Stuart Woods Holly Barker Collection

by Stuart Woods

  “Let’s get out the back way,” Holly said, crouching and running. “Come on, Daisy.”

  64

  Holly ran out the back door, through the bushes, across a road, and into more bushes. Two minutes later, they could see the landing lights of the runway, ending almost at their feet. Ed Shine’s King Air was sitting on the ramp, near the middle of the runway, and two pilots in white shirts were walking around the airplane, as if to preflight it.

  “I don’t suppose you’re a good enough shot to hit the tires of that airplane from this distance,” Holly said.

  “How far is it?”

  “The runway is six thousand feet, so three thousand, give or take.”

  “More than half a mile, with a handgun? Yeah, sure.”

  “Me neither,” she said. “We need to get closer to the airplane.”

  “It’s all open ground between here and there,” Grant said. “And there’s a moon up there, remember?”

  “They’re not expecting us,” Holly said. “And they’re looking at the airplane. Come on.” She got up, crossed the runway, and began running down the opposite side, Daisy keeping pace with her. As she ran, she saw the headlights of a vehicle approaching the ramp, down the road on the other side of the runway. From the direction of the main gate she heard four or five gunshots. She began to run faster. How long did it take to run half a mile?

  She could see the van stopping at the airplane and people getting out. Their movements were not leisurely; they were in a hurry. Half a dozen people boarded the airplane.

  “We’re not going to make it,” Grant said.

  Holly stopped running. They were still at least five hundred feet from the airplane. “We don’t have to,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I can get a shot from here.”

  “Holly, you might hit something with a rifle and a scope, but not with the Beretta.”

  The airplane’s engines started, and it began to move.

  “They’ve got to use the runway to take off; let’s let them come to us.” The airplane was taxiing down the runway in the opposite direction.

  “Where’s he going to go?” Grant asked.

  “The Bahamas? The Dominican Republic? Haiti? Wherever he can get fuel, and then he’s off.”

  Grant lay down on the ground and pulled his knees up. “Brace on my knees,” he said. “Keep your arm straight and fire one round at a time—no rapid fire. Try for the nosewheel.”

  The airplane had turned and was starting down the runway, the two turboprop engines screaming as they achieved full power.

  “Don’t pan with the airplane,” Grant said. “Let it come to you, then fire, re-aim, and fire again.”

  “Daisy, down,” Holly said. She braced herself against Grant’s knees and took aim about a third of the way down the runway. She reckoned she could get off three shots that had any hope of connecting—one early, one abeam of her, and one late.

  “Lead it a little,” Grant said.

  The airplane was picking up speed now, and in a second, Holly would fire her first shot. She squeezed off the round and saw sparks as the bullet ricocheted off the runway, a yard ahead of the airplane’s nosewheel.

  “Next one is the toughest,” Grant said. “Lead a lot.”

  As the airplane drew abeam of her, Holly fired her second round and saw nothing, no effect.

  “Now don’t lead,” Grant said.

  Holly swung the gun around, aimed carefully, and fired. The airplane’s nose dropped a little, and sparks flew as the tire disintegrated and the metal wheel ran along the runway. The pilot lifted the nosewheel off the ground.

  “Shit, he’s going to take off!” Holly yelled.

  The airplane rose at a nose-high angle, and the main gear came a couple of feet off the ground. But it wasn’t gaining any altitude. She saw the landing gear come up.

  “He doesn’t have enough airspeed,” Grant said. “He’s going to stall it.”

  As if on cue, the King Air fell onto the runway from a height of about six feet. The airplane skidded down the runway, turning sideways, then swapping ends.

  Holly was on her feet, running, amazed by how far the airplane could slide. Finally, the airplane slowed, then stopped. It was a thousand feet away, and Holly knew the pilot would want to get his passengers off in a hurry. The door fell open, banging on the runway, and people began to pour out.

  Grant yelled, “FBI! Freeze! FBI! Stop or we’ll fire.”

  From somewhere in the distance, Holly heard the siren of a police car. “That’s my people,” she said.

  Then the firing started. Someone in the group from the airplane began automatic fire, but he didn’t know exactly where to shoot, so the shots went wide.

  Holly hit the runway on her belly, her gun out in front of her, and took aim at the man with the assault weapon. She squeezed off two shots and heard somebody yell in pain.

  “You’re shooting well tonight,” Grant said. “Let’s just stay right here until the cavalry arrives.”

