Stuart Woods: Orchid Blues

"The time is now. Ham," John said.

Ham turned and looked at him. He was standing as far away as he could get, sweating as if air conditioning had never been invented, and he was holding a 9mm semiautomatic pistol in his hand, pointed at Ham.

"You think you need a gun to get me to do this?" Ham asked.

He turned back to the window, grabbed the Barrett's rifle, smacked a clip home and sighted through the scope, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. This was going to make a mess; he hoped no innocent bystanders would get hurt, but there wasn't a lot he could do about it.

Holly abandoned the taxi under the portico of the Savoy, and, with Daisy running by her side, sprinted through the lobby, ignoring the elevator and racing up the stairs, two at a time, her weapon in her hand.

"Halt, police!" A man screamed at her from somewhere behind. She ignored him and turned a corner. At the top of the stairs she began running, checking room numbers. She was at two-fifty when the cop yelled at her again.

"I'm on the job!" she shouted over her shoulder. "I'm a cop! Follow me!"

Ham drew a fine bead on his target. It was a perfect setup: no wind, clear air, prominent target. Steady as a rock, he took a deep breath, let out half of it and squeezed off the round. A second later, the sound of an explosion could be heard.

"Did you score?" John yelled, keeping his back hard against the wall.

Ham smiled and stepped back. "See for yourself," he said. "Don't worry, nobody's going to shoot back at us."

John reached the window, and his eyes grew large.

Across the street, a couple of hundred yards away, dead level with Ham's window, smoke and flame poured out of another hotel room, where the other Barrett's rifle had been set up. In the street, the motorcade, instead of stopping, had picked up speed and was tearing up the boulevard at a great rate of knots.

Then their attention turned to the door of the room, from which a loud noise had just erupted. John seemed frozen in place. Ham reached over and plucked the pistol from his hand, and at that moment, Holly and a uniformed Miami police officer both exploded into the room, yelling, "Freeze!"

John threw his hands into the air, and Ham turned and smiled at Holly. Then the police officer shot Ham in the chest.

Holly swung her pistol hard into the cop's face, before he could fire again. He fell to the floor, clutching his nose and yelling. Daisy was at his throat.

"Daisy, release!" She grabbed the cop's pistol from his hand and threw it across the room. "That man is with me!" she screamed at him, then she ran to Ham's aid.

John sprinted past her and was out the door. Daisy was still straddling the cop, baring her teeth.

Holly let him go and bent over Ham. "I'm so sorry," she said. "Can you talk?"

Ham nodded. "See if it went through," he gasped.

Holly rolled him on his side. There was an exit wound high on his right shoulder. "Yes," she said.

"Is there a lot of blood?"

"A fair amount."

"Then you go get John. He's on the way to Opa-Locka. He flies a Malibu, tail number one, two, three, tango foxtrot. If he gets to that airplane, he's gone. He could make Mexico."

"I'm going to stay with you," she said.

"Do what I tell you, girl. I'm going to be fine, trust me. It's not the first time I've been shot."

"All right, then." She kissed him on the forehead, then ran to where the cop sat on the floor, blood streaming from his nose. She snatched the radio microphone from where it was clipped to his shirt and pressed the button. "Officer needs assistance at the Savoy Hotel, room two-ten. Second man down with a gunshot wound to the chest, needs an ambulance, alert the nearest trauma center. Got that?"

"Got it," the operator replied. "Who are you?"

Holly handed the stunned cop the microphone and patted his pockets until she found his car keys, then retrieved them. "You explain it to your dispatcher," she said. "And you take care of that man over there. He's an FBI agent, and they'll be here soon." The cop nodded, and Holly ran.

"Let's go, Daisy!"

She got the police car started. "How do I get to Opa-Locka airport?" she yelled at the doorman. He gave her directions. She switched on all the car's lights and sirens and floored it.

With her free hand, she punched the redial button on the phone.

"Yeah?" Harry said.

"You sonofabitch," she said, "why has this number been busy?"

"Sorry, what do you want?"

"Ham is in room two-ten of the Savoy Hotel with a bullet in his chest. An ambulance is on the way."

"What happened?"

"I don't know, but I think the president is in town, or was. My guess is he's headed for Air Force One right this minute. Now listen, John is headed for Opa-Locka, and I'm about a minute and a half behind him in a Miami police car. If he gets to his airplane, he could go anywhere, so you shake it, Harry! Call the tower and tell them not to clear him to take off. Better yet, close the goddamned airport!"

"I don't understand-"

"Don't even try, just move!" Holly closed the phone and concentrated on her driving. She wished to hell that she knew what kind of car John was in.

John was in the maroon van. "Just drive at a normal speed," he said to the driver. "We don't want to attract attention. How long to the airport?"

"Ten minutes," the driver said. "Where's Ham?"

"He couldn't make it." John picked up the car phone and called Opa-Locka. "Hi," he said, "my airplane, a Malibu, N123TF, is parked there. Can you tell me where the lineman put it?"

"Let me see," the woman said, consulting a list. "It's to the right, as you exit the terminal. You need fuel?"

"It was fueled last night," John said. "Please be sure that no one's blocking me, that I can taxi straight out. I'll be there in five minutes."

"Okay," she replied, and hung up.

John sat back and collected his thoughts. Then, from somewhere behind him, he heard a police siren.

Holly saw a sign for Opa-Locka, and she made a high-speed right turn in a four-wheel drift, and ricocheted off a bus, but she kept going. She was weaving in and out of traffic, which wasn't moving out of her way fast enough.

The van came to a halt outside the terminal. John opened the door. "You disappear," he said to the driver. "Get word to the board that I made it out. I'll call as soon as I can."

"Got it," the man said, then drove away.

John made himself walk at a normal pace through the terminal building. He went straight through onto the ramp, and the airplane was where it was supposed to be. Then he heard the police siren, close, and he started running.

Holly followed the signs to the ramp gate and slammed on her brakes at the intercom, switching off the siren. She pushed the button. "Police! Open the gate now!"

"What?" a woman's voice said.

"This is the police! Open the gate!"

The gate began to slide slowly open.

John got the airplane's door open, got inside and secured the door. No time for a preflight, no time for anything. He got into the pilot's seat, switched on both magnetos, both alternators and the master switch. He opened the throttle half an inch, pushed forward the mixture control to prime the engine, switched fuel tanks and repeated the procedure. The fuel gauges read full. He hit the starter button; the prop turned for three or four seconds, then the engine caught. Slowly he moved the mixture control all the way forward, then he opened the throttle more. The airplane did not move. He had forgotten to remove the chocks on the nose wheel. "Shit!" he screamed. He applied full power, and the airplane overrode the chock and lurched forward at speed. People on the ramp were running to get out of his way.

Holly spun the tires getting through the gate, then she was on the ramp. She stopped and looked around at the airplanes parked there, searching for a Malibu. She saw two, but they had the wrong registration numbers. Where the hell were Harry and his people? Then she heard the sirens. "Thank God," she breathed. Then she saw the airplane. It was taxiing out of the ramp area toward the runways, and she could plainly see the number painted, in twelve-inch numerals, on its fuselage. She switched on the siren again and floored the car.