It took a tenth of a second for her to recognize the jagged rattle of a submachine gun. She craned her neck, twisted in her seat, and tried to spot the shooter. She rotated the Cayuse, saw the man standing atop the ruined cabin, legs apart, the machine gun in his hands still spitting fire. At this range, a ten-year-old with a BB gun could bring her down.
She jerked back on the stick, climbed steeply, heading for the hill on the other side of the valley. She didn?t have the angle, clipped the branches of some scrub oaks. She topped the hill and saw a two-story house.
A black woman on the back porch stood with her hands up to her surprised face. She hit the deck when Meredith buzzed the house.
She made a ragged turn. The Cayuse was sluggish, handling poorly. The guy must?ve hit the hydraulic line or maybe some electronics or who the hell could say? She started going down, tried to keep the front up, but it was dead in her hands. Branches slapped the windshield. The ground rose up and introduced itself. There was an abrupt jerk and she hit her head and everything went dark.
* * *
Andrew Foley climbed through the rubble where the back door had been, just in time to see the chopper trailing smoke as it went down over the far ridge, his uncle holding the smoking machine gun.
When they?d first seen the helicopter and it had opened fire, they?d dashed into the house, and his uncle had thrown open the trapdoor in the floor. They?d jumped into the wine cellar. The explosion had blown the lightbulb dead and they squatted in the dark as all hell broke loose above.
Then his uncle had opened the chest, feeling his way in the dark. He climbed the ladder out of the cellar with the Thompson gun under his arm.
Andrew stood next to his uncle now, a revolver in his hand. He?d taken it from the chest. He scanned the vineyard, the barn. It looked like something from a D-day movie, the blasted landscape and thick smoke. It stung his eyes.
He pointed at the ridge where the helicopter had disappeared. ?Did you do that??
Mike ignored the question. ?Keone.?
He ran for the vineyard and Andrew followed. Half the rows were ruined. Others still stood. It didn?t take long to find him. Mike knelt slowly, gathered the boy into his arms. Andrew shivered. It looked like a bullet? a big bullet? had entered his lower back and burst through his belly. He looked at the boy?s face. If not for the blood, it would look simply like Keone was sleeping.
Mike stood, checked the load on the Thompson. It was empty. He dropped the gun and turned to Andrew. ?Give me that pistol.?
The look on his uncle?s face made him take a step back. ?What are you going to??
?I said give me the pistol.?
Andrew handed him the revolver.
?Stay here.? Mike walked in the direction of the ridge.
Andrew took a tentative step after him. ?Maybe I should come too. I can??
?Stay.?
He walked with long, deliberate steps, the gun in his hand swinging at his side.
PART THREE
22
Mike marched up the ridge. Part of his brain registered the steep climb, the ache in his knees and back. Sweat poured down his neck. His heart hammered in his chest.
Something white-hot behind his eyes blinded him to the pain, commanded his knees and heart to obey. He walked in a perfect straight line to the wrecked chopper, the hate humming through his body like an electric current. It buzzed hot in his ears, tingled his fingertips where he held the revolver. The roar of blood pulsing in his veins was
