convince unruly civilians to come along without a fuss. Just a little pressure and he could easily bring me to the ground or break my elbow.
I gasped as if he was hurting me. “Let me go. Please.”
He forced me back in the direction of the house.
The pulse of helicopter blades speeding up their rotation registered somewhere in the back of my mind. If that craft lifted off, Julianne was gone.
I couldn’t let that happen.
The man’s training and size would enable him to counter any move I threw at him. My only shot was suckering him into underestimating me. I thrashed against him ineffectively, hoping to convince him this was all I had left to give.
“Knock it off.” He put pressure on my wrist, and I let out a cry of pain that wasn’t entirely acting.
I let him lead me past the pool, and we started up the shallow flagstone steps. Above us, Hawk Nose lowered his pistol. Apparently satisfied that Udelhoffer was under control, he and the other man turned and slipped into the house ahead of us.
Halfway up, I stumbled a little, getting out of step, throwing him slightly off balance. Then I made my move.
I veered toward him and reached down with my free hand, grabbing his balls and yanking them like the handle of a Nautilus machine.
He released my arm, buckling over with a grunt. No matter how much hand-to-hand training a man had, when you went below the belt he forgot everything and tried to protect the goods.
As he leaned forward I slipped to the side, grabbing his shoulder, using his momentum to carry him forward and introduce his head to the stone planter at the top of the stairs. He hit it with a dull
I didn’t know if I’d killed him or merely incapacitated him, and I didn’t wait to find out. I raced down the stairs and past the pool, kicking the shoes from my feet as I ran for the helicopter.
I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d do once I reached it. I had no weapon, no plan. The aircraft was a purple Bell 427, under ten years old. Twin engine, light utility, seated eight. Through the cabin doors I saw four people inside, one of them the pilot, one Julianne. I’d been trained to fly several different varieties of chopper, including more common types used for corporate flying, but I didn’t think they were just going to hand over the keys because I asked nicely.
Voices erupted behind me, but I didn’t turn to look. I ran in a zigzag pattern, waiting for the pop of gunfire, but it never came.
Then I heard grunting behind me; a runner, giving chase.
I straightened course and pushed more energy into my legs. The grass was stiff and harsh against the soles of my feet, jabbing and slicing. The copter backwash was hot, smelled like exhaust, blowing faster and louder every step closer, until I couldn’t hear my pursuer anymore.
But I knew he was still there.
Ahead the helicopter shifted to one side, then started to lift.
I hit a dip in the ground and stumbled to one knee. Pushing off, I righted myself and ran harder.
I could feel the man behind me now, feel his footsteps gaining. I was fast, but in a few strides he would overtake me.
I was nearly upon the aircraft. Sand particles pelted my skin, stirred into the air by the blades. Hair whipped across my eyes. The chopper was now three feet in the air, rising fast.
There was only one thing I could do, and I couldn’t believe I was actually going to attempt it.
Once I passed under the chopper, I leaped for all I was worth. My fingertips hit the right skid. I grabbed on, one hand slipping. The helicopter swayed and bucked and for a moment, and I thought the whole thing might come down on top of me. I made another swipe with my loose hand, and this time my fingers held and the helicopter lifted me into the air.
My pursuer was right beneath me. His arms closed around my legs, binding, holding tight. It was the Tony Montana wannabe.
I twisted, fighting to break free.
The chopper tipped and veered to the right.
I pulled a foot loose and kicked, hitting him in the forehead with my heel, but he wouldn’t let go.
The blades canted, dangerously low to the ground. One hit and it would be over for all of us. I’d seen a bird cartwheel before. They never found all the pieces of the dead.
I pummeled Scarface with my bare heel, the force shuddering up my leg. His hold slipped. He clawed at my knee, locking my ankle in his armpit, but I kept up my assault, driving my foot into his head, his face, as we ascended.
My grip was one of my best skills. I could crack walnuts barehanded. Once, during training, I hung onto an iron bar for six hours.
But I didn’t have an extra hundred eighty pounds gripping my ankles, or the extra g-force of liftoff. Unable to hold on, my left hand slipped off the skid.
My right wrist turned, and I felt like I was being pulled in half. I chanced a look down, saw the ground blurring beneath me, and got a straight shot of fear.
Fear was an ugly, destructive thing. It enveloped you, made you doubt yourself, clouded your thinking and muddied your ability to act.
But human physiology also provided a plus to counter all of those minuses. The fear kick-started my adrenal cortex, and I got a pop of adrenaline that made me feel like my muscles had been electrified.
Screaming against the pain, the weight, I slapped my loose hand up against the skid and doubled my kicking efforts, aiming for my assailant’s nose, feeling each impact shudder up from my heel to my palms.
Say! Hello! To! My! Little! Friend!
Scarface finally let go when we were high enough for the fall to break his neck.
The helicopter rolled in the other direction, and it was all I could do to hold on. The air swirled around me, beating like fists. Tears filled my eyes and streaked my face. Hair lashed my cheeks.
If I lived through this, I swore I’d shave my head.
The copter leveled and rose into the air. My shoulder and chest still ached from Udelhoffer’s blows, and I groaned as I performed a pull-up and hooked my elbows over the skid. Below, the ground receded, and soon we were flying over Long Island Sound.
Vibration from the rotors knocked my teeth together. Pressure squeezed my chest, making it hard to breathe. I had never been fond of heights, but that was nothing next to my hatred of water. I’d never forget the feeling of it closing over my head, trapping me, filling my lungs, pulling me down …
Another shot of fear overtook me, so powerful I almost panicked, and for a moment I thought I might fall.
I closed my eyes, blocking out the sparkling blue below. I couldn’t let myself think of the water, the height. I had to focus on getting control of the helicopter. I could land this one in my sleep. I just needed to get inside.
That meant I had to get the other passengers outside.
I kicked one knee over the skid and looked up into a side window just in time to see the barrel of a rifle— AR15 or M16—staring at me.
I pushed myself forward and flipped head first, diving between skid and the body of the craft. A piece of cake in the gym. A bit more complicated hanging from a helicopter.
Swinging from my hands, I jackknifed my body toward the bottom of the bird, not thinking, just acting on muscle memory. Finding the bracket where the skids connected to the craft, I pulled up and caught it with my knees. I hung wildly like that for a second, upside down, wind beating me, before I could find a handhold and right myself.
I looked up. A gun barrel poked under the fuselage. Then a boot followed, bracing on the skid.
I didn’t wait for him to get a shot lined up. I switched my grip to my hands. Using my stomach muscles, I swung my body as before, and on the second swing, aimed both feet directly at the boot. My heels hit hard, and the boot slipped, followed by the man. The rifle jarred free of his hands and hung by the strap around his shoulder. He caught the skid with his elbows, his legs dangling right beside me.
