“Any patrols?” He leaned forward into the cockpit.
The young pilot shook his head. “They’re either sloppy or so overwhelming we see them miles away. We’ll stealth in three klicks.”
“You’re my last flight. Make it smooth.”
Stilton patted the boy’s shoulder, nodding at the mute co-pilot and returning to the cabin. Eleven hours and he was edgy. Reviewing the security details for the game didn’t help. Artito had whisked them out of a pouch in Cheng’s office. Just picking up for Grandma, he’d insisted, bullying the A10 into handing over a copy.
There’d been a top to bottom search of the stadium last night. Old tunnels, passageways, crawl up the butt of every nook in every crevice. Sniff the seats. Two wings of ‘copters, overhead and outside the ballpark. Fighters on alert at Mariah Air Base near Montclair. Navy Seals on stand-by at City Island.
Except for the additional phrase “no visible presence of armed military or police personnel to avoid inflammation,” Cheng had used every bit of the emergency contingency plan that Tomas had devised and updated for thirty years. How to get Grandma in and out of every situation.
Yet he was worried. He wasn’t there, he had no control. Let it go. Cheng’s an ass, but Artito knows what he’s doing. Their shadow security will work. You trained him. It’s only a baseball game. With twenty thousand soldiers who hate Grandma’s guts for surrendering. Why should you be worried?
The ‘copter tipped southeast and the pilot let him know the stealth procedure was being implemented. A hazy buzzing enveloped the craft. Maybe another hour, he thought, closing his eyes, drifting against his instincts.
He felt the co-pilot walk into the cabin and pause, shifting weight into the back foot.
Tomas dove to the left as the heavy knife plunged into the thick seat. He kicked the pilot’s knee out of joint, grabbed a small blade from his hip pocket and slit the attacker’s throat. The pilot turned and fired through the mesh of spurting blood; the bullet ricocheted around the cabin.
Stilton winced at the flesh wound on his thigh. Half-hopping into the cockpit, he shattered the pilot’s right arm; the ‘copter wobbled.
“You’re going to land us, son.” Tomas held the dripping blade against the pilot’s neck.
The young man bit down and convulsed; foam sputtered over his lips. Tomas shoved the body into the other seat and steadied the ‘copter, glancing at the board and easing the craft around, west.
He steadied his breath. When’s the last time you killed someone?
The fuel gauge flickered warning red. Damn bullet must’ve hit a line. The board told him he didn’t have enough fuel to make it home.
A white Allah patrol boat cruised below. Tomas deliberated, cutting the engines and letting the ‘copter glide overhead soundlessly. The boat puttered along obliviously until it was out of sight.
He had enough fuel for about half an hour. He had to get close enough to land.
You couldn’t just send me away, Lenora. You had to kill me, too?
He headed towards the curving coastline of Spain. You said you wanted me to find Abdullah. Well here I am.
• • • •
THE DEVIL CHILD saw them first and tugged at Annette’s sleeve, muttering in Spanish and gesturing with that mop of hair. The same two Miners from the camp were now standing at the back of the unwieldy line at the bus stop. Annette tightened her grip on Clary’s hand and casually led her another few blocks, squirming around the massive crowds who seemed to be swimming in place, punctuated by the blaring of drums now. She had an immense headache.
It was a miracle they made it this far. First there was the fight over the lollies Clary had stolen from the hospital, which she refused to share. Then the little evil thing obstinately standing on the side of the road, insisting on waving to the marching soldiers and shouting “Puppy Beisbol,” defying Annette, daring Annette.
She’d scolded, wagged her fingers, threatened.
“No comprende.” Satan’s Spawn had shrugged innocently.
Should’ve just left her. She could find Puppy alone. Oh no, how could she call herself a sibling if she broke a promise to a pregnant woman. Sometimes she just really hated life and all those people who made it possible.
“Don’t look,” Annette warned. Clary growled softly. She’ll eat me if she’s hungry, Annette decided, frantically looking around, the two Miners getting closer. She nearly pulled Clary off the ground hurrying through the crowd, angrily mumbling apologies.
“Tren.” Clary hopped up and down, pointing.
Annette whispered hotly, “Speak English. Spanish is illegal.”
“Tren, stupido.” She tapped her head and made a loud horn noises; pedestrians smiled at the charming girl with the fat bandage on her cheek.
“Tren. Train. Where?”
Clary clucked disgustedly and dragged Annette into a milling mob shuffling towards the train station a few blocks away. She tried pushing through, but they were jammed. Two New York-bound trains filled up and rumbled away; maybe they moved five feet. The Miners were having better success; their cold murderous eyes were clearly visible.
Clary’s mouth curled in a thoughtful sneer. She suddenly ripped off her bandage, shouting, “Jesus Christo, beisbol, hurry, hurry.”
People stared uneasily at Clary’s scar, stepping aside.
They lost the Miners and made it to the entrance, where Clary turned her face right and left and up and down; as soon as someone frowned or gasped, she darted forward into the gap, Annette ducking and crouching to keep up until they joined the mass of walking talking baseball memorabilia boarding the train.
“Good girl.” Annette smiled.
Something hard pressed into her back.
“Now you be a good girl and come with us,” the Miner whispered, his comrade jabbing a gun into Clary’s spine.
“Let the girl go.” Annette didn’t know where such brave words came from.
The Miner laughed meanly. Clary glanced over her shoulder, her expression scaring Annette.
“Puppy Beisbol.” Clary waved her Yankees cap.
