Stuart Woods: Blood Orchid

Grant fished in his pockets and came up with a pocketknife.

Holly took it and began carving something in the tree trunk.

“That’s sweet of you, Holly, but I don’t think this is the time for you to carve our initials into a tree.”

“Not yours, just mine,” she said, pointing at anH. “Okay, we can go now. I want to go back to the guest cottage.”

“Why?”

“It’s on the way to the airfield, and I want Daisy with me. Come to think of it, my gun is there, too.”

“You take Daisy, I’ll take the gun.”

“We’ll see.” She stopped him at the road’s edge and looked around. “Come on!” She sprinted across the road and onto the golf course. It took her less than a minute to cross the course to the trees on the other side, and she stopped to get her breath.

Grant pulled up beside her. “Jesus, I haven’t run that fast in years.”

“It’s not much farther. Come on.” She jogged off in the direction of the cottage. There was still a light on in the living room, and she looked through a window before opening the door. Daisy was on her feet, alert.

Holly rushed into the room and hugged the dog.

“Hi, Daisy,” Grant said. “Holly, where’s the gun?”

Holly went into the bedroom and came back with her Beretta and two clips. “You think we can risk using the phone to call Harry?”

“We can’t,” Grant said.

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t remember his cellphone number. I had it programmed into mine, and that’s in the back of the van now. Where’s yours?”

“In my purse, back at the clubhouse.”

Holly picked up the phone, dialed nine, and got a dial tone. She dialed a number she knew by heart.

“Hi, this is Hurd,” the machine said, “leave a message.” Holly hung up and dialed another number.

“Wallace,” he said.

“Thank God you’ve got your cellphone.”

“What’s up, Holly?”

“Everything.” Then she stopped herself. If someone was listening, she couldn’t blow the imminent arrival of the FBI. “Call your former workplace,” she said. “And order a six-six-six.”

“Where?”

“You know where. I’m heading for where you found the shell casing.”

“Got it.”

Holly hung up.

“What’s a six-six-six?” Grant asked.

“Doesn’t the FBI have a six-six-six?”

“No. What is it?”

“It means everybody converge with everything they’ve got. Devil’s drill.”

“I hope they don’t think it’s a drill.”

“I hope they don’t start shooting at the FBI,” Holly said, “but we’ve got to getsomebody here.”

A car’s lights flashed across the windows, and there was the crunch of gravel in the driveway.

“Let’s get out the back way,” Holly said, crouching and running. “Come on, Daisy.”

Holly ran out the back door, through the bushes, across a road, and into more bushes. Two minutes later, they could see the landing lights of the runway, ending almost at their feet. Ed Shine’s King Air was sitting on the ramp, near the middle of the runway, and two pilots in white shirts were walking around the airplane, as if to preflight it.

“I don’t suppose you’re a good enough shot to hit the tires of that airplane from this distance,” Holly said.

“How far is it?”

“The runway is six thousand feet, so three thousand, give or take.”

“More than half a mile, with a handgun? Yeah, sure.”

“Me neither,” she said. “We need to get closer to the airplane.”

“It’s all open ground between here and there,” Grant said. “And there’s a moon up there, remember?”

“They’re not expecting us,” Holly said. “And they’re looking at the airplane. Come on.” She got up, crossed the runway, and began running down the opposite side, Daisy keeping pace with her. As she ran, she saw the headlights of a vehicle approaching the ramp, down the road on the other side of the runway. From the direction of the main gate she heard four or five gunshots. She began to run faster. How long did it take to run half a mile?

She could see the van stopping at the airplane and people getting out. Their movements were not leisurely; they were in a hurry. Half a dozen people boarded the airplane.

“We’re not going to make it,” Grant said.

Holly stopped running. They were still at least five hundred feet from the airplane. “We don’t have to,” she said.

“What?”

“I can get a shot from here.”

“Holly, you might hit something with a rifle and a scope, but not with the Beretta.”

The airplane’s engines started, and it began to move.

“They’ve got to use the runway to take off; let’s let them come to us.” The airplane was taxiing down the runway in the opposite direction.

“Where’s he going to go?” Grant asked.

“The Bahamas? The Dominican Republic? Haiti? Wherever he can get fuel, and then he’s off.”

Grant lay down on the ground and pulled his knees up. “Brace on my knees,” he said. “Keep your arm straight and fire one round at a time-no rapid fire. Try for the nosewheel.”

The airplane had turned and was starting down the runway, the two turboprop engines screaming as they achieved full power.

“Don’t pan with the airplane,” Grant said. “Let it come to you, then fire, re-aim, and fire again.”

“Daisy, down,” Holly said. She braced herself against Grant’s knees and took aim about a third of the way down the runway. She reckoned she could get off three shots that had any hope of connecting-one early, one abeam of her, and one late.

“Lead it a little,” Grant said.

The airplane was picking up speed now, and in a second, Holly would fire her first shot. She squeezed off the round and saw sparks as the bullet ricocheted off the runway, a yard ahead of the airplane’s nosewheel.

“Next one is the toughest,” Grant said. “Lead a lot.”

As the airplane drew abeam of her, Holly fired her second round and saw nothing, no effect.

“Now don’t lead,” Grant said.

Holly swung the gun around, aimed carefully, and fired. The airplane’s nose dropped a little, and sparks flew as the tire disintegrated and the metal wheel ran along the runway. The pilot lifted the nosewheel off the ground.

“Shit, he’s going to take off!” Holly yelled.

The airplane rose at a nose-high angle, and the main gear came a couple of feet off the ground. But it wasn’t gaining any altitude. She saw the landing gear come up.

“He doesn’t have enough airspeed,” Grant said. “He’s going to stall it.”

As if on cue, the King Air fell onto the runway from a height of about six feet. The airplane skidded down the runway, turning sideways, then swapping ends.

Holly was on her feet, running, amazed by how far the airplane could slide. Finally, the airplane slowed, then stopped. It was a thousand feet away, and Holly knew the pilot would want to get his passengers off in a hurry. The door fell open, banging on the runway, and people began to pour out.

Grant yelled, “FBI! Freeze! FBI! Stop or we’ll fire.”

From somewhere in the distance, Holly heard the siren of a police car. “That’s my people,” she said.

Then the firing started. Someone in the group from the airplane began automatic fire, but he didn’t know exactly where to shoot, so the shots went wide.

Holly hit the runway on her belly, her gun out in front of her, and took aim at the man with the assault weapon. She squeezed off two shots and heard somebody yell in pain.

“You’re shooting well tonight,” Grant said. “Let’s just stay right here until the cavalry arrives.”

But Holly was already up and running. “Come on, Daisy, stay with me.” She was looking for Ed Shine, and she wanted him badly. She could smell jet fuel now. A tank had ruptured.