  But Holly was already up and running. “Come on, Daisy, stay with me.” She was looking for Ed Shine, and she wanted him badly. She could smell jet fuel now. A tank had ruptured.

  Somebody fired a shotgun in her direction, only a yard wide. Holly stopped running and aimed at the runway under the airplane’s wing. She fired two more rounds, sparks flew, and the fuel caught fire. The airplane had been spilling fuel as it slid, and the blaze raced up the runway toward Holly; she sidestepped it and kept running, Daisy alongside her.

  Then the flames under the airplane spread upward and both wings exploded, a fraction of a second apart. A man with a shotgun threw it aside and ran in circles, covered in flames. Other figures could be seen running away from the airplane, one with snowy white hair.

  “Daisy,” Holly said, pointing at him. “Get Ed! Get Ed! Guard!” Daisy took off after him, while Holly skirted the burning airplane, looking for other people with weapons.

  Two cars, a white Range Rover and an Orchid Beach PD patrol car sped down the runway toward the airplane, lights flashing and sirens on. Both cars screeched to a halt beside Holly. “Holly?” Hurd’s voice said from the Range Rover.

  “Right,” Holly replied. “Half a dozen people left that airplane before it caught fire, and they’ve scattered out there somewhere,” she said, swinging her arm across the area beside the runway. “Hurd, you stick with me. You go round up those people and cuff them,” Holly yelled at the other car. “Some of them may be armed, so be careful.” The car sped off. “You follow me, Hurd. Stay behind me, I need your headlights.”

  Then Holly heard a man yelling from out in the darkness. “Get off me, get off me!”

  “Ed, is that you?” Holly asked, running toward the voice, the Range Rover following.

  “Get the dog off me!” he yelled back.

  Holly saw him now, lying on his back, with Daisy standing beside him in the guard position, fangs bared, growling. “Daisy, sit; stay,” she said.

  Ed Shine sat up, then struggled to his feet.

  “You! How did . . .”

  “Vault doors have safety releases on the inside, Ed,” she said. “Sorry about your airplane.”

  “Why don’t you just shoot me?” Shine said disconsolately.

  “No, Ed,” Holly said. “I couldn’t stand it; that would be too much fun.” Hurd cuffed him and put him into the back of the car.

  “I don’t know what’s going on here, Holly,” Hurd said, “but it looks like I’m out of a job.”

  “Hurd,” Holly said, “as far as I’m concerned, you never left the department; the job is still yours.”

  Then a black van with a flashing red light on top drove up, and Harry Crisp got out, wearing full FBI battle regalia—body armor, helmet, the works. “Okay, Holly, I’ll take it from here,” he said.

  “The hell you will, Harry,” Holly said. “This is my collar. You can have whatever stragglers you can pick up.”

  “This is a federal matter, Holly,” Harr
y said.

  “Tell it to a judge,” Holly replied. “You’re on my turf, Harry.”

  Grant walked up. “Harry, where the hell have you been? Didn’t you get my call?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know exactly what it meant,” Harry replied.

  “You didn’t know what NOW, do it NOW! meant?”

  “I think you fellows need to have a little chat,” Holly said, getting into the Range Rover. “Have a nice evening.” She drove away.

  65

  Holly and Grant lay on a double chaise beside the swimming pool at The Marquesa, a small but luxurious Key West inn, sipping rum and tonics. Daisy slept in a puddle of shade under a nearby tree.

  “This isn’t bad, is it?” Grant asked.

  “I’ve been in worse places,” Holly agreed. “You know, this is the first vacation I’ve had since I took the job in Orchid Beach. I was supposed to have a honeymoon, but . . .”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m glad you could take the time now. Harry’s still pissed off at you, you know.”

  “Why? I told him he could have Ed Shine as soon as he’s done his time. If Harry had been straight with me about a few things, he’d be a lot happier now.”

  “I haven’t mentioned that to him, but you’re right,” Grant said. “You’ve committed the cardinal sin with Harry, you know; you prevented him from taking all the credit.”

  “Yeah, and I’m really crushed about that.”

  “There are rumors that he may get transferred to a less desirable post.”

  “Oh?” Holly asked. “What will I do for entertainment?”

  “In the meantime, he’s got another assignment for me. Undercover again.”

  Holly sat up on one elbow. “Where?”

  “I can’t tell you; it’s a secret.”

  Holly poured her icy drink on his chest. “Just for that, I’m not going to tell you where the five million seven hundred and sixty thousand dollars is.”

