Sean Black - Deadlock

There was a whirr beneath them and a hard clunk as the landing gear went down.

The Marshal pounded on the door. ‘You need to get us back up in the air.’

The cabin door opened and a shaken co-pilot stood there. He had a SIG P250 in his hand, no doubt a precautionary measure in case Reaper had somehow overthrown his guard.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he demanded.

‘We got a problem on the ground. Abort the landing,’ the Marshal barked.

Lock could see the trees below rushing in on them fast. Dead ahead, a police cruiser was making its way on to the runway. The two armed figures who’d been standing behind it were now nowhere to be seen.

‘It’s too late,’ the co-pilot replied. ‘Get back to your seats, now!’

They were almost on top of the trees; then, for a fraction of a second, they were below them. Lock and the Marshal turned round just as the plane’s wheels made contact with terra firma. The jolt sent both of them tumbling back down the aisle. Lock grabbed an arm rest to steady himself as the pilot slammed on the brakes.

Through the window next to him, Lock could see the police cruiser driving parallel to them, a female deputy at the wheel. The look of terror on her face told him everything he needed to know about the situation they’d just landed themselves in.

Chance was shouting instructions from a prone position on the rear bench seat of the police cruiser.

‘OK, now slow down.’

Hulsey took her foot off the gas. The plane sped past them, revealing the three SUV transfer-convoy vehicles five hundred yards away on the apron.

‘Now, lower the rear window.’

‘Please, don’t do this,’ Hulsey pleaded.

‘Lower the goddamn window, bitch.’

Hulsey did as she was told, her fingers trembling.

Chance grabbed the RPG launcher from the footwell and took aim at the rear SUV parked on the apron. She pulled the trigger, the recoil throwing her back on to the seat. Clawing her way back up, she watched as the SUV took a direct hit, the impact of the grenade twisting the frame and punching the SUV over on to its side.

So much for the counter-attack team, she thought.

Beyond her, Chance could see Cowboy and Trooper making their move, emerging from their positions and laying down covering fire as they made their way towards the two remaining SUVs. Rounds pinged off the vehicles. She spotted Trooper stopping to reload as Cowboy let off a three-round burst from his M-4. She smiled as Trooper finished the reload, his moves sharp and balletic, so at odds with his shambolic appearance.

The passenger door of the lead SUV opened and a Marshal appeared in full tactical gear. Trooper, lying flat on the floor in a sniper position, took aim and shot the Marshal full in the face from a hundred yards. The Marshal’s mouth caved in on itself, dragging his nose and eyes with it.

Chance grabbed a fresh RPG round from her backpack and rearmed the launcher. It took her a moment. In front, Hulsey was yammering into her radio: ‘Officer down, officer down! Back-up requested immediately!’ Chance ignored her. The pleas were already redundant; not even a factor. The Marshals on the ground and the pilot of the plane would already have communicated to the authorities in Medford and beyond that there had been a different sort of welcoming committee than the one they’d anticipated.

She finished reloading and looked at the digital timer hooked to the front of her bra. They had three more minutes.

Reassured that they were on schedule, Chance hefted the reloaded RPG launcher over her shoulder again and aimed for the lead vehicle.

She hit it dead centre. Another Marshal emerging from it took the full force of a front panel of the vehicle as it was blown from the carcass. His arms were ripped from his shoulders and arced behind his back and up into the air, landing just a few feet from her.

Chance threw the launcher back into the vehicle, opened the driver’s door and pulled Hulsey out by her hair, leaving her on the runway. Then she clambered into the driver’s seat, threw the cruiser back into drive and took off after the plane.

In the cabin, all Lock could hear was the sound of explosions on the runway behind them. The plane was slowing dramatically, and behind him the remaining Marshals were scrambling to the windows, trying to get a visual on the unfolding chaos. Better than anyone else on the plane, Lock knew there was only one objective in a situation like this: get the hell out of it.

Lock stormed the short distance back down into the cockpit and pushed past the still open door which was swinging back and forth on its hinges.

‘OK, we need to turn this thing round and get back up in the air,’ he said, assuming command.

Brody, the Marshal in charge, was standing behind him, his face pale. ‘We have armored vehicles on the ground, we can still make the transfer,’ he said, doing a bad job of trying to inject an air of authority into his voice.

‘What the hell do you think those explosions we just heard were?’ Lock demanded.

‘I’ll need clearance from air traffic control,’ said the pilot.

Lock put a hand on the pilot’s shoulder and squeezed hard, trying to snap the guy back into the real world. ‘Do you have fuel, and is there enough runway behind us if we turn round?’

The pilot looked at Lock like he’d just been asked for the square root of pi.

The co-pilot seemed to be faring slightly better. ‘We’ve got enough fuel to get up but not to go anywhere.’

‘Enough to circle for ten minutes and get back down again?’ Lock asked.

He checked the gauge. ‘Sure.’

‘And what about taking off? We got enough runway between us and those trees back there?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good.’

The pilot was still staring wall-eyed at Lock. ‘But we need clearance.’

Lock did the only thing he could under the circumstances: he opened the palm of his hand and slapped the pilot hard enough across the face to pull him back to reality. ‘Forget the clearance and do your job or we’re all going to die. Do you understand me?’

The pilot rubbed his cheek, his pupils dilating, the sting of the slap acing the shock he was already in. He nodded, and turned his attention to the controls in front of him.

Lock turned to Brody. ‘You going to second me here?’

Brody hesitated as the nose of the plane slowly swung round, giving them a head-on view of the twisted, smoldering wreckage of the SUVs. Then he squared his shoulders. ‘Let’s do it.’

Chance flicked on the lights and siren, then buried the gas pedal of the cruiser. The plane was turned towards her now, but it had come to what looked like a temporary stop. Behind her, Trooper and Cowboy had jacked the remaining Marshals Service SUV, Cowboy executing the driver on the runway as they did so. The female cop had suffered a similar fate as she’d tried to crawl her way across the debris-strewn runway.

Chance skidded to a halt next to the door side of the plane and waited. She could see men’s faces at the windows peering out. No sign of Reaper though. He’d be last out.

She started as the twin engines growled back into life, a warm tide of gasoline-air blowing her long hair from her blackened face. The whine of the engines grew more insistent, rising in pitch and volume, then the pilot slipped the brakes and it was careering down the runway.

She slammed down on the gas, one-eightied the cruiser and took off after the plane. But it was a losing proposition. Even though the aircraft wasn’t the fastest thing on three wheels, it was still more than a match for the piece-of-shit Crown Vic she was helming.

She gestured frantically at Trooper and Cowboy in the SUV, who took the hint and drove their commandeered SUV directly across the flight path, reaching the centre of the runway near to what she imagined would be the take-off point of the JPATS plane.