He shook his head. “NUMA leases executive jets and helicopters with turquoise color schemes. Why do you ask?”
Julia tapped Pitt on the shoulder and pointed over the stern at a yellow ultralight that was chasing them down the river. “If they're not friends, they must be foes.”
PlTT TOOK A FAST LOOK OVER HIS SHOULDER AT THE AIRCRAFT rapidly closing over the wake of the Chris-Craft. He recognized it as an ultra-light, a pusher-engined, high-winged monoplane with tricycle landing gear and tandem seats for two people. The pilot sat forward, out in the open, with his passenger behind and slightly elevated. The airframe consisted of aluminum tubing braced with thin cable. Propelled by a lightweight, reduction-drive, fifty-horsepower engine, it could move fast. Pitt guessed it was capable of 120 miles an hour.
The pilot was flying directly over the middle of the river no more than forty feet off the water. He was good, Pitt admitted. The air currents swirled through the narrow canyon in a series of strong wind gusts, but the pilot compensated and kept the ultralight on a straight and level course. He was coming after the runabout intentionally and purposefully, like someone who knew exactly what he was about to do. There was no hesitation and no uncertainty about who was going to end up the loser in the coming unequal contest. God knows Pitt had no doubts, not when he saw a man strapped in the seat behind the pilot holding a stubby machine pistol in his hands.
“Force everyone to get down as low as they can,” Pitt ordered Julia.
She spoke in Chinese, passing on Pitt's command, but the runabout's passengers were already so overcrowded in the small cockpits they had no place to go. All they could do was settle as low as humanly possible in the leather seats and duck their heads.
“Oh, dear lord,” gasped Julia. “There are two more of them about a mile behind the first.”
“I wish you hadn't told me,” said Pitt, hunched over the steering wheel, willing the runabout to go faster. “They're not about to let us escape and spread the gospel about their shady operation.”
The lead ultralight roared so low over the speeding Chris-Craft, the draft from its propeller blades whirled a cloud of spray that dampened the occupants of the boat. Pitt expected to hear gunshots, see holes appear in the smoothly varnished mahogany, but the aircraft passed on without attacking. It pulled up sharply, its tricycle landing wheels missing the runabout's windshield by no more than five feet.
Kung Chong sat strapped into the rear seat of the ultralight bringing up the rear and gazed with smug satisfaction at the speeding runabout below. He spoke into the transmitter attached to his crash helmet. “We have the boat in sight,” he reported.
“Have you commenced your attack?” asked Lo Han from the mobile security vehicle.
“Not yet. The lead plane reports our quarry is not alone.”
“As we suspected, there were two of them.”
“Not two,” said Kung Chong. “More like ten or twelve. The boat appears crowded with old people and young children.”
“The devil must have found a family camping along the river and forced them into the boat to act as hostages. Our adversary, it seems, will stop at nothing to preserve his life.”
Kung Chong raised a pair of binoculars with one hand and peered at the passengers huddled in the dual cockpits. “I believe we have an unforeseen problem, Lo Han.”
“We've had nothing but problems for the past twelve hours. What is it now?”
“I can't be certain, but it appears the occupants of the boat are immigrants.”
“Impossible, the only aliens brought ashore are either confined, on their way inland or dead.”
“I could be mistaken.”
“Let's hope you are,” said Lo Han. “Can you fly close enough to identify their nationality?” asked Lo Han.
“For what purpose? For me to eliminate the devil responsible for the destruction of Qin Shang's yacht and the infiltration into the alien holding cells, those who are with him must die too. What difference if they are Chinese or American?”
“You are right, Kung Chong,” acknowledged Lo Han. “Do whatever you must to protect the enterprise.”
“I shall give orders to launch the attack.”
“Be certain there are no spectators in the vicinity.”
“The river is clear of recreational craft, and the shorelines are empty of people.”
“Very well, but keep a sharp eye. We cannot afford eyewitnesses.”
“As you command,” said Kung Chong. “But time is running out. If we do not destroy the boat and those in it within the next few minutes, all opportunity will be lost.”
“Why didn't he fire?” asked Julia, squinting against the glare from the morning sun on the surface of the river.
“A hitch in their assassination plans. They thought I worked alone. He's reporting to his boss that I'm loaded to the gunwales with passengers.”
“How far to Grapevine Bay?”
“A good twelve or thirteen miles.”
“Can't we pull onto shore and take cover in the trees and rocks?”
“Not a practical idea,” he said. “All they'd have to do is land in the nearest clearing and hunt us down. The river is our only chance, slim as it is. You and the others keep your heads down. Let them wonder where I picked up a load of passengers. If they're looking closely they'll spot the folds on your eyelids and realize you're not the descendants of European ancestry on a picnic.”
The venerable Chris-Craft covered another two miles of river before the lead ultralight dipped low over the river and increased speed, its nose aimed menacingly at the runabout. “No more peaceful intentions,” said Pitt calmly. “He means business this time. How good are you with a handgun?”
“My qualifying scores on the range are higher than most of the male agents I know,” she said as matter-of-factly as if she was describing her latest hairdo.
He took the bundle from under his seat, unwrapped the towel and handed her his old automatic pistol. “Ever shoot a Colt forty-five?”
“No,” she answered. “When required, most of us at INS pack a Beretta forty-caliber automatic.”
“Here are two spare clips. Don't waste your shells firing at the engine or fuel tank. As a target, it's too small to hit on an aircraft passing overhead at more than fifty miles an hour. Aim for the pilot and the gunner. One good body shot and they'll either crash or head for home.”
She took the .45, twisted around in the seat so she was facing backward, flipped off the safety and cocked the hammer. “He's almost on us,” she warned Pitt.
“The pilot will roll and come over us slightly off to one side, giving his gunner a clear shot downward,” Pitt said coolly. “The instant he lines us up in his sights, shout out which side he's passing, left or right, so I can zigzag under him.”
Without questioning Pitt's instructions, Julia gripped the old Colt with both hands, raised the barrel and lined up the sights on the two men perched in front of the wings and engine as it soared down the river. Her face showed more concentration than fear as her finger tightened on the trigger.
“On your left!” she called out.
Pitt threw the runabout in a sharp turn to the left, staying with the ultralight. He heard the quiet staccato burp of an automatic weapon with a suppressor on its muzzle, mingled with the loud thunder of the old Colt, and saw bullets lace the water only three feet alongside the hull as he cut under the ultralight, using its underside to mask the runabout from the gunner's view.
As the ultralight shot ahead, Pitt saw no trace of injury to the pilot or copilot. They looked as if they were enjoying themselves. “You missed!” he snapped.
“I could have sworn I scored,” she snapped back furiously.
“Ever hear of a deflection shot?” Pitt lectured her. “You've got to lead a moving target. Haven't you ever hunted ducks?”