  “What?” Grant asked, flicking ice off his chest and mopping with a towel.

  “I took five million seven hundred and sixty thousand dollars from Ed’s stash at Blood Orchid,” Holly said.

  “How the hell did you do that?”

  “I was watching them unload a van at the admin building, and I filched it when they weren’t looking. I wanted to know what was inside. Then I hid it.”

  Grant sat up and looked at her. “The tree,” he said. “The one where you carved the H. You buried it near there.”

  “I’m not talking,” Holly said smugly.

  “You can’t keep it, you know.”

  “I was thinking of giving it to you,” she said playfully. “But not if you’re going to disappear on me.”

  “It belongs to the government.”

  “Why should it? I stole it, fair and square.”

  “No, you stole it from the government.”

  “At the time, the government had not even expressed an interest in it, let alone possessed it.”

  Grant lay back on the chaise. “This is an interesting situation,” he said. “You stole it from Ed Shine, which means drug dealers. He probably doesn’t even know it.”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “You’re not a federal employee.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “But it’s still grand theft.”

  “Who is the complainant?”

  “There isn’t one, I suppose,” he admitted.

  “It was my intention to give the money to the FBI and have them use it as a basis for a search warrant, but, of course, I was overtaken by events.”

  “I should probably arrest you,” Grant said.

  “For what?”

  “For stealing that money.”

  “What money?”

  “The money buried under the tree.”

  “What tree?”

  “The one with your initial on it.”

  “I think if you could actually find the spot where we were that night—not that we were ever there—you wouldn’t find my initial on any tree in the woods.”

  “You moved the money?”

  “What money?”

  “I give up,” Grant said, lying down.

  “Smart move.”

  “Probably not.”

  “So, when are you leaving for your new assignment?”

  “First of the week.”

  “And when will I see you again?”

  “I don’t know how long this will take.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t go,” she said.

  “Holly, it’s what I do.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s not what you do. Not anymore.”

  Grant sat up again. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “I know a lot of things you don’t,” she replied smugly.

  “What? Come on, tell me.”

  “I know a lot of stuff.”

  “I’m going to go get my gun.”

  Holly raised her hands in surrender. “Well, let’s see: The rumor about Harry’s reassignment is true, but as I understand it, they haven’t yet found a place awful enough to transfer him to.”

  “Who have you been talking to?”

  “A gentleman named William Barron, who, I believe, is a deputy director of the FBI.”

  “Barron? How the hell do you know him?”

  “I don’t know him, exactly; he came to see me after we shut down Blood Orchid.”

  “Why?”

  “He had a lot of questions about how the whole thing came off. He wanted to know everything, right from the beginning.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  Holly shrugged. “Everything.”

  “Holly, are you telling me that you blew Harry Crisp out of the water?”

  “Nope, all I did was to tell that nice Mr. Barron everything I knew. I didn’t cast any aspersions; he drew his own conclusions.”

  “When does Harry go?”

  “I believe he’s already gone.”

  “And what was that you said about my work not being my work?”

  “Come Monday, you’re going to have a new job,” she said.

  Grant sat up straighter. “How do you know this?”

  “Because I have a little handwritten note from Mr. Barron in my bag; it was delivered this morning.”

  Grant grabbed at her bag, but she snatched it away and put it where he couldn’t reach it.

  “Holly, you’re killing me.”

  “Well, I certainly don’t want to kill you. Not now, anyway; maybe later.”

  “Do you know what my new assignment is?”

  “Yes. That was the purpose of Mr. Barron’s little note. He thought you might like to hear it from me, while the Bureau is doing whatever they have to do to produce an official letter.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Agent in charge. Miami office.”

  He grabbed her and pulled her up to his face. “This is not some sadistic joke on your part?”

  Holly reached in her bag and produced the note. Grant read it and handed it back, then he waved at a waiter. “Two more rum and tonics,” he said.

  “So, how do you feel?”

  Grant lay back on the chaise. “Lighter than air,” he said. “There’s only one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Now I have to arrest you for stealing that money.”

  “What money?” she asked.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to express my thanks to all the people at Putnam who have worked so hard to achieve success for this and past books, particularly my editor, David Highfill, who has been wonderful.

  I am always grateful to my literary agents, Morton Janklow and Anne Sibbald, and their superb support group at Janklow & Nesbit, for their continuing management of my career over the past twenty-two years. It is important for a writer to know he is in good hands, and I have always appreciated the hands in which I rest.

  Author’s Note


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