Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

Any second Moran would come through the office door and the pilot would walk in through the back door. I’d be caught in the middle.

But wait, the pilot was farther away, and Moran was just on the other side of the door. He’d get here first, before the pilot could warn him, then I’d have the drop on him. I held my breath and drew my gun. I’d jam it in his face and force him to release Rita. I stood at the edge of the doorway. My heart did a rumba in my chest as I waited. But Moran didn’t appear. He was still talking in the other room.

“Hold it a minute,” Krause said.

“What, goddammit?”

Too long. The pilot would be here any second. He could be armed. I’d be in the middle of them. They’d all draw their guns and it’d be over.

Hurry up, Moran. Goddammit! Get in here.

“O’Brien’s still out there,” Krause said. “Could be hiding on the other side of that wall, for all we know.”

“Yeah, you could be right.”

Oh, Mother of God! They figured I might be here. My pulse raced. My plan was going down in flames. I’d be nailed after all.

“Get the guards,” Moran said. “I’ll need an escort. I’ll take the girl too. She’ll make a good hostage. I’ll eliminate her in Mexico.”

Christ! If he came through the door with a gun on Rita, we’d never make it. Think, Jimmy, goddammit. Think!

All of a sudden, rapid gunfire from outside shook the room. An instant later the pilot staggered in, blood pouring from his chest. The guards had shot him. Must have thought the guy was me. In the dim light, our eyes locked. He fell on his face at my feet. I recoiled and flattened myself against the wall.

“What the hell?” Moran appeared in the doorway, holding Rita in front of him, twisting her arm behind her back. A cocked gun was in his other hand, pressed against her ribcage. One twitch of his finger, and she’d be dead. The black pouch hung on his shoulder. Moran didn’t see me standing in the shadows.

“Aw shit!” he shouted. “Someone shot the goddamn pilot. Stupid fucking guards! How in the hell am I gonna to get outta here now?”

He shoved Rita farther into the dim room. She struggled, kicking and thrashing, her cries muffled by the tape across her mouth. He stared down at the dead pilot.

Krause shouted from the office, “I think the cops are here! All the guards took off, shooting it out with the cops. I hear gunshots coming from the road. I gotta move!”

Sol’s troops were coming. They’d be here any minute, firing their weapons. Moran would use Rita’s body as a shield. She’d be killed for sure.

I tucked the Beretta in my belt under my jacket and stepped out of the shadows.

“I’ll fly you out,” I said. “Just let her go.”

Moran swung his revolver around.“I don’t trust you. The girl goes with us.”

At first Rita was shocked at seeing me, but now the shock had turned to anger. She shook her head violently and stomped her foot. The words couldn’t escape the tape that covered her mouth, but I knew what she was trying to say. She didn’t want me to fly Moran out. She knew he’d kill me when we landed somewhere; I figured the same thing. But she didn’t know that I had a little surprise in mind for him once we got into the air. I had to stall, though. My plan didn’t include taking Rita along.

“You’ve got two seconds.”

“I said I’d fly you out of here,” I said. “But damn it! Let her stay.”

“Shut up. We’re taking her. If she’s in the plane you won’t try anything.”

I heard gunfire in the distance. The police were still shooting it out with the guards. They’d shoot their way back here any minute, firing their riot guns.

I gestured for Rita to cool it. She understood, but shook her head and glared at me. I had no choice. All three of us would be in that airplane.

Moran stuck his cannon in my face. “Move. If we’re not off the ground before the cops get back here, I’ll kill you both.”

He meant it; he had nothing to lose. “Okay, Moran. Let’s go. But be careful with that gun. Anything happens to her and I swear…” There was no need to finish the statement; he knew what I meant. But with the.38 Magnum in his hand, he probably figured it was a paper threat.

We hurried to the Cessna. Moran frogmarched Rita behind me, the gun in her back, as I moved fast around the slag piles and junk.

After I climbed in the plane, Moran shoved Rita into the back seat. She sat directly behind me. He got in next to her, keeping the gun pointed at her the whole time. He had the hammer cocked, holding it with his thumb. Even if I could draw my weapon, aim, and somehow hit him, his reflexive action would cause his gun to fire, killing Rita.

I cranked the engine to life and eased in the throttle; the Cessna moved forward. Moments later I was gazing down the length of a short dirt runway. I wasn’t much of a pilot. I’d had a few lessons. Susie taught me enough to get the plane off the ground, and how to control it in the air, but I was never any good at short field landings and had tried it only twice. Both times she had to take over the controls at the last minute to bring the plane down safely. I would’ve crashed the damn thing.

I felt the gun barrel tap the back of my head and jammed the throttle to the wall.

The engine howled. The plane raced down the runway. Fifty on the airspeed indicator, then sixty. A building loomed ahead. I pulled back on the yoke. The wheels lifted, but then hit the ground again. The plane bounced, and we were airborne.

Moran shouted, “I thought you said you could fly this thing.”

“Screw you, Moran. We’re in the air, aren’t we? Be careful with that gun. Ease back on the hammer. It could get bumpy. And if she gets shot, I’m going to fly this thing into a goddamn mountain. I mean it!”

He fully cocked the gun, locking the hammer. The barrel was still pressed against Rita, but at least it wouldn’t go off accidentally. “Just do as I say and no one gets hurt.”

Yeah, sure… I glanced at the flight gauges; they were bouncing around, telling me nothing. I hauled the yoke back some more.

The nose shot up, the airspeed fell, the plane shimmied- stall! The warning horn blared. Forward on the yoke until we were level. The right wing dipped, but I brought it back with the aileron control.

Sweat gushed from every pore. I fought the plane and wondered how long I was going to be able to keep it in the air. But then I figured as long as I was flying it, Moran couldn’t shoot me. I took comfort in that thought.

I felt Moran’s breath next to my ear. “Take a compass heading of 180 degrees,” he said.

I glanced at the compass above the windshield. It was tumbling and spinning. But 180 degrees was south, and I was heading north. I pressed the left rudder and turned the wheel in the same direction. The nose of the aircraft veered, the plane rolled through an arch. I stopped the turn when we were pointed in the opposite direction, toward the northern slope of the Calico Mountains off in the distance.

I seemed to have the airplane under control. At least I could keep it in the air. The technique was coming back to me. But navigation was always a mystery, a lot of jargon about bearings, headings, and lines of azimuth and altimeter settings, Zulu this and Zulu that; it made no sense. The wings were level, and we continued soaring toward the mountains.

“Are we at 180 degrees now?” Moran asked.

I had no idea what the heading was. The compass bounced and bobbed, impossible to read. “Yeah, we’re flying at exactly 180. Now what?”

“Tell me when we reach the Mexican border. I’ll give you a new heading then.”