Stuart Woods - Shoot Him If He Runs

Stone waved to them.

The two pilots walked up. “We’re looking for Stone Barrington and Holly Barker,” one of them said.

“I’m Stone, and this is Holly,” Stone said. “This is Bill and Annie Pepper.”

“Hi, I’m Ken Smith,” the pilot said, and this is Bob Harkin, my first officer. Bob will get your luggage loaded while I see about refueling.”

Teddy descended through the undercast and, to his delight, popped out of the clouds at his first waypoint, but the tear in the wing was now a gaping hole, and he was having great difficulty flying in a straight line; he couldn’t get it to point at the runway. The ultralight was slowing down, too, and he was worried about stalling. He increased power; there was no other choice.

The drag on the right wing was moving him to the right of the airport as he approached, and he knew he would not be able to turn left without stalling. In desperation, he allowed the little plane to make a right turn, hoping to gain some ground. He made a slow 360-degree turn, and 30 degrees before he completed it, he let the craft descend toward the airport. He didn’t care if it made a runway; all he wanted was level ground.

In the end, he made a taxiway next to the runway, bounced a couple of times and was finally in control again. He taxied the length of the runway toward the hangars at the other end, then turned behind a row of them, out of sight of the tower. With luck, they wouldn’t have seen him at all.

He found his hangar, shut down the engine and worked the combination lock, then he got the hangar door open and pushed the ultralight inside, under the Cessna’s high wing. He closed the big door behind him, switched on the lights, and unstrapped his bag and put it into the passenger seat of the Cessna 182 RG, then he got the first aid kit out of the luggage compartment and went to work on his leg. He injected a local anesthetic, then took off the tourniquet and began irrigating the wound from both ends with a squirter and hydrogen peroxide.

By the time he had cleaned the wound, the local had taken effect, and he sutured and bandaged the wounds. He checked his watch. It had been more than two hours since he had left St. Marks, and that was too much time; he had to get out of Nevis without further delay.

He opened the hangar door, picked up the towbar, which was already attached to the nosewheel of the Cessna, and pulled the airplane out of the hangar. He closed the hangar door, to hide the ultralight, locked it and got into the airplane. He could hear a siren in the distance.

He primed the engine, and it started immediately. Teddy didn’t bother with the checklist but started taxiing immediately. As he cleared the row of hangars he saw a police car parked in the middle of the runway, its lights flashing, and another police car was headed his way down the taxiway. He had only one choice.

He rolled onto the taxiway and shoved the throttle forward. The airplane began to roll down the taxiway, directly toward the oncoming police car.

“One of us is going to have to give,” Teddy said aloud, “and it isn’t going to be me.” The only question left was what the police car would do. Then it did the worst possible thing: it screeched to a halt, and its two occupants bailed out, leaving the car in the middle of the taxiway.

Teddy glanced at the airspeed indicator: forty knots; not enough. He reached over, put in full flaps and yanked back on the yoke. He didn’t have enough airspeed to fly, but maybe he had enough to jump. The airplane shot up about six feet, and Teddy struggled to get the nose down again. It came down hard a few yards behind the police car, still at full throttle; he was lucky he hadn’t blown a tire. Teddy reduced the flaps by a notch and after a moment he had rotation speed for a short-field takeoff. The airplane began to fly.

He looked over at the runway and saw the two policemen standing next to the other patrol car, their weapons drawn. They began firing, and he heard something hit the fuselage behind him. No stopping now.

He reduced flaps as he climbed into the overcast, then, when he was above it, turned toward the northwest, toward Puerto Rico; he wanted the police to hear the airplane going that way. He climbed to eight thousand feet and waited ten minutes, then turned back to the south. He was at optimum altitude now, and he pulled back the throttle to cruise and leaned the engine to best economy.

Now he went through the previously neglected checklist, then switched on the avionics and entered the identifier for Santa Marta, in Colombia, into the GPS. He would not fly there; instead, when the Colombian coast was in sight, he would bear to the east, toward the Guajira Peninsula, a region notorious for drug trafficking, where no questions were asked when you wanted fuel.

From the Guajira, he would head west to Central America, perhaps Panama, perhaps Costa Rica, and find a nice, rural airstrip. If that felt inhospitable, there was always Mexico, to the north.

Half an hour later, St. Marks was to the east of him, under the clouds, and he knew the airport had no radar. Teddy now had air transport, money and identification that would work anywhere in the world. He began to feel something very like peace. He had done good in St. Marks, but there were other countries that needed him. He flew on south, into the future.

The Hawker was refueled now, but surrounded by policemen, and Thomas’s posturing and pleading was not having the desired effect.

“You know,” Stone said to the others, “I don’t think I want to be questioned by a new generation of cops on this island. What do you say we get on the airplane and make a run for it?”

“They’d just shoot out our tires, Ken Smith said. “Let’s let your friend keep talking to them.”

Then something odd happened: the cop who appeared in charge began listening to his handheld radio, then talking into it. Stone strained to hear the conversation, but couldn’t. The cop walked over to Thomas and waved an arm.

Thomas smiled and walked back to the group. “The police say they have arrested the assassin,” he said. “You’re free to go.”

Stone heaved a big sigh of relief. “Who do you think they arrested?”

“I have no idea,” Thomas replied.

Stone gave Thomas a big hug. “It was a great stay, Thomas, and we thank you for your hospitality.”

“It was a pleasure having you,” Thomas replied.

A moment later, they had said their good-byes, boarded the airplane and closed the door. The pilots ran through their checklist, started the engines and began to taxi.

Holly grabbed Stone’s hand. “Something else is going to happen, I can feel it. We aren’t out of here yet.”

Stone squeezed her hand. “Shut up, Holly.”

The airplane reached the end of the runway, turned and began to roll. A few seconds later they were climbing through the overcast.

As they climbed on top of the clouds, Stone looked out the window and thought he saw an airplane below them. “Look at that,” he said to Holly.

They both looked out the window.

“What? I don’t see anything.”

“I thought I saw a small airplane, heading south,” Stone said. “But it’s not there anymore.”

“I’m glad I didn’t see it,” Holly said.

Late in the afternoon they landed at the little airport in Manassas, Virginia. As they taxied to the ramp, Holly looked out the window and saw Lance standing next to a car. Behind that was another car, a black Lincoln.

Holly was first off the airplane, with Daisy, and she walked over to where Lance stood.

“You landed the airplane in Florida for that animal?” he asked.

“I have nothing to say on that subject,” she said.

The fuel truck arrived and began its work. Holly went over to Stone. “I think we’re out of here,” she said. “You’ll be in Teterboro in an hour.”