“That’s not gonna be your problem,” said Eddie. The last of the men squeezed aboard the trucks, some dangling from the sides, held by their former cellmates. The first vehicle started to lumber away. “Right, Banga, we’d better shift. I don’t want to miss my flight.”
Banga helped his weary brother into the pickup’s cab, then climbed into the driver’s seat. Eddie hopped into the rear bed, keeping his gun on Boodu as the Zimbabwean, Strutter, and Maximov followed suit. The pickup set off, but instead of following the other trucks back along the dirt road, it angled away into open scrubland. Shots from the fort followed them, but they were quickly beyond the range of the guards’ weapons.
Banga kept driving across the windy plain. After a few minutes, structures appeared ahead. Skeletal frames rose from the ground like hands clawing from a grave, the part-built beginnings of what had been planned as a cement works before Zimbabwe’s ruined economy forced construction to be suspended. The killdozer, in its original peaceful guise, had been one of the pieces of equipment abandoned in situ.
A long road ran from the site to a highway a few miles to the south, widened and flattened to allow the passage of heavy machinery. Eddie hoped it would also be wide enough for another form of transport …
“There she is!” shouted Maximov, pointing into the sky. Eddie looked up to see a bright yellow aircraft approaching at low altitude.
It wasn’t the one he had expected, however. “What the bloody hell’s that?” he demanded as the large, ponderous biplane made a lazy descent toward the road. The closer it came to the ground, the slower it moved, to the point where it seemed to be hanging impossibly in the air. Then, with an upward twitch of its nose, it dropped the last few feet and bounced along the dirt track before trundling to a stop near the unfinished buildings.
Banga drove the pickup to meet it. Strutter prodded Boodu out of the back with the machete as Eddie jumped out and ran to the aircraft. A hatch opened in the biplane’s rear flank. “TD!” he yelled over the engine’s sputtering growl. “What the fuck’s this piece of old crap?”
Tamara Defendé looked offended. “And it’s nice to see you too, Eddie,” she said in her melodious Namibian accent.
“What happened to the Piper?” He had expected her to be flying her Twin Comanche air taxi.
“Didn’t I tell you? I’ve got two planes now—my business is expanding. I thought you might need something bigger for this.” She nodded at Maximov as he accompanied Strutter and Boodu to the aircraft. “I don’t think he would even fit in the Piper.”
Eddie was still far from impressed. “But … but it’s fucking prehistoric! It’s a biplane, for Christ’s sake. Who built it, the Wright brothers?”
“It’s Russian,” said TD, pouting in defense of her plane’s honor. “It’s an Antonov—”
“Antonov An-2, yeah, I know.” Eddie’s military training had included aircraft recognition. He clambered into the surprisingly capacious hold, moving aside to let the three other men in. “I meant, why the hell would you buy this thing? It must be sixty years old!”
“Hah! It’s only thirty-nine, so it’s younger than you—”
“It’s the same age, actually,” he protested. “I’m not forty yet.”
“—and it’s cheap and simple and I can repair it with a wrench and a hammer out in the bush if I need to. And it can carry a lot of cargo and land just about anywhere, so it’s perfect for my work.”
“Main thing I want to know is: Is it fast?” Eddie asked as he waved good-bye to Banga and shut the hatch.
“Not really, but this is Africa. Things don’t happen in a rush here.”
“They will once the government finds out what just happened at the prison.”
The attractive young pilot took the hint and hurried up the cabin to clamber through an arched opening into the cockpit. Eddie checked on the other passengers. Strutter, evidently as unconvinced by the Antonov’s supposed airworthiness as Eddie, had already strapped himself firmly in. The only thing keeping Boodu down, however, was Maximov’s scowl from the neighboring seat.
“You’ll never get away,” the Zimbabwean snarled as Eddie took the seat next to Strutter, facing him across the cabin. “Not in this antique.”
“Ten miles and we’re across the border,” Eddie reminded him. “Even this thing can make it before any of your fighters reach us.”
TD revved the engine, applying full rudder to turn the elderly aircraft back down the road. The Antonov lurched over the bumps. Strutter nervously pulled his straps even tighter. “If it can make it,” said Boodu.
