by Mel Odom
Wilson caught the landing skid of the jetcopter with one hand, but missed with the other. The shock of his bodyweight hitting the end of his arm almost tore his grip loose, but he flailed stubbornly till he could close his other hand on the skid. With the combined rotor wash and movement, it took both hands to hang on. The door gunner’s servomotors whined as they tried to make the adjustment to bring Wilson into target acquisition but failed.
The wind blurred Wilson’s vision and he had to look twice to make certain that there was another figure hanging onto the other side of the landing skids.
Sebastian DiVarco’s grin held a light of insanity as he struggled to pull himself up the other side of the landing gear. His face was bloodied, but it didn’t look like the blood was his own. His gun was thrust into his pants at his waist, but he didn’t appear able to use it.
Wilson knew he couldn’t draw his own.
“You won’t make it!” DiVarco yelled. “These guys couldn’t stop me, and you’re not going to!”
Wilson saved his breath for the climb, straining hard to pull himself up.
A Korean who had been inside the jetcopter stepped down onto the landing skid, then leaned out, trying to get a bead on Wilson.
Instantly, Wilson reached out for the man’s boot and yanked. The boot slid off the metal surface and the man came tumbling down, holding himself by one arm. Swinging up, Wilson kicked out as hard as he could. The blow connected with the man’s face with enough force to rip the Korean from the landing skid.
The Korean fell backward, away from the jetcopter, screaming and firing his pistol dry.
Wilson reached for the lip of the cargo bay, snared it with his fingers, and worked to haul himself up. He saw the door gunner struggle to push himself out of the computer-assisted rig, then resettle into the seat as if slapped back into place. A single red dot gleamed wetly between his eyes, then leaked crimson.
“That’s the best I can do,” Rawley called out over the T-jack. “You’re on your own. Good luck, amigo.”
The cargo area was plush, designed for conversation in the round with small couches hugging the walls. Min sat at the back with a small pistol gripped in his hand atop his cane. Silverton was belted in beside him.
As Min raised the pistol to fire, Wilson triggered the spring-loaded release on the Crain dagger, caught it in his palm, and hurled it across the cargo bay. The sharp blade sunk to the hilt in Min’s throat and two wild rounds from the pistol drilled through the panel separating them from the pilot.
Without warning, the jetcopter suddenly bobbled out of control and bucked like a marlin fighting a fisherman’s line.
Wilson almost lost his hold, but managed to pull himself into the cargo bay as DiVarco did the same on the other side. DiVarco already had his pistol in his fist and fired in staccato rhythm. One of the rounds tore through Wilson’s chest where the Kevlar didn’t cover. He knew from the feel that the bullet had passed on through. Three other bullets smashed into the jacket but didn’t penetrate.
The H&K VP70Z in Wilson’s boot came away in his fist. The SeekNFire programming in his palm scanned the chip and made the proper neural connection as the barrel came up into point-blank range. He fired over DiVarco’s pistol, putting two rounds through both of the man’s eyes from less than four feet away.
Crimson tears suddenly splashed out onto DiVarco’s face and bled down his cheeks as his body dropped to the floor of the jetcopter.
Breathing raggedly, his arm numb but operational despite the bullet wound, Wilson got to his feet inside the badly vibrating jetcopter. Silverton was struggling to reach the gun Min had dropped, but Wilson slapped it away from him before he could close his fists around it.
Moving forward, having to lurch across the uneven floor, Wilson opened the door to the cockpit. Black smoke billowed out of the chopper’s nose, indicating the amount of damage that had been done by Min’s bullets as well as DiVarco’s. Blood smeared the Plexiglas nose, letting Wilson know the pilot had been wounded as well. The jetcopter had become a flying coffin waiting to be laid to rest.
Abandoning all thoughts of taking over the controls, Wilson glanced out the cargo doors and saw the little Bell news copter hovering less than thirty feet away slightly above them. Looking forward, he saw the jetcopter was on a drifting collision course with one of the skyscrapers surrounding them like concrete stakes.
“We’re going to die,” Silverton said in a hoarse voice.
“No you’re not,” Wilson said as he pulled the grappling hook from the pocket inside his jacket and fashioned a slipknot at the end of it. He put a boot into the slipknot like it was a stirrup. “If we get lucky, you’re going to stand trial for your crimes and let the people of this city get some sense of justice after what you were trying to do to them.” He reached over and yanked the Crain combat knife from Min’s throat, slashed the seatbelt holding Silverton, and grabbed the man’s belt. “I hope that’s a good belt.”
The jetcopter started to wobble even worse as Wilson leaned out the cargo bay. It began to list hopelessly to the side. Swinging the weighted grappling hook around his head in a tight arc, Wilson made his cast. The jetcopter lost more altitude with a dying shiver, and for a moment Wilson thought he would run out of cord before the grappling hook reached the news chopper.
Then the hook swung around the little aircraft’s landing skids. The cord whipped taut, burning Wilson’s palm. He leaned forward, falling out of the jetcopter’s open bay and holding onto Silverton’s belt as the man screamed in wide-eyed terror. The slipknot pulled tight, almost cutting off circulation in the FBI agent’s foot as they swung wildly in a wide arc under the news chopper. The strain on his injured arm was incredible, but he forced himself to keep hold of the cord. His other hand was locked solidly around Silverton’s belt, aided by the man’s arms holding onto the cord as well.
