The door to the helicopter had been closed, but as they watched, it slid open.
Arlin Schoen stood in the doorway of the Huey and glanced out at the rising sun. They would have only minutes to get what they needed and figure out the rest on the run. Incredible luck, he thought, that the very passenger they were looking for was right there, still alive, his business cards in the pocket of his coat even if his messed-up face was unrecognizable.
The woman in yellow, however, was a regrettable problem.
“This a good enough altitude?” his pilot bellowed back into the cabin.
Schoen nodded, his eyes darting to the men holding guns on the survivors. He looked at the male survivor and stabbed his thumb toward the ceiling. “Get up!” he commanded.
The man was obviously badly injured, his face puffy beyond recognition. No matter, Schoen concluded. It was MacCabe. There was enough in the coat to positively ID him even if the team had only had a quick glimpse in Hong Kong.
“Bring him over here!” Schoen commanded. One of his men yanked the injured man to his feet and threw him toward the open door. Schoen watched as the man’s arms flew out to brace against falling, his frightened eyes looking at Schoen.
“Okay, MacCabe, where’s your computer?”
“What?” The question was barely audible, and Schoen moved toward Rick Barnes like a striking cobra, grabbing his collar and thrusting him partly out the door.
“You either tell me where you put your damned computer down there, or out you go. Your choice, but you’ve only got ten seconds, and you might think about the fact that what you transferred onto your hard drive is not worth your life.”
“I… don’t know what you’re… talking about!”
What little he could read of the man’s expression bespoke puzzlement. His mouth was moving, but Schoen had to haul him close to hear the words.
“I’m… not… MacCabe. I’m Rick…”
Schoen shoved the man halfway out the door again, watching him flail air until he pulled him close again.
“Where is it, MacCabe? Was it in the overhead? Last chance before your flight lesson begins.”
The man was shaking his head furiously. “I’m… not MacCabe! He… he was in the cabin… I met him… but…”
With an angry heave, Schoen propelled Rick Barnes toward the back of the helicopter, watching as he lost his balance and landed heavily on the floor just in front of the bench seat that spanned the rear of the Huey’s cabin. Schoen glanced at the terrified blond in the yellow dress, felt an uncharacteristic twinge of regret, then motioned to one of his men.
“Bring her!”
Susan reached out to fight off the burly arms that grabbed her, but she was no match for the man as he hauled her over to Arlin Schoen.
“Tie her hands!” Schoen ordered. A plastic tie was produced and cinched around her wrists with her hands in front.
Schoen grabbed Susan by the wrists and nodded toward the metal steps built into the frame of the Huey. “Stand on the bottom one!” he commanded.
“No! Why are you doing…”
A burst of automatic rifle fire from one of the men in the cabin whistled past Susan’s head. Slowly she complied, stepping gingerly onto the top, then the bottom step as she tried unsuccessfully to wrap her fingers around Schoen’s hands.
“Okay, MacCabe!” Schoen shouted at the man in the back of the helicopter. “Answer the question or I’ll drop this pretty woman two hundred feet.”
Once more the man spoke up, yelling with all the volume he could muster. “My name is… Rick Barnes! I’m…”
Schoen shook his head, stopping the protest, and pushed Susan’s wrists farther out until she was too far off balance to recover if he let go.
“Look, PLEASE!” the injured man yelled from the corner. “I CAN PROVE IT TO YOU!”
Arlin Schoen realized with a start that the man was reaching around to the back pocket of his pants. Had they checked there for a weapon? Schoen reacted instinctively. He grabbed with his free hand for the 9mm pistol in his belt, pulled it free, and raised the barrel, letting panic guide his aim as he squeezed off four quick rounds, two tearing through Barnes’s chest, the other two through his already bloodied face.
Schoen watched the body slide to the floor with a thud, a pool of blood forming beneath. His right hand flopped down and released the object that had triggered Schoen’s response: a leather wallet, which now slid toward the edge of the door. The Huey pilot had reacted to the sudden shots by bobbling the cyclic control stick and tilting the helicopter’s deck suddenly to the right, throwing Schoen off balance.
Arlin Schoen fought to regain his footing while hanging on to the woman’s wrists as he watched the object slither toward the abyss. It was a wallet, not a gun, that the man had tried to grab. Schoen thought of lunging for it, but the weight of the woman was dragging him out the door as well. It was an easy decision to let go of her and grab the door jamb as he watched the wallet fly out into space.
The terrified blond began to fall, but Schoen heard a heavy impact on the right side of the Huey and peered over to see that the woman had caught the right side landing skid and was hanging on, even though her wrists were still bound together. Her fingers were white as they held a death grip on the tubular metal.
Too bad, he thought. She’s a fighter, and beautiful, but…
He raised the barrel of the 9mm and aimed between her eyes, using thirty years of professional detachment to ignore her pleading expression. It was more humane, anyway, he thought. Save her the horror of feeling herself fall to her death. They would have to land and bag the body, of course. A dead passenger with a bullet in the brain would be evidence he couldn’t leave behind.
He willed himself to get it over with, but still his finger hesitated.
“WE’RE NOT THE ONLY SURVIVORS!” she yelled, staying his trigger finger.
“WHAT?” Schoen yelled back at her.
“THERE ARE OTHER SURVIVORS! THEY KNOW I’M ALIVE!”
Schoen snorted and lowered the gun, thinking fast. Probably a ploy, but if she was telling the truth, they had some sanitizing to do. He stuck the gun in his waistband and motioned for one of his men to take over and pull her back up and in. The end result would be the same. She would have to die, but he’d let her buy some time until he’d analyzed the situation.
From the point of view of the crash survivors huddling behind bushes at the edge of the clearing, the inexplicable sight of the Huey hovering 200 feet above the wreckage with an open door and Graham’s wife aboard had been as puzzling as it was terrifying.
Maybe they’re just looking for other survivors, Graham had thought, trying to understand how Susan could have been so roughly handled.
Maybe Dallas got it wrong.
They could see one, then two, men in the doorway, but as the helicopter rotated slowly around in a circle, they lost sight of the men altogether.
Suddenly the door faced them again, and Susan’s yellow dress and blond hair were clearly visible. She was being forced to stand on the landing skid outside the chopper while one of the men held on to her hands. The sight was a horror beyond Graham’s worst nightmare. There was no possible reason or explanation, and therefore it couldn’t be happening. What rescuers would threaten survivors of a plane crash?
“MY GOD, NO! DALLAS, WHY?” Graham cried, as he watched, powerless, from below. The sound of gunfire came as distant pops as the Huey bobbled and Susan began to fall.
His heart had all but stopped before he saw her catch the landing skid.
Once again the helicopter rotated around, obscuring the door but not Susan as she struggled to hang on. When the door was visible again, another man could be seen balancing on the skid and reaching down to pull her back to safety.