They rose into the air. The lightning sparked all around them, followed by crashing thunder. The rain came harder, pounding on the helicopter’s windshield. Within minutes, it became a deluge. The rain hammered the sides of the copter while the wind buffeted the machine. They pitched and rolled through the night.
“Can we make it back?” White yelled to the pilot, who responded in Spanish.
“What’d he say?” White asked Smoking Man.
“The storm is bad. One hit from the lightning and down we fall.” Smoking Man removed a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He flicked on a lighter. Emma saw his grin by the lighter’s flame.
“You don’t seem worried,” White said.
Smoking Man just shrugged.
The rolling worsened. One flash of lightning lit the entire cabin. Emma thought she could hear the sizzling as it streaked by. The pilot swore in Spanish.
Smoking Man’s bodyguard clutched his stomach, groaning. The lightning illuminated the interior of the helicopter like a strobe light. Emma could see White clutching the sides of his seat. His knuckles went white. Smoking Man smoked. The tip of his cigarette glowed brighter with each pull.
Emma used her legs to brace herself against the metal side of the helicopter. Her left leg had ceased its twitching some time ago. Each time the machine bucked, her back slammed into a steel support. She could feel bruised spots along every inch of her spine. She wished with all her might that she was back on her swollen, blistered feet and working her ruined shins. Those aches and pains were more welcome than this. She railed at God in her head: You spare me from the plane crash and Rodrigo and poison only to kill me now? Some benevolent being You are. If God heard her, the only response was another boom from the heavens.
Lightning struck the helicopter halfway through their descent. One minute they were lowering in a controlled fashion, and the next they were plummeting downward. The pilot yelled an oath. Emma lost her grip on the floor. She skittered sideways until she slammed into the back of Smoking Man’s seat. The bodyguard muttered something that might have been a prayer, and White gave an incoherent yell. Only Smoking Man remained silent.
They landed with a bang, catapulting into the tree line. Emma heard the branches splintering as they plowed through them. The windshield cracked. The helicopter ground to a halt.
Emma lay against the sidewall, catching her breath. She watched the pilot shake his head. White slumped in his chair, breathing heavily. Smoking Man unfolded from his seat. He patted the pilot on the back. The rain poured down the sides of the helicopter, like a waterfall. Smoking Man leaned into White.
“You want to bring her now?”
“I want to get the hell out of this helicopter,” White yelled over the noise of the rain. “We’ll deal with her in the morning.”
Smoking Man gave an order to the bodyguard, who looked pale as death. The bodyguard staggered toward Emma. He pulled her back to a sitting position against the sidewall before handcuffing her ankles together with another plastic tie cuff. He followed White, the pilot, and Smoking Man out into the downpour.
Emma sat in the dark, dank helicopter thinking of Sumner. She pictured Rodrigo torturing him in front of her. The thought was unbearable. She tried to think of options. She could sabotage the artificial chromosome procedure. Deliberately arrange it so it would fail. White was a scientist, true, but only she knew how to insert the chromosomes. The process was tricky and prone to failure, even when she’d done it. White wouldn’t know she’d sabotaged the trials until the formula failed to work. At least she would have bought a little time to make an escape plan.
One thing Emma was sure of; she wouldn’t make the weapon again. If she and Sumner died for her refusal, then so be it.
53
EMMA STARTED AWAKE HOURS LATER. THE LIGHTNING LIT THE interior of the helicopter, throwing eerie shadows. The thunder still boomed, but long after each flash. The storm was losing its force. The rain pattered on the helicopter’s side rather than buffeting it like before. She heard irregular footfalls outside. She listened as someone’s steps crunched toward her, making a strange lurching sound. The rhythm was step, drag, step. She felt a stab of fear.
The helicopter shook. Rodrigo hauled himself into the cabin. He clutched a bottle of whiskey in his left hand and his ever-present machete in his right. The lightning illuminated him. His right side twitched and jerked with a palsy, his right leg bounced back and forth. He tried to raise the bottle to his lips. His hand shook like an alcoholic with withdrawal symptoms. He prevailed and managed to drink a huge swallow. He began moving toward her, his lips twisted in a snarl. The helicopter lit with a huge crash of lightning, then plunged into darkness so deep that Emma couldn’t see Rodrigo. She struggled sideways, pushing herself with her legs while she scooted along the wall. Her panic rose with each second that she couldn’t see him.
The lightning flashed again. Rodrigo was on his hands and knees now, only a few feet away from her. The machete flashed as he used the hand that held it to crawl forward. His entire body convulsed as the poison took over.
“You spilled the antidote. The gringo told me,” he said. He spoke in a jerky fashion, as if he couldn’t control his vocal cords. The helicopter went dark. Emma pushed harder with her legs. Her shoulder hit the end of the cabin. There was nowhere left to go.
The lightning sparked, illuminating the helicopter’s interior like a strobe light. Rodrigo loomed over her, frothing at the mouth. He raised the machete, gasping as his throat convulsed. The helicopter went black. Emma screamed and scrabbled against the floor. She felt her foot hit Rodrigo. He fell on top of her, convulsed once, then stilled.
Emma pushed at his body with her bound hands. She was in a complete panic at just the thought of Rodrigo so close. She managed to move most of him off her. His body pinned her legs to the floor.
She sat that way for a long time. She tried to take deep breaths to slow her racing heart, but each time the helicopter interior lit up, all she saw was Rodrigo’s face, contorted in a death mask. After what felt like forever, the rain stopped and the sky took on a transparent color. Birds started twittering in the trees. She felt the helicopter lurch sideways again. The boy soldier stepped in. He shot worried looks all around, his gaze coming to rest on Rodrigo’s body lying across her legs.
His eyes widened. He pulled Rodrigo’s body the rest of the way off her. He slid his own machete out of a beaded sheath and started sawing at the plastic cuffs around her ankles. When he was finished, he indicated she should turn around to allow him to work on the handcuffs. He had those cut in seconds. He operated in complete silence.
Emma heard a man call a name, somewhere in the distance. The boy’s head shot up. He nodded once to her before leaping out the side door. She was free. Emma didn’t hesitate. She crawled out of the helicopter, which was embedded in the trees. The ground was still wet from the downpour, but the heat was already rising, even though the sun was a good hour away.
She slunk around the copter’s tail. To her right was a dirt road that sloped gently down into the water, forming a boat landing. A long sleek yacht floated in the water not fifty feet from the landing. It bobbed gently in the swells. Its windows were bright spots in the gloom. A deck light shone on the water.
The Daihatsu pickup trucks were lined up at the edge of the landing. They still carried their cargo. Emma could see the boxes labeled BANANAS arranged in neat rows in the pickup’s bed.
She craned her neck the other way. The waning moon broke through the clouds, bathing the area in light. The road opened onto a grassy field that sloped upward and was lined on one side by trees, the other side by the ugly, metallic pipeline. The pipeline sat on four-foot-high tripods, running like a large snake along the trees. In the distance, Emma saw the tip of a column of flame. The pipeline burned steadily.