“I heard that,” TD snapped from the cockpit. She straightened out, braking and checking the instruments before pushing the throttle to full power. The engine roared, the entire fuselage vibrating and rattling.
“I should have kept earplugs in,” Maximov complained. Eddie had to agree; the Antonov betrayed its Soviet military heritage by its utter lack of creature comforts such as soundproofing.
“Hang on,” TD warned. The jolting increased as the biplane picked up speed. Eddie looked out through the row of circular portholes, gripping the arm of his seat with one hand as he kept the gun aimed at Boodu with the other. They were doing forty miles per hour, fifty—then abruptly the juddering eased and the plane tipped back sharply as it took to the air. Antiquated though it might be, the Antonov still had low-speed performance that almost no modern planes could match.
“How long to the border?” Eddie shouted to TD as she banked to head west toward her current home country.
“Less than ten minutes.”
“Okay.” Once the An-2 reached Botswanan airspace—passage had already been secured—another fifteen minutes of flight would bring them to a bush airstrip.
Where the relatives of some of Boodu’s victims awaited his arrival.
Boodu had realized this, his attempt at a neutral expression not hiding the concern on his scarred face. His gaze flicked to the machete, which Strutter had shoved point-down into the frame between his and Eddie’s seats. “Don’t even think about it,” Eddie warned, with a jab of the gun for emphasis. The militia leader leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowed.
Now that they were in the air, Strutter started to relax. He wiped sweat from his forehead, then turned to the Englishman. “You say you are not my friend, Eddie, but for getting me out of that place, you have a friend for life. Whether you like it or not!” He beamed, but the smile faded at Eddie’s unimpressed look. “Whatever you need, whatever you want, you’ll have it.”
“Just information’ll do,” said Eddie. “I’m trying to find someone.”
“If anyone can find them, I can,” Strutter said proudly.
“That’s why I rescued you. In fact, that’s the only reason I rescued you.” The Kenyan looked somewhat deflated, so Eddie softened slightly. “You get me what I want, Johnny, and as far as I’m concerned we’re all square, and you’re free to go. Sound good?”
Strutter nodded. “It does. Thank you.” He offered his hand. “I promise you, I will find—”
A line of ragged holes burst open in the fuselage, shards of aluminum showering the passengers.
Wind shrieked into the cabin. “Shit!” Eddie gasped as TD threw the lumbering plane into an evasive turn. They were being fired on—but how?
The Alouette. Boodu’s helicopter was equipped with a pair of .303-caliber Browning machine guns—and after fleeing the prison, it must have withdrawn to a safe distance before its crew spotted the incoming Antonov and deduced that the highest-value escapees would be taken aboard. Eddie didn’t know the Alouette’s top speed, but suspected it would match—or beat—the old biplane.
Another burst of machine-gun fire punctured the hull, the shots ripping along the length of the plane—
Into the cockpit.
TD screamed. Eddie saw blood on the windshield. The plane lurched. “TD, are you okay? TD!”
Her reply was a barely coherent wail. “Oh God, my arm!”
Eddie jumped up and
was about to enter the cockpit to help her when the nose tilted upward, sending him staggering back down the cabin …
Boodu lunged for his machete.
Off balance, Eddie took a shot at him that went wide, adding another hole to the Antonov’s puckered fuselage as Boodu yanked the blade from the seat frame—
More of the Alouette’s bullets struck the biplane. It pitched up almost vertically, dropping Eddie and Boodu toward the rear bulkhead as the other two men struggled to hold on to their seats.
The sheet metal buckled under Eddie as he crashed against it. Boodu slammed down beside him, the machete clanging against the bulkhead just inches from the Yorkshireman’s chest.
Boodu swept the weapon as Eddie rolled away. The machete’s sharp edge caught his arm—only a glancing blow, but still deep enough to draw blood. He tried to bring the gun around, but Boodu lashed out with one leg and kicked his hand, sending the pistol flying across the hold.
The plane’s nose tipped back down. Even wounded, TD was still fighting to keep control of her aircraft. Eddie thumped to the deck as the Antonov came out of its climb. Over the engine’s roar, he heard the clatter of the helicopter’s machine guns. Bullets clunked into the wings.
