the sound track of his fury.
He topped the ridge, headed down. There was a scar in the ground where the chopper had crash-landed. A second later he saw it smacked up against the thick trunk of an oak. The tail was bent, rotor blades snapped off.
Some instinct kicked in. Mike brought the pistol up, approached slowly, trying to walk quietly. He listened for movement, scanned the area. From this angle, he couldn?t tell if the pilot was still in the cockpit or out in the open waiting to jump him. He noticed the US Army markings on the side of the helicopter.
He circled wide, saw the pilot slumped forward. It was a woman. He took this in merely as information. He was fully prepared to kill man or woman alike. He opened the door on the passenger side, reached across, and pushed her back in the seat. A shallow gash on her forehead bled into her left eye.
Mike checked the cockpit, found a purse and a cell phone. He took them. He also found a photo of his nephew. There could be no doubt now that this woman had come to erase Andrew from the face of the earth.
The woman groaned. Her eyes flickered open. She pawed at her eye, wiped the blood away.
Mike checked the purse. Military ID. Also a Kansas driver?s license. Meredith Cornwall-Jenkins.
?Hey,? said Meredith Cornwall-Jenkins. Groggy. ?Hey. I need some?I need some help.? She rubbed the back of her neck. ?Ambulance.?
Mike held up the picture of his nephew. ?Why does the US Army want to kill Andrew Foley??
?Dammit, I?m hurt here.? Her head was clearing now. She took stock of her injuries. ?Get a doctor.?
Mike leaned into the cockpit, raised the pistol, and shot her kneecap. Blood sprayed over the instruments and windshield. Meredith screamed horror, surprise, and pain all mixed together. She clamped both hands over the wound, blood squirting between her fingers. ?Jesus!?
Mike looked down at his pistol. It was the .32. He remembered carrying it from the old days, but he hadn?t remembered what a corny little
?You old f-fucker.? Sweat on her face. She grew pale, then tilted forward abruptly and vomited. The smell rose and mingled with the blood and smoke and fuel leaking from the chopper?s engine.
Mike thumbed the hammer back on the revolver, pointed it at Meredith?s face. ?I asked you a question.?
?N-not the army, you idiot.? She blew vomit residue from her lips, spit. A line of drool flopped over her chin.
?Then who??
?Goddammit! Pull me out of here before that fuel leak catches.?
Mike dropped his aim and blasted a hole in her heel.
She shrieked again, squeezed her eyes shut. Tears. ?Oh?bastard.?
Mike thumbed the hammer back again, but didn?t feel confident. This wasn?t working. Tough lady. He had to think of something else. He remembered he was still holding the purse, opened it, pulled out Meredith?s wallet.
She coughed, spit again. ?What are you doing?? She seemed to be fighting to stay conscious.
He opened the wallet, flipped past credit cards and found a picture. He held it up for Meredith to see. ?Who?s this? Mr. Hired Killer??
?It?s nobody,? she said quickly.
Mike examined the picture. A man in his middle thirties, Robert Redford good looks. ?Maybe I should go see this guy. Maybe we should have a talk.?
?Pull me out of here, and I?ll tell you what you want to know.?
Mike kept flipping through the wallet. ?Your address is on your license. And here are some phone numbers. One says John at work. Is that his name? John??
?You do a thing to him, and I?ll hurt you like you wouldn?t believe.?
