by Rob Aspinall
Peter came back on the line. “I’m sorry. The plane is on the runway, taxiing right now.”
“Shit!”
“What?” Nathan asked.
“It’s on the runway,” I said.
I ran through the options for a second. We were a thousand miles from the nearest U.S. border. And even if we made it over, what was to stop the cartel chasing us all the way into Texas or wherever? These cartels worked on both sides of the fence.
And that’s not to mention the crooked cops.
We needed another plan.
I saw a truck drive by with a set of stairs on the back. The kind they parked beneath the plane when you got on and off.
Suddenly, I had it. “Peter?”
“Still here.”
“You got an agent onboard?”
“Both the pilots are agents. That’s why we had a deadline.”
“Then tell them to open the door,” I said.
“But they’re about to take off.”
“They can pull it up before they hit the end of the runway. Just give us until then.”
“I can’t-“ he said.
“Do you want your guy or not?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Peter said.
Nathan stuck his head over my shoulder. “You can’t be thinking-”
“Fuck thinking,” I said. “We’re doing.”
The battery on the phone died altogether. I tossed it away. Nathan held on super-tight. I revved the engine and steered us out between the trucks.
I span the bike around in a circle, smoking the rear tyre. We sped out from behind the hangars, heading straight for the runway.
The killers in the SUV appeared out of nowhere on out tail, chasing us on to the airstrip that cut a long, grey line through the middle of the Mexican desert, the morning sun breaking out over faraway mountains.
I saw the plane we’d flown in on ahead. A white Gulfstream with a royal blue swoosh along the side. The door lowered out to within a few inches of the ground, a guy dressed like a pilot leaning out, looking for us.
We made up the ground fast, with the SUV chasing us all the way. The cowboy in the passenger seat leaned out behind his rifle, while another one stood up out of the sunroof, both trying their best to plug us with automatic rounds; their stetsons looping up into the wind in the heat of the chase.
I kept enough distance between the bike and the Rosales boys to give us a fighting chance.
One thing was for sure, we wouldn’t get long to pull this off.
The end of the runway was getting closer.
The jet getting faster.
I pushed the bike past 170mph, leaving the SUV for dust. I ran us out wide and around the left-hand wing, before bringing it back to to 130mph and lining up with the stairs.
As the plane picked up speed, so did I.
I tapped gave Nathan a quick dig in the ribs and he reached out a hand to grab the railing on the stairs. He missed on the first attempt as a side-wind forced us away from the plane. I brought us back in closer, the rear wheel of the bike a fly’s eyeball away from the bottom step.
The second time round, Nathan caught hold of the rail with his right hand. He put the corresponding foot on the bottom step. The MI6 agent reached out and grabbed a hold of the scruff of his neck.
In one do or die move, Nathan went for it, pulling his left leg off the bike seat and lunging forward on to the stairs. The agent held on to Nathan and helped him up the steps.
Now my turn.
A mite trickier.
Made ten times worse by a bullet hitting the back of my Kevlar vest and knocking me forward over the handlebars. The bike wriggled and I slowed as I gasped for air.
I sat up again, the left wing of the plane rushed towards me, ready to slice my breathless little head off.
45
Now Boarding
I ducked low at the last second, slipping under the wing.
Summoning every ounce of core strength, I righted the bike and gave it everything on the accelerator, hard-gasping the impact of the bullet out of my system. Not exactly easy in a 140mph headwind.
But I popped out from beneath the wing and caught up to the stairwell again. I held the bike steady, ignoring another bullet, pinging off the undercarriage of the plane.
With the plane running out of tarmac, I stood up slowly off the bike seat, keeping hold of the handlebars.
As the Gulfstream reached the last few hundred metres of the runway, the air caught beneath the wings of the plane and the wheels left the ground.
The pilot pulled up; Nathan and the MI6 agent inside the doorway.
I let the bottom of the stairs rise above me and let go of the handlebars.
I grabbed hold of the nearest stair railing with one hand … then two, my feet leaving the bike and the ground behind.
I saw the Yamaha slide, flip and bounce away.
The jet cleared the runway barrier with metres to spare, but the force of the takeoff was unbelievable. My face rippling like a Great Dane In a wind tunnel.
I pulled myself up the railing as hard as I could and caught hold of one of the steps, only to slip back again, with the buildings, roads and trees beneath my dangling feet shrinking by the second.
I felt like I had nothing in my arms but burn, the air pressure buffeting the stairs, threatening to tear them off.
I swung my right leg up and gained a foothold on to the steps.
The stairs rattled fierce, but held. I pushed up on a knee, a hand on the railing and the other reaching above me for another hold.
Nathan and the agent kneeled either side of the doorway, holding on to the inside of the plane. The agent seized my hand. Nathan, my shoulder.
They pulled and I climbed, by hook or by crook, in through the door of the jet.
The three of us grabbed hold of the railings and heaved the door shut. The agent locked the handle and suddenly, everything was calm. Sterile, climate controlled calm.
Nathan pulled me to my feet as the jet began to level out of its climb.
I ripped the velcro straps off on my bulletproof vest and heaved it over my head. I let it fall to the dark-blue carpeted floor and ran a hand up my back, pressing the skin.