“Max!” he shouted. “Get into the cockpit and help her!” Maximov gave him a thumbs-up and squeezed through the cockpit entrance.
More bullet impacts, this time against the fuselage. One of the portholes blew out—then the cabin hatch burst open and fell away behind the plane. Strutter screamed in terror.
Eddie clung to a structural spar as the slipstream tried to drag him out after the hatch. The horizon tipped sharply, the Antonov now in a steepening plunge. The engine note rose in pitch.
Boodu braced his feet against another spar and swung again, Eddie ducking just in time to avoid a machete blow to his face. The blade clanged against the hull above his head. He retaliated with a punch, but only caught the Zimbabwean’s shoulder as he drew back the machete for another attack.
A churning sensation in Eddie’s stomach told him that he was in free fall. The Antonov was picking up speed in its dive.
Which gave him a new dimension in which to fight.
Boodu slashed at him—but Eddie had already kicked away and shot toward the ceiling, grabbing a flapping cargo strap and using it to somersault himself around. The plane’s occupants were now effectively in zero g, the Antonov’s power dive matching the speed at which gravity was dragging them down. From Boodu’s expression of shock—and sudden nausea—it was something he had never experienced before.
Eddie had, however. He kicked off again and propelled himself at the Zimbabwean like a missile. Before Boodu could react, the Englishman had plowed into him, sending both men tumbling weightlessly across the hold. He drove a punch into Boodu’s face, breaking his nose. Globules of blood whirled in the air. Another powerful blow, then he grabbed the African’s arm and tried to pry the machete from his grip.
The engine note changed again, the cabin spinning around them as the plane turned. They were running out of sky …
Eddie finally broke Boodu’s hold on the machete—as Maximov pulled up, hard. No longer in free fall, the two men crashed heavily to the deck. Gravity went from zero to double as the An-2 continued its roller-coaster ride. The machete slammed down with sledgehammer force, embedding its tip an inch into the floor beside the open hatch.
The ground outside was frighteningly close—
An explosion of dust whirled into the cabin as the Antonov pulled out of its headlong dive mere feet above the plain and began another steep, rolling climb. Eddie and Boodu, still grappling, slid back down the hold …
Straight at the hatch.
Eddie realized the danger and let go of Boodu, clawing at the spars. He snagged one with his fingertips, but lost his grip almost immediately and continued to slither toward the opening. Boodu, just ahead of him, screamed as he fell into nothingness—
And caught the back edge of the frame, dangling outside the ascending aircraft.
Eddie flailed his arms helplessly, sliding out into the void …
His left hand slapped against one of the wrecked hinges. He grabbed it. Torn metal cut into his palm, but he had no choice but to cling on as his free hand hunted for purchase—
Boodu’s hand clamped around his throat.
The militia leader pulled himself higher. Choking, Eddie looked down at him, seeing his face twisted into a defiant snarl. Behind the Antonov’s tail, the pursuing Alouette came into view as it climbed after the biplane. “If I die,” Boodu roared into the wind, “so do you, Chase!”
He squeezed harder, trying to force Eddie away from the hatch. The hinge’s sharp edges dug deeper into the Englishman’s hand. He tried to push Boodu back down, but didn’t have enough leverage. Instead, he groped inside the cabin for a handhold …
His fingers found sharp, thick metal.
The machete!
He tugged at the handle. The blade shifted, but didn’t come loose, still stuck in the floor like a crude Excalibur. Boodu dug his thumb harder against Eddie’s windpipe, hauling himself higher. Another few inches and he would be able to get an elbow over the edge of the hatch to pull himself inside.
A last desperate yank—and the blade came free.
Supported by only one hand, Eddie swung farther out of the hatch. Boodu shot him a look of triumph—which abruptly vanished as he saw what his opponent was holding. “No, don’t!” he cried.
“Hands off!” Eddie shouted.
He brought down the machete in a savage slash—and lopped the Zimbabwean’s clutching arm off at the wrist.
With a horrible shriek, Boodu plummeted away in the Antonov’s wake—
And fell into the helicopter’s rotor blades.