As they swung back and forth, Wilson saw the jetcopter smash to fiery bits against the glass-and-steel surface of a skyscraper. A rolling cloud of orange flames and black smoke crept up the side of the building from the point of impact. Then, like a crippled dragonfly, the chopper twisted over and fell more slowly than he would have thought to the street below.
Looking down, Wilson didn’t think anyone had been hurt by the falling debris. The police had arrived now, and had cordoned off the area. Cars were backed up in all directions.
Above them, the camcorder operator was still filming furiously.
Wilson’s muscles were trembling from shock and exhaustion as the news chopper wheeled back over the helipad where the rest of the Omega Blue unit and the FBI teams were waiting. Twenty feet above the surface, his hands gave out and he dropped Silverton and lost his hold on the cord.
Silverton fell and was covered instantly by Rawley, Vache, Valentine, and members of the Boston FBI.
Hanging upside down by his roped foot, Wilson clung to consciousness as he was lowered to the helipad. January cradled him and took his weight while Scuderi cut the cord tying him to the news chopper. He struggled to get to his feet but Mac pushed him back and started working on the chest wound.
“Lie down,” Mac growled. “You get up and start walking around, you’re liable to bleed to death.”
Wilson relaxed and felt the deep pain settle into him. “Silverton?”
“He’s alive,” Scuderi replied standing above him. “We’ll take care of it.”
“Good,” Wilson replied, then let the swirling darkness take him away.
Epilogue
“Agent Wilson.”
Following the feminine voice through layers of sleep, Wilson opened his eyes and blinked to focus. The room was dark and smelled of hospitals. It was a smell he’d grown accustomed to in last two days following the events in Boston, first in McClean Hospital in Boston, then at Walter Reed in Washington, D.C.DiVarco’s bullet had also damaged his clavicle, requiring minor surgery.
He blinked again and made out Dr. Davette Culley looking down at him. The woman was dressed in a simple
beige dress that emphasized her slender good looks. Her hair brushed her shoulders.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said.
“It’s okay.” Wilson rubbed his face sleepily.
“But I didn’t know if you were comfortable like that.”
He gazed down, for a moment wondering what she was talking about. Then he realized he had fallen asleep with his shoulders against the wall in a half-supine position. Kasey was spread over him, snoring quietly, her breath soft against his cheek. He smiled easily as he stroked his daughter’s hair. “I’ll be a little stiff when I get up, but it’s worth it.”
“I’ve talked to Dr. Means about his virtual reality therapy,” Culley went on. “He’s anxious to start working with the two of you.”
“I’m glad.”
“I’m also going to see if I can smooth things over for you with your ex-wife. Kasey deserves the opportunity. So do you.”
“I don’t know how much good that will do, but I appreciate it. ‘‘
“Who knows? Maybe I’ll surprise us all.”
Wilson nodded. Something else seemed to be on the doctor’s mind. He could tell by her body language. He glanced at his watch, saw that it was past nine P.M. and that she was working late, and waited. Kasey’s hand trailed across his brushed denim shirt and he could feel her heart beating against his chest.
“Actually,” Culley said hesitantly, “I didn’t just drop in unannounced because I was worried about your comfort. I’ve seen you sleep in this room plenty of times before. But I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner and maybe a coffee afterward with me.”
Before Wilson could reply, she hurried on, wrapping her arms around herself.
“I lost a patient today. A little boy almost Kasey’s age. I don’t want to talk about it, but I don’t want to be alone either. With your job and what you’ve just gone through in Boston, I thought maybe you’d understand. I can’t promise good conversation, or even good company, but the restaurant I have in mind has good food and good coffee. I just need to know that there’s someone else out there besides me for a little while.”
“I think I could use some of that myself,” Wilson said. He moved slowly, mindful of his injury and Kasey’s comfort. Gently he laid her on her side, then got to his feet.
“I’ll make sure they know at the desk that you’ll be coming back after dinner,” she said.
“Thanks.” He followed her out the door, spared a glance at Kasey, and walked beside Culley.
“Some days,” Culley said in a brittle voice, “it just seems like everything I do is so futile. There’s so much I don’t know, and so much beyond my control.”
“So things seem pretty hopeless.”
“I’m sure in your job things sometimes seem pretty much the same.”
“Sure.” Wilson nodded, thinking over the last few days, realizing they weren’t that different from the last few years, with only the promise of more to come. At least there’d be a new head of the House subcommittee soon, now that Cashion was gone, maybe even someone who’d be more understanding of what the world was really like out there on the streets. “Occasionally I even get to feeling like you’re feeling now: that everything’s hopeless. Then I remind myself that hope isn’t something you look for and find, it’s something you make and share with the people that matter to you.”
“And you believe that?”
“Yeah,” Wilson said truthfully as he looked into her eyes. “I really do.”
Mel Odom lives in Moore, Oklahoma, and is the author of several books in a variety of fields. He blogs at www.melodom.blogspot.com and can be reached at [email protected].
