McCurdy walked out from the shadows at the sound of the truck, leaned up against the door of one of the planes, and smiled.
69
“DUCK DOWN. HE’S EXPECTING MORGAN.”
Shirley bent down below the dashboard.
I pulled in to park facing the road, so he’d only see the bed of the truck, doing my best to obstruct his view.
I clutched the Colt in my palm. “Stay here.”
Shirley didn’t argue. I figured she’d probably seen enough action in two days to last a lifetime.
I rolled down the window and listened. Footsteps pounded up the pavement. I stayed where I couldn’t see him in any of the truck’s windows. If I could see him, he could see me, and he’d run. Guys like him always ran.
The footsteps grew nearer.
“Everything go to plan?” His voice held nothing but arrogance in the tone.
I opened the truck door, jumping down to the pavement. “Oh, everything is great.”
I put him right in my sights. He had a gun in his hand and did the same. I should’ve dropped him before he knew what happened, but I wanted to watch him sweat, and I didn’t know who might get caught in the crossfire if the bullet went into the hangar. He wouldn’t shoot me. McCurdy didn’t have the testicular fortitude.
His left foot tapped on the pavement, but he did his best to remain calm. “Well, you look pretty.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.” I tried to wink, but my damn eye was nearly swollen shut.
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”
“Why wouldn’t I? The money for your farm is all dried up and rotting in the sun with all the oil. The bombs are out of commission. Yeah, I’m feeling pretty damn smart.” I wasn’t sure about the bomb at Maple Grove, but he didn’t need to know that.
His face reddened, but he said nothing.
“You’d do best to just turn that gun on yourself. Make it easy on all of us.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s a fact. He was going to kill you, you know? There’s a parachute in the back of the plane. Just one. You were never going to survive today.”
He laughed. “Right.”
I shrugged. “Believe what you want. He was going to pin it all on you. There’s not enough gas to get to Amarillo. Yeah, that’s where he said you were going. And you’d be dead, unable to give him up. You got played again, because you were never quite as smart as all those guys you hated.”
McCurdy grinned, but the gun trembled in his hand. “Detective Shirley’s in the truck. Isn’t she?”
“Nope.”
He grinned wider. “Maybe I fire a couple times in there? Just to see.”
“You couldn’t fire a pellet gun. It might ricochet off something and hit you.”
A worker came out of the hangar behind him. The guy’s eyes got wide in a hurry when he saw the standoff in the parking lot. The hangar was as deep as it was wide, and all the lights were out in the back of it. The whole place was covered in shadows, providing multiple places to hide.
McCurdy glanced back. There was recognition in his eyes as he watched me circle around to change the angle.
Then he did probably the smartest thing he’d done in the last few years.
He ran. Right at the guy. I took off after them but kept myself between McCurdy and the truck. I didn’t want him firing blindly and hitting Shirley. The back of the hangar was almost blacked out. There was equipment lying around, shelves holding tools and plane parts.
The worker scurried toward the building before McCurdy could grab him and take him hostage.
There was no way I was letting him leave here alive. He could land the plane somewhere nearby and make a run for it. They’d catch him, but no way was he going to end up in some corporate retreat prison. Gitmo was too good for him.
I heard footsteps and backed up, reluctant to charge in after him. What if there was a way out the back? There had to be. Shirley was in the truck. I didn’t want him making his way out and doubling back to her.
I hollered, “I’ll just call the police and we’ll wait it out, I guess. Boring. Like you and your little farm.” My words would have little effect. It was a Hail Mary attempt to flush him out.
I eased my way back toward the truck, slow and methodical, my senses on high alert. I watched the shadows, listening, the tang of jet fuel stinging the back of my throat.
The sun slammed into my shoulders again as I stepped out of the shadows of the hangar. I glanced back at the runway as huge distorted waves rose up off the blacktop apron.
A door slammed shut and I whipped my head back. A propeller fired up and whirled inside the hangar with a whop whop whop that quickly turned into a steady hum.
Well, this just got interesting.
70
THE PLANE EASED OUT BUT picked up speed fast. Faster than I thought it could accelerate off the starting line. I had to leap out of the way and roll across the pavement to dodge it. The hard blacktop slammed against my shoulder and I let out a loud grunt. I trained the Colt on the windshield. McCurdy had a headset on with a microphone that curled around to his mouth. The asshole waved at me and smiled.
I grinned and waved back. He was clueless.
No way was he getting that thing off the ground. Then it dawned on me; they had a long time to plan this—enough time for McCurdy to earn a pilot license. Maybe that was Morgan’s plan. Bail out of the plane while McCurdy was flying. He was taxiing the damn thing pretty straight.
To hell with this.
There were workers everywhere along the edge of the runway, planes coming in and out. I didn’t want to fire a gun if I didn’t have to.
I kept an eye on McCurdy, careful not to lose sight of him. He was taxiing fast, weaving around the other planes. Time was running out, and it wouldn’t be long before he got that thing in the air.
I sprinted to the truck. Shirley was still sitting in the front seat.
“You get him?”