The lower half of his body burst into a thick spray that repainted the olive-green military camouflage in a gory red, the upper smashing screaming through the cockpit windows. The Alouette slewed round, rapidly losing height—then hit the ground and exploded in an oily fireball.
Eddie stabbed the machete into the plane’s side and dragged himself back into the cabin as the Antonov leveled out. He lay gasping for several seconds before realizing that Boodu’s severed hand was still gripping his neck. He pulled off the appendage and was about to toss it through the hatch after its former owner when he took in the ring on its finger, the emerald still gleaming in its gold setting. A moment’s thought, then he wedged it in a seat frame and staggered to the front of the compartment. Strutter was still clutching his chair, petrified. Eddie leaned into the cockpit. “TD! Are you okay?”
Maximov had the controls, hunched in the copilot’s position with a look of laser-beam concentration. Beside him, TD was very pale, her left hand tightly squeezed around her bloodied right bicep. “Not—really,” she managed to say through her pained grimace. “Oh God, it hurts!”
“Let me see.” He carefully lifted her hand. She cried out, but he saw enough of the injury to know that it wouldn’t be life threatening if she got prompt medical attention. “Okay, it’s okay,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “Just keep hold of it. We’ll fix you up when we land. How far to the border?”
She squinted at the instruments, then out of the window. “We’ll be … across it in a minute.”
“I have a question,” said Maximov, gripping the controls so hard that the tendons stood out like brake cables on the backs of his hairy hands. “How do we land? I don’t know how to fly!” He gave Eddie a hopeful glance. “Do you?”
“Nope—it’s been on my to-do list for about five fucking years!” He looked back at TD. “Can you talk him through it? I don’t want to have been in three plane crashes in eleven bloody months.”
She managed a feeble smile. “No problem. Another reason I bought … an Antonov. If you turn into the wind, the stall speed is … zero knots. So much lift it can just—float down.”
“You’re kidding.” Another attempt at a smile through her pain. “You’re not. Wow. I guess Russian s
tuff isn’t as crap as I thought.”
“Hoy!” Maximov protested.
Eddie grinned and retreated into the main cabin. Strutter’s rictus look of terror had finally relaxed, and he was hesitantly loosening his seat belt straps. “I’d keep ’em fastened,” Eddie warned him. “This might be a bit bumpy.”
Twenty minutes later, the Antonov was on the ground, in more or less one piece. Eddie had radioed ahead to alert the reception committee that they needed medical help; it turned out that no fewer than three of the waiting Zimbabwean expatriates were doctors, educated professionals being high on the list of targets for the government’s thugs. Two of them took TD to the nearby bush farmhouse for emergency treatment. The third wanted to check Eddie’s injuries, but he had business to attend to first.
Maximov followed the Englishman from the plane. “That was easy!” he crowed. “Maybe I should become pilot, da?”
Despite TD’s claims, the An-2’s touchdown had been far from feather-light. Eddie tried to crick the stiffness out of his sore neck and spine. “You might need a bit more practice.” Maximov laughed.
“Mr. Chase?” Waiting for Eddie was Japera Tangwerai, one of those whom he had helped escape from Zimbabwe several years before. Although she was only in her early thirties, the lines of stress and loss on her face made her appear middle-aged, for she had seen nearly her entire family murdered by Zimbabwean militia forces. Her only surviving child, a boy now eight years old, looked up at Eddie nervously from behind her skirts. “What happened? Did you free the prisoners from Fort Helena?”
“Yeah,” he told her. “Don’t know exactly how many, but a lot, about a hundred. Banga and his people got them out of there.”
“And what about …” Her voice dropped. “What about Boodu?”
Even as a whisper, the hated name still caught the attention of others nearby. More people approached Eddie. “Did you catch him?” a man demanded. “Did you bring the Butcher?”
“Some of him. Here.” Eddie brought something out from behind his back. “Let me give you a hand.”
Everyone recoiled in instinctive shock and disgust before they realized the significance of the distinctive ring on one stiffening finger. “It … it’s his,” said Japera softly. “It’s the Butcher’s hand.” She raised her voice to her companions. “It is the Butcher’s hand!”
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