As the cuffs came loose, he held them securely, a slight twist sending the message to her right wrist. He didn’t move, but stood still, blocking her against the open door. The gun was gone, replaced by his hand clamped on the back of her neck.
“Do you understand me?” he said.
“Yes.”
Tapia had not snapped the loose end of the cuffs to either himself or anything else, and she knew that if she could break free from his grip, she could outsprint him easily, leaving him alone and vulnerable in the open. Would he shoot her if she broke away? Probably not. There would be no point. A wounded or dead hostage was of little value at this point.
“Now,” he said, still not moving. “Come with me.” He pulled away, a little more twist on the cuffs bringing her right arm behind her, canceling her ability to strike out, left hand braced on her neck. She could feel him using her as a crutch, his weight shifting with each painful step. She could feel his breath on her neck, and every time he winced with pain she could feel his hands clench.
Ten shuffling steps brought them to the hangar door. He pushed her against it, arm wrenched behind her. An instant later, breathing hard, he reached past her with his left hand and inserted a key into the lock. “The owner is most accommodating,” he whispered. The door yawned open, the interior air of the hangar musty and oil-tinged.
Jim Bergin had not had the time to replace locks-nothing had spurred him to such urgency-and Hector or his father had had the foresight to make a duplicate when they discovered the original hanging from the Cessna’s ignition.
Tapia pushed her inside, hand once more on the back of her neck, but the twist in the cuff chain relaxed just short of discomfort.
“Come,” he said. The hangar was dark, the shape of the Cessna cut by sharp lines of light from the open door. “Give me your left hand.” His moves were quick and practiced, and before she understood what he actually intended to do, he had cuffed her around the smooth sloping wing strut. Always, his body was pressed close to hers. “You will excuse my discourtesy,” he said. “But I find this leg all but useless.”
With a flick of the other key, he unlocked the airplane and in a moment appeared with a slender plastic fuel sampler. He hopped with one hand against the airplane, sometimes both, and by the time he had completed only half a circuit, Estelle could see that his face was soaked with sweat. Doggedly, he found a way to stop at each wing fuel drain, and once under the engine cowl. He drained a small sample from each, scrutinized it closely, then flicked it out on the hangar floor. She watched him examine the airplane, hand stroking down the leading edge of each propeller blade, then a stop at each control surface. The tour took several moments, and more than one gasp of pain when he failed to find the support he needed. He finally returned to where she stood, manacled to the strut.
“So,” he said, and shrugged. “You may ask what is the point of checking the airplane at this moment. And you are right. If it works, it works. If not, well…” He shrugged again. “Old habits, you know. Sometimes they cause us trouble. But now, we see.”
He pulled himself past her and half-limped, half-hopped to the hangar door. The bolt shot open with a loud clang, and he leaned against the door, rolling it open on its coasters. He stayed behind the heavy framework, protected by the shadows and the rolling wall of steel. As he guided the door, he looked east toward the airport’s FBO office. Satisfied, he lurched back to her. “Do I trust you?” he asked. With him standing close to her now, she could see that his face was ashen from the pain.
“To do what?”
He grinned, despite his obvious discomfort. “I could leave you so, you understand.” The image of her cuffed to the wing strut, first jogging along beside the plane on the taxiway, and then dragged down the runway, to hang like a broken rag doll as the plane lurched into the air, was not the finish to this day that she would willingly choose.
“When my son steps into the airplane,” Tapia said, “you will step out. That is my word. That is why I choose the other runway, señora. There will be less of an audience, fewer complications.”
“And if your son is not there?”
“Ah,” Tapia said, moving toward her wrist with the cuff key. “Let us hope that does not happen. If that is the case-if I do not see him standing alone on that deserted runway-then we go on to Mexico, you and I. What happens to you there, I cannot guarantee.” He popped the lock of the cuff around her right wrist this time, holding the link securely. The gun was out of sight, perhaps stuck in his belt behind his back.
“The sheriff said there would be two people in the convertible. Let us hope it is the correct two people, no? From the air, it will be very easy to distinguish. I’m sure they will do the right thing. They will want you back, no?”
Twisting hard on the cuffs, he spun Estelle’s left arm behind her, the force making her gasp. His right hand now clamped on her neck, he pushed her to the airplane. The grip of his large, beefy hand on her slender neck was paralytic, and spots danced in her vision. “Open the door.” She reached out and fingered it open, and once more he used his entire body to block hers. With almost a negligent swat, he yanked her left arm down, swung the empty cuff and caught the bottom seat bracket, then snapped the cuff ratchet closed.
“You don’t need to do this,” she said.
He laughed and stepped back. “Ah, but I’m afraid I do.” He paused, his grip on the back of her neck almost gentle once again. “At one time, I had the opportunity to hold a jaguar kitten,” he said. “Perhaps no more than a month or two old. So beautiful he made the heart ache. But intent on doing damage unless held just so.” He released his hold on her neck. “Get in the airplane.”
To do so, she was forced to turn around, backing close to the fuselage, then pushing and pulling herself up onto the narrow, plastic-upholstered seat. With her left hand cuffed to the seat frame, she could not straighten up fully, nor could she launch any effective assault on the right-seat occupant.
With gentlemanly care, Tapia made sure that body parts were not caught in the door, then slammed it closed. He then limped around the airplane to the aft cargo door on the right side. She felt the aircraft lurch as he pulled himself inside. In the cramped confines, there was no easy way, no graceful way, to move forward between the two front seats. With a broken ankle, the performance must have been torture. When he finally slumped into the right seat, he leaned his head against the window, but for only an instant. He reached around, brought out the automatics and slipped it into the door boot, within easy reach.
Taking a deep breath, he regarded the instrument panel for a moment.
“I realize that even with only one hand free, you can cause no end of trouble,” he said. “Another pair of handcuffs would be useful, but…” He shrugged. “I will break your right arm if I have to. You understand that? If you endanger the aircraft, you endanger yourself. You must balance this, you see. Do you want to return home this evening to your family? I’m sure you do. Is it worth it to sacrifice yourself, leaving your family to suffer your loss, merely to apprehend me? I don’t think so.” He gazed at her thoughtfully and when she said nothing, he slipped the Beretta from the pocket and pointed it at her right forearm. “Decide quickly.”
The bullet would shatter the arm bone, or bones, and then if she was unlucky, the deformed slug would punch into her right leg. “You have my word.”
“Good. You are as intelligent as you are beautiful.” He slipped the gun back into the door boot. He flicked the master switches on, and something deep inside the aircraft began to spool up, a high-pitched whine of electronics. With practiced skill, he set the mixture and throttle, and then paused. Estelle realized that he was searching for a comfortable way to rest his left foot on the rudder pedal. She knew, from several hours riding with Jim Bergin over the years, that the brakes were integral with those pedals-Tapia would be working with a serious disadvantage, unless he wished only to turn right once the engine started.