Who the hell is this guy? Dan wondered as he ducked to yell, “Make a run for it when you can!” to the three terrified men facedown and lying side by side like sardines under the van. Jumping to his feet, he raced after Zoelner and Winterfield, taking advantage of the cover fire Chelsea was providing and happy as could be that Penni—otherwise known as Se?orita Weaponless—was having to sit this one out. His didn’t think his heart could take watching another episode of her going all Rambo…uh…Rambina tonight.
Zip! A bullet whizzed by his ear when he jumped onto the plane’s first step. His heart skipped a beat at the feel of the displaced air, but he barely had time for a silent That was a close one because Chelsea yelled, “Reloading!” and he glanced up to see her reach back for the clip in Penni’s hands.
So much for sitting this one out, goddamnit! Penni was on her knees on the floor directly behind Chelsea, Chelsea’s satchel open wide in front of her, another clip up and at the ready should the little CIA agent ask for it.
He should have known she couldn’t stay out of it. The brave, beautiful, beyond consternating woman!
Winterfield dove past Chelsea and into the interior of the plane at the same time Dan and Zoelner spun to take up the slack left by Chelsea’s reloading.
The driver’s side door of the truck was open and the man, whoever he was—not Kozlov, Dan could make out that much through the gray haze of the rain—was using it as cover, turkey peeking around the side to take potshots at them. Dan sighted down the Bersa’s little barrel, aiming for Mystery Man’s ankles, knowing it was a long shot, but still…he had to try. His last two rounds needed to count for something more than simply forcing the guy to keep his head down.
Blowing out a steadying breath, Dan lined up his shot and… Bam! Bam! Click! Click! The little .38 was officially dry and he’d missed the shooter’s ankles by a mere inch.
Hell’s bells! “I’m out!” he yelled.
“I’ll cover you!” Zoelner bellowed as one of his rounds hit the windshield on the driver’s side door and shattered the glass. Dan saw his chance while the shooter was ducking. Careful to stay below Zoelner’s and Chelsea’s lines of sight, he half ran, half crawled up the remaining three steps.
Inside the plane was warm, dry, and strangely quiet compared to the chaos outside. He swiped a hand over his face and hair, squeegeeing away the freezing water. He saw Winterfield curled on the floor by one of the seats like the coward he was and Penni scrounging around in Chelsea’s satchel, no doubt searching for another clip like the courageous warrior woman she was.
It took every bit of willpower he possessed not to yank her with him as he scrambled toward the cockpit. But Chelsea and Zoelner needed her, and he couldn’t sacrifice them just because he was terrified of history repeating itself and losing the woman that he…well, whatever it was that he felt for her. And since he couldn’t drag her with him, the next best thing he could do was get the plane moving out of range of Mr. Mystery’s bullets.
He slid into the pilot’s seat just as Chelsea yelled, “I told you guys we shouldn’t have used Voldemort’s real name. I knew it would be bad luck!”
Bad timing and bad luck. It’s like Learn Your Fuckin’ Lesson Day around here, he thought, eyes zooming over the console, checking the gauges even as he was strapping in and slipping on his headset. Flight controls were free and correct. Altimeter was set. Flaps? Check. Tanks? Full. Parking brake? He flipped down the toggle switch. And when he saw that his mixture was a full-rich, just as it should be, he blew into his wet, frozen hands and reached for the controls.
“Let’s blow this Popsicle stand!” he yelled into his mic so the others would know they were about to start taxiing.
Fear and purpose fueled his movements as he powered up. The plane responded like a dream, engines providing thrust as he used his feet to steer them down the tarmac and away from the man in the truck. The rain sheeted off the front windshield as the wipers worked like crazy to combat it. The runway lights were a dim blur. The radio squawked with air traffic controller jabber, but it wasn’t coming from the local tower, as it was closed for the night.
Cusco airport was remote enough that it only saw a handful of flights each day, and those stopped long before sundown. So the good news? He didn’t have to worry about air traffic on takeoff. The bad news? It was going to be a hell of a ride. The wind had to be blowing damn near 20 mph.
The boom and the pop of Zoelner and Chelsea’s weapons came to an abrupt halt once he’d gone thirty yards down the runway. And when he heard the stairs fold in, the door close with a thunk, and the light on his console told him the door’s lock was engaged, he wiped a hand over his wet brow, wincing when he inadvertently touched his wound. A second later, Zoelner, drenched and shivering, slid into the copilot’s chair.
“We good?” Dan asked him. Just two words that conveyed about ten separate questions.