King dropped a hard elbow into his stomach. He felt the wheeze of a winded man. Using the same hand he thrust up, fist clenched, driving his knuckles into the bottom of his chin, feeling soft tissue and delicate bone crunch under the power of the blow. Lars’ head whipped back and he scooted backwards, heading for the remote. King wrapped a hand around his ankle and tugged him back into range.
He saw the fist coming but couldn’t do anything to move away from it. He was stuck lying on his side in an awkward position, one arm pinned under his bulk, chin up, legs splayed. As he saw the approaching shot he knew it would land. He hoped Lars did not possess pinpoint accuracy.
He did.
Spots of darkness swallowed much of his vision as the fist crashed into his head just above his ear. He wasn’t sure if it was from the force behind the impact or simply the fact that he had been weakened from such a sheer amount of physical conflict in a short space of time. Whatever the case, he reeled back from Lars, utterly disorientated. To make sure he had the upper hand, Lars kicked out with a steel-toed boot, once again hitting his target perfectly.
King’s injured foot.
Searing pain shot up his leg. He let out an involuntary grunt in an effort to manage its effects. The stomp hit him directly above the bullet wound. Coupled with the strike to the head, he knew his body would not respond to his brain’s commands for the next few moments.
Which would be more than enough time.
Lars scrambled away, out of reach. He got to his feet and took a couple of short hurried steps and before Dirk could reach him he’d scooped up the remote and had his finger poised on it once again.
‘Impressive,’ he panted, spitting blood. ‘Very impressive.’
King stumbled to his feet, feeling every inch of movement in his nerve endings. As he rose his knees momentarily buckled. He righted himself and assessed their positions.
Now, there was no hope. Dirk and Kate stood behind him, side by side, unarmed. In his haste to disarm Lars, Dirk had dropped his Barrett. Now he stood weaponless, both hands free. Not that a heavy-duty sniper rifle would do much use in this situation anyhow. King saw his own M&P several feet away, far out of reach. Lars stood near the plane’s open exit door, a large space built into the side of the fuselage to enable multiple skydivers to leap out at once. It had a rolling cover that was currently locked in place, leaving the door wide open. Inside, King saw the stacked crates of anthrax, tied down with thick leather straps.
With his free hand, Lars wagged a finger in their direction. ‘Almost had me, boys. Was worth a shot.’
He paced a few steps to the right and picked up King’s discarded M&P. He raised it, levelling the barrel at King’s head. King stared at the small dark hole, wondering if it would be the last thing he saw.
Then Lars paused.
‘You know what,’ he said, ‘I was going to shoot you all before I left. But I might just leave you here, King. You’ll feel worse when you hear about what I did. When you see the sheer number of casualties. Wasn’t that the whole point of this?’
He shook his head, smiling through bloody teeth.
‘Where are you going to use it?’ King said, his shoulders slumped, his demeanour that of a defeated man.
Lars winked. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’
He turned away from them and stepped up into the P-750. He clambered through to the front. There was no cockpit, just a single pilot’s seat built behind the controls to maximise room for jumpers. Keeping them in his peripheral vision, he thumbed a few switches on the dashboard and the front propellor coughed and spluttered to life, creating a whine that echoed through the forest.
King knew that if the plane took off it would be final. With no aerial transport of their own, they would lose Lars forever. As his gut twisted into a knot he battled the urge to pass out.
‘King,’ Dirk yelled above the roar.
He turned and looked at the man. Dirk stood awkwardly, one hand behind his back, the other hanging at his side. Not a natural position. He was hiding something from sight. As King watched, he brought the hand out into the open. He clutched a leather belt between his meaty fingers. King’s eyes darted to Kate’s waistband. No belt to be seen. Dirk must have unfastened it in the few seconds that he had spent fighting with Lars.
He put everything together.
Dirk turned and heaved the belt as far as he could. It soared high in a broad arc and slapped the runway a few dozen feet behind the plane, well out of range. Then he turned back, just as the plane beside them began to roll away, its wheels slowly turning over, picking up momentum. Within a few seconds it had accelerated faster than either of their top running speeds.
They would not catch it on foot.
The P-750’s propellor made verbal communication impossible. But two years as brothers on the battlefield meant that words were not always necessary. Dirk pointed a single finger at the Hawkei, its engine still running. King knew what needed to be done.
Head throbbing, foot aching, body screaming for rest, he broke into a sprint for the only vehicle capable of catching the plane before take-off.
CHAPTER 42
As the urgency of the predicament sunk in, King felt his heart beating hard against his chest wall, threatening to break through at any moment. He ducked through the Hawkei’s open frame and sat down in the passenger seat.
Ahead, nearly eight thousand pounds of aluminium continued to increase its speed as the P-750 gained traction on the runway. Every passing second meant a higher chance that it would escape.
Dirk shot around the rear of the vehicle and clambered into the driver’s side. As soon as he got both feet inside the footwell he stamped down and the tyres spun, screeching against the tarmac. They shot off the mark, accompanied by the familiar stomach drop that came with rapid acceleration. King leant against the head rest and took a deep breath. The next few minutes were the most important of his life.
There was absolutely no room for error.
The Hawkei had a top speed of eighty miles an hour. He wondered if it could reach that before the P-750 did. He looked down and saw the road blurring outside the vehicle. With no door to protect him he would be as good as dead if he slipped and fell out. He guessed death would be preferable in that situation. It beat having to worry about losing most of the skin on his body.
He forced that thought from his mind.
He knew that a leap of faith would probably be necessary if he had any chance of stopping Lars.
They began to gain ground on the P-750. He narrowed his eyes against the blistering wind, focusing on the task ahead. The Hawkei would approach the plane from the left-hand side. Its large entrance door still lay open. Lars hadn’t had time to shut it. Just in front and slightly underneath the door, the left wing jutted out from the plane’s body.
‘Get me as close as you can,’ King said.
‘You sure about this?’
‘Not at all.’
‘We can pull up alongside and try to shoot him.’
‘It won’t work.’
‘You sure about that?’
King nodded. ‘If we don’t shoot through the fuselage in exactly the right place it’ll be worthless. He’ll just take off. Margin for error is way too high.’
‘He’s close to take-off now.’
King took one last inhale, sucking in fresh air, then zoned in. ‘So let’s go.’
Now almost parallel with the accelerating plane, Dirk swung the wheel and the Hawkei veered in. Its bonnet came close to crushing into the side of the plane, an event that would significantly hinder take-off. But at the last second the P-750 gained an additional burst of speed and began to pull away.