I shook my head. “No. I need you to hop out. He’s in a plane up there.” I nodded up the jetway.
“What?”
“Go find a first aid kit in the hangar.”
“What are you going to do?”
I shook my head and sighed. “Something stupid again.”
She stared at my bloodied, swollen face from the pounding Bear had already given me. Knowing better than to argue, she jumped out. I watched her take off for the hangar in the side mirror. The plane McCurdy was in circled around toward the runway so that it was traveling left to right in front of me.
I strapped on the seatbelt, smashed my foot down on the accelerator, and hopped over a grass clearing. The lift kit and four-wheel drive on the truck came in handy. It was definitely a powerful piece of machinery.
I ramped up a grassy ditch, taking a shortcut to the end of the runway opposite McCurdy. Every bump sent more pain radiating through my shoulder and face.
McCurdy’s Cessna turned the corner at the far end of the runway. Its nose whipped around and cut through the air as it rotated past the corner and zeroed in on me, straight ahead. We sat there for a long second, both contemplating our next move. I couldn’t see him inside the plane. He was too far away, and the propeller was whipping in a circle, distorting the view. The heat from the runway turned my line of sight into a hazy blur. I stared off at the Air Traffic Control tower. The guys in there had to be wondering what was going on. They had a front-row ticket to the show and didn’t even realize it.
I waited for him to make a move, watching the three wheels under the Cessna.
The plane lurched forward.
71
“SO, YOU WANT TO PLAY chicken? Don’t mind if I do.”
I punched the gas on the truck like I was trying to kick my foot through the floorboard, Flintstone-style. There was a small delay. Enough time for the fuel to pump into the carburetor and ignite, then send all eight cylinders into motion, pistons firing. I gritted my teeth. “This is for Sean and Peabody, asshole.”
The force hit me
in the chest and sucked me back into the seat when the truck rocketed forward. The huge tires squealed on the blacktop, a plume of rubbery smoke left in the wake. The tachometer redlined as I hurtled down the runway.
Both of us picked up speed. The plane grew larger in front of me with each second that ticked by. I watched for his eyes. I wanted to be looking into them when he veered off like a coward. He held steady, even though I knew he could see me coming at him now.
Everything slowed down in my mind. I analyzed every small detail in real time. The propeller was going to be an issue if we collided head on. It might slice through the truck and cut me in two. At the same time if I ducked down, the airbag would slam into the top of my head, crushing it back into my neck.
I decided to hell with it. I’d risk the propeller.
For years, my teachers had given me a word problem about two trains leaving at the same time at different speeds, and who crossed where first, and how long it took. I’d always told them nobody would ever use that in the real world. Oh, the irony. Here I was, doing the calculation. If a truck takes off down a runway gaining speed, while a Cessna accelerates at a different rate, how long will it take the truck to collide head on and kill the guy inside? I gave my former teachers a quick mental apology for doubting them.
I looked at the gauges on my dash. Sixty miles an hour, heading north to seventy. McCurdy had to be moving pretty close to the same.
The distances closed in.
Fifty yards.
The plane vibrated, and the wheels danced and skittered along the runway. They started to flutter and float. The wings forced air to move faster over the top of them than underneath, creating an upward pressure. He wasn’t planning on me bailing out first. He was trying to get off the ground in time.
Forty yards.
“Come on!” I beat on the dash and kept the gas pegged to the floor.
Eighty miles an hour.
Twenty yards.
His eyes were two wide orbs.
I smiled. If it was the last thing he saw, I wanted him to see me grinning at him.
The wheels lifted off the ground, but he wasn’t going to make it in time.
McCurdy braced for impact, and at the last second, he veered to my right, his left.
It would end up saving my life.
72
THE SPEEDOMETER SHOWED NINETY MILES-PER-HOUR. The Cessna had three wheels, one in front, two behind. The front wheel of the plane cleared out of the way in time. I missed the propeller, but the truck blasted into the rear tire of the landing gear, right through the tail of the plane, as he tried to veer off at the last second. There was a huge transfer of energy.
The air bag went off like a gunshot. Everything faded to a haze. My already bashed-in head jarred into the airbag then shot backward. A fine dust filled the cabin, some kind of compressed propellant. It smelled like burned rubber and stung the cuts on my face and inside my nose. I wheezed and coughed.
The propeller of the plane whipped around into the side of the truck. Hot steaming fluid shot into the air, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the truck or the plane, maybe both. I smashed on the brake and the truck shook violently. The wheel jerked back and forth in my hand, too hard to control, and I went into a hard spin. The Cessna had just started to lift, and it whirled off the ground like a helicopter then came back down, flipping end over end into the grass next to the runway. One of the wings snapped off and the propeller chewed up the turf, yanking the nose of the plane down into it.
The truck flipped over on the driver’s side and blew out the window. The glass shattered like a flock of pigeons, thousands of shards peppering my face. My cheek was warm and numb. I tasted copper again.
I used the muscles in my neck to force my head up while the truck skidded across the pavement. Sparks flew everywhere, even up into the truck. The sound was deafening, screeching metal on metal. I had to keep my head held parallel to the ground, so my face wouldn’t drag across the runway.