I winced as I touched the area where the vest had taken a shot, an inch to the right of my spine.
Nathan removed his Kevlar and dropped into a seat, unable to speak.
The agent was tall and slim, with floppy, sandy hair. He looked at me and shook his head. “Jesus, you’re crazy.”
All I had left in me was a shrug.
As the agent ducked through the cockpit door to play co-pilot, I staggered towards a large, cream leather passenger chair, feeling like I’d just done a million-rep workout at the gym. I fell backwards into the comfy leather, my entire mind glazed over, as if I was viewing my life through a pane of inch-thick glass.
I turned and looked out of the window to my left; Mexico City a sprawling jungle glinting in the sun. Soon, we left the city and began the journey over the vast Mexican desert, punctuated by low-rising mountains, cacti and scrub.
I held a hand to my cheeks, my face fried by windburn.
The agent emerged from the cockpit. He rooted in a small fridge near the front of the jet and handed out bottles of water. Clear and ice cold. I held my bottle to my cheeks and forehead, before snapping off the top and taking a long, cool drink.
Nathan downed his in one as the agent sipped on a bottle of his own, still shaking his head. “What happened to Danby?” he asked.
“He died,” Nathan said, almost chipper about it.
The co-pilot seemed upset. Like Danby had been a friend. “How did he die?” he asked.
“Saving the mission,” I said. “Protecting me.”
“Well I hope you’re worth it,” the agent said to Nathan.
“Me too,” I said, touching a gash on the top right of my forehead, a wound I’d totally forgotten about in the mad scramble.
“Got any coffee?” I heard Nathan a
sk the agent, as I made my way to the bathroom at the rear of the plane.
I shut the door behind me and studied myself in the mirror.
I looked like I’d been dragged through hell backwards. Hair a raging mess. Skin red from the elements. Dirt and bugs all over my face.
I picked a little critter out of the corner of my eye, tried to do something with my hair and ran a tissue under the tap. I dabbed the cut on my forehead, seeing the faces of the recent dead in the mirror. The latest top entries on the Lorna Walker death chart.
Angelina’s would-be killers.
Green and Red Vest.
Pepe and Louis Rosales.
A couple of dozen La Firma.
And Agent Danby.
Okay, not technically one of mine. But I was supposed to be the muscle. The protection. I could have done more.
The faces came and went and ended in Philippe; stood behind me in the mirror like a ghost.
I shook it off. Just seeing things Lorn. I needed an immunosuppressant pill and something to eat.
I rooted through my carry-on holdall in an overhead locker and found my pills. I popped one down and flopped back into my seat. Nathan tossed me a bag of peanuts as he slurped on a styrofoam cup of coffee.
I munched absently through my nuts, wondering what the hell I was gonna do without Philippe.
46
The Turnaround
EL PASO, TEXAS
The private jet touched down with a squeal on another soulless strip of cracked concrete in the middle of El Nothing To See or Do.
Peter and friends were waiting for us halfway along an epic runway. A pair of gunmetal grey four-by-fours with sand on their wheels.
Dressed in a powder blue shirt, white cotton trousers and brown brogues, Peter also wore a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses, his hands in his pockets, clothes rippling in a warm breeze. Two guys stood either side in jeans and plaid shirts; fitting in with the local crowd, except for the spook shades, visible earpieces and visible weapons tucked in shoulder holsters.
They towered either side of Peter, waiting for the plane to roll to a stop.
The co-pilot unlocked the exit door and lowered the stairwell door. We stepped out into the searing heat of El Paso. A border town surrounded by desert. The horse had already bolted on the suncream front, but I wore a fresh layer anyway, descending the stairs behind Nathan; my straggly hair pulled back in a ponytail and the pair of us wearing our Kevlar on Nathan’s advice.
“You can’t trust anyone,” he’d said. “MI6 are among the worst.”
So I brought my SWAT rifle with me, just to be sure. We strolled unhurried across the tarmac as the Gulfstream’s jet engine wound down.
Peter had a smile on his face. Like the cat that got the double cream.
We stopped in front of him and his goons.
“Good morning,” Nathan said, his usual chirp returning.
“Morning,” Peter said to Nathan. “You must be our package.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Nathan said.
“I expect you’re wondering who we are,” said Peter.
“Apparently you’re the people who hijacked my transmission.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Peter said with a smile.
“Of course,” Nathan said. “But you can’t expect me to hand myself in. Not without knowing who you are.”
“After all the trouble we went through to get you out of Mexico?” Peter asked. “We were rather hoping you might.”
“All the trouble we went to?” I said, flapping my arms like a penguin. “Unbelievable.”
Peter and Nathan ignored me. One of the spooks stared at me down his nose. I pulled a stupid face at him and turned my attention back to the conversation.
“So what else do you want?” Peter asked.
“Assurances,” Nathan said. “And for that I need to know who I’m talking to. If not MI6, then who?”
“We’re a small off-shoot, but well funded.”
“A task force?” Nathan asked.
“Yes.”
“Now it makes sense,” Nathan said. “You’re assigned to my former employers.”
