someone had finally turned it off. The gunfire outside seemed to ebb.
With it Leffort began to move more quickly down the hallway. He crossed an intersecting corridor and saw an open doorway on the other side. There was a janitor’s large rolling trash bin in the hallway outside, one of those rectangular canvas trash bags on wheels. He moved cautiously. The last thing he needed was to run into one of the guards and find himself ushered to the underground bunker. They might as well put him against a wall and shoot him now.
Leffort peeked around the open doorway. Inside the room was a long high counter, an empty desk against one wall and an open safe against the other. He arched an eyebrow and glanced at the sign over the door. It was written in a language he didn’t understand, some kind of script that looked as if it was written upside down and backward.
The room appeared to be empty. “Hello!” He waited to see if a head might pop up from behind the counter. It didn’t. Leffort stepped inside. There was a closed gate in the middle of the counter. He walked toward it.
Leffort didn’t see the blood or the body sprawled on the floor on the other side until he was a few feet from the gate.
He stopped dead in his tracks and looked around. His gaze wandered back to the blood on the floor, then caught the windows on the far side of the room. Two of the narrow slits looking out over the runway had been shot out. The venetian blinds in front of them were ripped to pieces. Leffort’s wheels began to turn, dead man, stray bullets, open safe. The conclusion was pretty obvious. To Leffort it spelled opportunity.
He glanced over the edge of the gate and looked both ways. Except for the dead man, the room was empty. He reached over and felt for the latch. It had to be there somewhere. It was.
He opened the gate and walked quickly toward the safe. A smile spread across Leffort’s face as he approached the two open doors. The safe was filled with money. He glanced back over his shoulder one last time to make sure he was alone and that he wasn’t dreaming. There were no voices, no footsteps out in the hallway, only the occasional sound of sporadic gunfire outside, which for now buoyed his spirits. As long as they were busy out there, they wouldn’t be coming in here.
Leffort’s attention was so fixed on the cash in the safe that he nearly tripped over the six buff canvas bags on the floor in front of it. He looked at the dead man lying on the floor, then back to the bags. “If that isn’t poetic justice,” said Leffort. He didn’t have to guess what was in the cloth sacks. It was nice of the guy to bag it for him. The only question was how much.
He tried to untie at least one of the bags to find out. The double knot was too tight. Leffort knew there was no time to screw around. He looked at the stacks of bills in the safe, then went over quickly and examined them. It didn’t take him long to realize how the denominations were organized and to discover the sizable void in the hundreds on the bottom shelf. His admiration for the deceased was growing by the minute. Unlucky the man may have been. A fool he was not.
Leffort tried to lift the bags using the leather belt they were attached to. The load was heavy. He got it up on one shoulder, but by the time he got all six bags through the gate in the counter, he was struggling and having second thoughts. He dropped the load and started dragging the sacks on the floor behind him.
At the door he checked both ways and saw the cart. Leffort laughed and shook his head. The man had thought of everything—except a bulletproof vest.
He pulled the load out into the hallway, closed the heavy door behind him, and started lifting the bags into the rolling trash bin.
From the room across the hall, Liquida couldn’t thank him enough. Everything had been going swell until the bullets started flying. They punched holes in the cabinets under the counter and had Liquida crawling around on his hands and knees out the door. He had been forced to leave the money behind and was beginning to wonder if he would ever get back to it.
He watched as Leffort struggled with the bags. The man was a wimp, a certified candy ass. If Liquida had had more time, he would have strung the bastard up by his nipple rings and
let him hang for a few days over hot coals. As it was, he was in a hurry.
The problem with the load was that it was all strapped together by the leather belt. Leffort couldn’t lift the whole thing high enough to get it all into the bin at one time. He leaned over and unbuckled the belt and started to slip it from the loops in the ties at the top of each bag.
He cleared one bag when his right hand suddenly went numb. Leffort looked at it, then tried to massage it with the other hand. There was a pain, a hitch somewhere high up in his back. He wanted to reach for it but his arms were dead, only a tingling from his shoulders to his hands. He tried to say something but he couldn’t. It was the strangest feeling. His mind seemed clouded. He looked down through a foggy gaze and realized he’d grown a third foot—his right, his left, and a middle one that wasn’t there a minute ago. He chuckled almost whimsically as blood ran from the corner of his mouth and dripped onto the floor.
He had no sense of anything below his neck. And yet he was standing there, supported by what he didn’t know because he couldn’t feel his legs. It was as if he was weightless, floating in space, when suddenly he tumbled upside down into the bin. He didn’t seem to mind. It was like the ultimate anesthetic. Someone had tickled the crazy bone in his brain. For Leffort this was something new and different, the ultimate out-of-body experience. He gazed up into Liquida’s eyes and suddenly realized that the feeling of warmth on his back was his own blood. Leffort smiled, and everything went dark.
“I hope it was good for you,” said Liquida. “Because I certainly enjoyed it. It could have lasted a little longer, I suppose . . .” He talked to himself as he wiped the stiletto on the canvas cloth along the side of the bin, then threaded the bag back onto the belt. Like Santa with his sack, he lifted the load of cash and headed for the door.
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