Finally, I came to rest. I hung by the seatbelt. Without thinking things through, I unhooked it.
I fell straight onto the door and smashed my shoulder against the pavement. The edge of the metal on the door seared the side of my arm. It’d just slid across the runway and heated up red hot. I scrambled and twisted until I was off it, pushing myself up through the wreckage. My body was held together with nothing but adrenaline and shock. I could’ve had broken bones and I wouldn’t have known it. Probably did.
I shoved the passenger side door open. It was vertical to the ground, and I managed to climb out the top using my good arm, then hopped down over the side.
The sun beat down on my face and shoulders. I was all cut and bruised to hell. There were people running in the distance. I turned and looked at the mangled hunk of steel on the ground that used to be the truck, smoking and smoldering. Radiator fluid hissed from the hood and leeched out into the sun. Sirens rang in my ears. There were a couple of security vehicles pulling into the parking areas. Shirley was ahead of them, running toward the wreckage. Then, I spotted the Cessna, and hobbled my way over to it.
I needed to make sure McCurdy wasn’t breathing.
73
I WALKED PAST THE LONE wing of the battered Cessna out in the middle of the grass. It was fully detached and beat all to hell. Smoke billowed up from the fuselage and remaining wing that ended up about fifty feet past it. I made my way over and came up on the wingless side of the plane and yanked the door open.
The ground had been chewed up by the propeller. I looked inside. McCurdy’s face was all busted up, but he was breathing. His eyes fluttered open and he stared at me. Blood ran down the side of his face. A thick steel rod had punctured his left lung, and he gasped for air.
I stared into his eyes, thinking about Sean, thinking about Peabody. I thought about all the other things he and Morgan had planned.
Shirley was about fifty yards away, running right at me. Swarms of people came out from the building behind her. Flashing red and blue police lights danced around in the distance. A couple fire trucks cruised up Elwood. Sirens went off. All of it sounded like it was in a tunnel, like I had a seashell to my ear in the middle of Times Square.
McCurdy held his hands up in defense, but it was no use—it was over for him. I gripped the top of his shoulder and pushed down, forcing the rod up toward his heart, tearing the hole in his lung even wider. His eyes went wild. They danced around and then fixed on me. I stared straight into them and shoved him down harder.
Our eyes remained locked until I watched the life inside him fade away.
“That’s for my friends.”
He gasped one last breath, then his chin fell down to his neck.
Shirley sprinted toward the plane. I turned and faced her. She was about ten yards away. I collapsed to my knees. Two days with no sleep, two days with no food, two days of mental and physical exhaustion pushed to the limits, two days of running on pure adrenaline, along with all the blood I’d lost from being shot in the shoulder—it all hit me at once. She caught me under both my arms right before I face-planted into the ground, then lowered me onto my side and held me close. She hugged me around the shoulders, careful not to aggravate the wound from the sniper round, not that I would’ve noticed. I was in a trance, a million miles away, about to pass out. Everything was numb. The only thing I felt was her hand stroking my hair.
“Help! Ambulance! Please!”
It was all a blur. I was pretty sure I was concussed, and close to bleeding out. No telling. All I knew was I didn’t want her to stop holding me against her—didn’t want her to ever stop touching me.
74
I WOKE UP SOMETIME THAT evening in a hospital room. Shirley sat next to me holding my hand. She was asleep but sitting straight up in the chair she’d pulled to the bed.
“Where am I?”
She came to life slowly and yawned. Her mouth made a big O. She spoke right through it and one of her arms stretched up over her head. “Saint Francis hospital.”
I looked around at the bed rails. I wasn’t handcuffed to them. “Not under arrest?”
She shook her head and then looked out to the hall. “Not yet, anyway.”
I supposed that was a good sign.
There was an IV drip feeding into the top of my hand. I yanked it out. Buzzers went off as I unhooked the machinery.
“What are you doing?” Shirley stood up.
“Discharging myself.” I sat up in the bed.
She put a hand on my chest. “You need to stay here. You’ve been beaten and shot.”
I shook my head. “Not gonna happen. Bullet went through. Just some scratches.”
“You’re ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere.”
“Bet me.”
“Savage beast,” she mumbled.
A few nurses came in, followed by a man in a suit I recognized. It was Ramirez.
The nurses tried to talk me into staying, but I let them know I was leaving.
Ramirez laughed and shrugged when they looked to him for some assistance.
“They get my message to you?” I said.
“Yeah, they did.”
I realized if he was alive, they must have, so it was a stupid question.
“Impressive bomb. Wasn’t it?”
“I silently appreciated it.”
“Me too,” I said.
“I almost didn’t go check. Figured I should give you a chance to redeem yourself, though.”
“So, what’s happening now?”
“Evidence collection.”
We both stared at each other and simultaneously said, “Coverup.”
“What are you telling the public?” I said.
He grinned. “No idea. I’m sure they’ll come up with something. They always do. I was sent to make sure you’re okay. And then to bring you in for questioning.”
“For coaching, you mean?”
Savage Beast (Max Savage Book 1) Page 25