“Well duh,” I said.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Nathan said.
As Nathan and Peter talked, I realised I was getting tired and snappy in the furnace that was El Paso. I needed to take some painkillers for my sword-wound and have a nice sit down in one of those air-conditioned four-by-fours with the tinted windows. Yet all Peter and Nathan seemed to want to do was string this out.
Eventually, Peter came out and admitted it. “We’ve been tracking your former employers for some time, Mr Moore. I’ll be handling your transition personally. Hence, why I’m all the way out here.”
“Well that’s good to know,” Nathan said, resting a hand on the inside of his Kevlar vest. “You coming out here makes what I’m about to do so much easier.”
“Oh, and what’s that? Peter asked, seemingly amused.
Nathan whipped a pistol from inside his vest and fired three rapid shots, point-blank. Peter and his two spooks collapsed to the tarmac; bullets to the head.
Without hesitating, I raised my rifle and fired at Nathan.
The stupid thing clicked empty.
Nathan fixed his gun on me as I struggled with the rifle. “I took the liberty of emptying it,” he said. “While you were doing your hair, love. Now step back a little, will you?”
I reversed a couple of steps. He pulled the gun to the left of me and fired two more shots. I turned to see the pilot and co-pilot drop against the stairs of the plane, sidearms spilling out of hands.
Damn, he was a good shot. Better than I realised.
Nathan returned his weapon to me, before I could rush him. He smirked at me down the barrel.
“I don’t get it,” I said, dropping my rifle to the ground and looking at Peter and his bodyguards. “They were your ticket out. You’ve just signed your own JPAC death warrant.”
“I think right about now, it’s being ripped up,” Nathan said.
“You mean all that stuff in Mexico was staged?”
“No, that was real,” Nathan said. “Trust me, it wasn’t my idea. But sometimes needs must. New broom and all that.”
Way, way over Nathan’s shoulder, I noticed a train of three black SUVs approaching, fast and tight.
And a helicopter trailing them low in the sky. The first fat beats of the rotors coming into earshot.
“That convoy behind you. That’s not JPAC coming to kill you?” I asked, counting on him looking over his shoulder, giving me a chance to attack.
“That’ll be my ride,” he said, without even looking.
“So all that stuff about fleeing across the border. It was all bullshit?”
“Actually, that was true. But the new boss invited me back. We’d found out about the task force. We just needed to flush them out. I was the bait and the assassin. I was going to do it after you and Philippe handed me over, but this was a hell of a lot simpler. Quite a relief, actually.”
“So why snatch Philippe if that was the plan?”
“I was told it would be a straightforward handover, just like you. But anyway, it’s all worked out for the best. The task force is no more, Mr Vasquez is … wherever he is. And I dare say I’ll have silenced a few of my doubters. So, thanks for getting me out of that shithole. I didn’t think we’d make it, but it seems I underestimated you again.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I’d just delivered the head of the MI6 task force on a plate. And handed Nathan the keys to the rest of his life. All while giving him the chance to finally blow me to hell. Even worse, I’d actually started to trust the little shit. Beyond all my better judgement. I’d really outdone myself this time.
The SUVs rolled in close, the helicopter touching down thirty metres behind them. A heavy in a grey suit and shades climbed out of the rear of the chopper, sand swirls blowing across the runway.
Nathan finally allowed himself a glan
ce over one shoulder. I moved. Like lightning. He stepped back instinctively and held the gun in my face.
“Ah, ah,” he said.
“You’re going to shoot me after everything we went through?” I asked.
Nathan laughed, backing away. “Don’t be silly. Of course not.”
The doors to the SUVs opened; three more goons in grey suits and shades climbing out.
They walked towards us as Nathan retreated to safety between them. “These nice gentlemen will take care of you instead,” he shouted, over the din of the helicopter rotors.
And with that, he turned and jogged off towards his ride out. Free as a beady-eyed bird.
The three men lined up in front of me. Each one deep-wrinkled and stoney-faced. Experienced pros, in other words. Unlikely to fall for any funny stuff.
“Nice suits,” I said, wearing my brave and ballsy face. “Did you get a group discount or something?”
Their sombre mood didn’t change as they pulled automatic weapons from inside their suit jackets.
The guy on the left of the three checked over his shoulder, watching Nathan climb in the chopper with the heavy manning the door. As the helicopter rose into the air, the guy on the left nodded to the other two.
They hunched up behind their rifle sights, getting a better aim at my head.
So this was it. The end of the road.
Here lies Lorna Walker. Three bullets to the brain in dusty old El Paso.
47
Exit Wounds
It wasn’t the fear of dying that was the problem.
It was the fear of not living.
After all I’d just been through. With all that needed to be done. To be scrubbed out like a bad equation. Days after my seventeenth birthday.
And whatever bullets to the face felt like, it couldn’t have been worse than the anticipation. As the men squeezed their triggers, I hoped for instant death.
And that’s exactly what I got,
A triple-tap.
Blood jetting out of all three goon-shaped heads, as bullets punched their way out of skulls, with barely a whisper. The goons were dead before they hit the ground; fingers locked stiff around triggers.
