“We’re going to fly out of here?” she asked as they ran.
“Yep.”
“You’re a pilot?”
Court gave a little shrug before answering. “Sure.”
“I read your file.”
“Who the hell hasn’t?”
She had no idea what that meant, but she didn’t ask. Instead she said, “Your file didn’t say you were a pilot.”
“Maybe you got the abridged version.”
She did not press further.
They bypassed the terminal and the lights illuminating the asphalt parking lot in front of it and headed past them, over to the hangar. The parking lot extended here, but there were no lights on in or around the hangar.
Three small single-engine planes were positioned tightly in the dark and unoccupied hangar. Court recognized them as two Cessna 152s and a Piper Cherokee.
“Can you hot-wire a plane?” Ruth asked.
Court poked his head into the Cessnas one at a time, and then he checked the Piper. “I don’t have to. This one has keys.” He pulled off his backpack and threw it inside.
It was a four-seater single-engine aircraft that looked like it had been kept up nicely and recently flown. He checked it for fuel and oil, and then they pushed it out of the hangar and into the pitch-black night, moving as slowly as possible because the nosewheel made a loud and somewhat distressing squeak when they tried to rush the process.
“When was the last time you flew one of these?” she asked as he walked around it, feeling the control surfaces because he could barely see anything.
“When you say ‘one of these,’ do you mean this model, or any airplane?”
“Just answer the question in a way that will make me feel better.”
Court did not answer at first. Finally he said, “I’ve flown a plane before.”
“Oh, God,” Ruth muttered.
The first Jumper van drove slowly with its lights off as it passed through the gates of the airport and onto the airstrip; a straight and level snow-covered lane was cut out of the middle of a grassy and rocky field.
Beaumont turned to Jumper Two behind the wheel. “Park it in the middle of the runway so they can’t steal a plane and take off. We’ll approach the hangar on foot.” He pressed his radio’s call button. “Jumper Three, how far are you from the airport?”
“We’re turning onto the gravel road right now. Say two minutes.”
“Roger that. Close the gate behind you, then park behind us on the strip.”
“Wilco.”
Beaumont leapt from the van. From under his coat he pulled his Micro Uzi, and the two men who exited the rear of the vehicle did the same.
He looked back to Jumper Two. “If you see an aircraft trying to take off, bail out of the van and shoot it. We’ll fan out and approach the hangar across the field, but we’ll wait on the other van before we hit it.”
Court walked around the Cherokee in the dark, feeling the control surfaces because he could barely see them. After satisfying himself the airframe was in good condition, he climbed into the door on the right side of the plane and then moved over to the pilot’s seat.
Ruth climbed in behind him. “How much longer?”
“I’ll preflight for five minutes or so and then…”
“What?”
He saw a van rolling onto the runway in the distance; in front of it, another van sat motionless. “On second thought, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
He turned over the engine. It coughed but started almost immediately.
Ruth saw the two vehicles in the darkness now. “They’re blocking the runway! How are we going to—”
Court pushed the throttle forward, and the little plane began to surge forward.
“Where are you going?”
He rolled out of the darkness in front of the hangar and along the parking lot in front of the terminal. The runway was on his right, and across it he saw men running in his direction.
Court eased off the throttle, then looked back over his shoulder. He spun the plane around in a tight turn here at the edge of the parking lot and held down the toe brakes as hard as he could. He then pushed the throttle all the way forward to the firewall.
The engine roared and the aircraft’s brakes strained against the power.
“What are you doing?”
“You probably don’t want to know.”
“You are going to take off on the taxiway?”
“This isn’t really a taxiway. It’s more like a parking lot.”
They saw a flicker of gunfire from near the rear van, though they could not hear the shooting over the roar of the Cherokee’s engine.
Ruth clenched every muscle in her body, realizing they had no choice but to try to get into the air.
The plastic window next to Ruth tore open as a burst of submachine gun rounds ripped through it. She screamed in shock; Court grabbed her by her head and pulled her down sideways with his right hand, crumpling her over the flap lever between the seats, because the yoke between her knees precluded her from ducking forward.
He kept his left hand on his yoke, doing his best to ignore the gunfire that kicked up snow and sparks on the pavement in front of him.
Court released the brake and the tiny aircraft jolted forward. A hundred yards directly in front of them was the eight-foot fence at the far side of the hangar parking lot.
As they bounced forward into the darkness he said, “Stay down till we’re in the air. As soon as we’re up, I’m going to need to pull that flap lever under you.”
“Aren’t you supposed to extend the flaps for takeoff?”
“They cause drag. Right now we need speed.”
“Don’t they help with lift?”
Court conceded the point. “Yeah.”
Ruth looked up to him. “We need lift, right?”
“We’re going to drop on the other side of the fence. Hopefully I can level it out about five feet off the ground, extend the flaps, pick up speed, and get us the fuck out of here.”
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed.
“C’mon!” Court shouted at the plane, urging it to pick up speed.
Bullets raked the back of the plane’s fuselage now.
Court glanced at his airspeed indicator, but only for a moment. It was irrelevant how fast he was going. He’d gun it as far as possible and then pull up. If he had the speed, they would fly; if he did not, they wouldn’t be able to stop before slamming into the fence, and they would not get a second chance. “C’mon!” he shouted again.
More submachine gun rounds traced by both sides of the cockpit.
Court screamed, “Now! Sit up!”
He pulled back on the controls, nearly jerking them back into his lap. The plane lurched back, its nosewheel popped up, and Ruth screamed at the thumping noise this made. As the plane rose quickly, Court reached between the seats and pulled back on the flap lever, yanking it up toward his armpit with all his might.
The Cherokee leveled off directly above the fence and seemed to stall right there, not thirty feet above the ground. More tracer fire shot by, arcing into the night. Court shoved the controls to the firewall and the nose tipped forward; Ruth screamed as the seat belt pulled against her body tightly and, like a roller coaster, they dropped down toward the snow-covered field.
Court tried to level the nose, desperate to return the quickly accelerating plane back to level flight before they augured into the snowy field. “Go! Go! Go!”
Even over the whine of the engine Court heard frantic automatic weapons fire below him on his left.
Ruth’s stomach had felt like it was in her throat, but now it seemed to shove down into her bowels, and she waited for the inevitable crash.