Dewatre’s face appeared in the cockpit window.
John snapped off a shot at him, and the window starred, but Dewatre had already ducked back out of sight.
John maneuvered toward the wings, ducked under the fuselage, and used the left main landing gear for cover as he waited for Dewatre to come down the stairs. Dewatre couldn’t wait too long; for once, time was John’s ally. The plane couldn’t be moved until someone moved the Jeep and the gunfire was sure to bring airport security and the local police in a hurry. But then, perhaps Dewatre had a diplomatic passport. If so, he would be immune to prosecution in the US. John didn’t want to have to deal with police. He could probably make bail, but sooner or later Holdren would show up and then there wouldn’t be any hope of bail. No, if Dewatre didn’t come down those stairs soon, then John would have to go in after him.
He raised his head above the edge of the wing and tried to see in the small ports. He saw no one but saw an emergency exit over the wing.
Placing his hands on the top of the wing, John lifted himself. His right shoulder burned with pain, but he pressed on until he could swing his legs onto the wing. He rolled over and faced the main door, still no sign of movement. Why in the hell wasn’t Dewatre coming out?
John got to his knees and peered into the nearest window.
There was Caitlin, just six feet away. She looked unconscious.
Dewatre had to be in the cockpit. If John had to shoot out a window, Dewatre would be on him before he could get inside. There was nothing to be done for it. John studied the emergency exit. As he had expected, there was a release from the outside.
He holstered his gun, then popped the latches, and lifted the hatch upwards and inwards until it cleared the lip of the opening. John pivoted the hatch and pulled it back through the opening.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Dewatre had finally emerged from the plane.
Spinning, he hurled the hatch toward Dewatre. The hatch struck him just as he fired and his shot went wild. He tumbled down the stairs. John dove into the plane’s cabin and drew his own weapon.
Another man was coming out of the cockpit, carrying a Beretta. He raised it to fire, but John put three rounds into his chest, driving the man backward out of sight.
Keeping one eye on the main door, John moved alongside Caitlin and shook her. She didn’t respond.
On the table in front of her was the open case of the helmet and a syringe. A single drop of blood was visible on the left side of her neck.
“Damn bastards!”
John felt for a pulse. It was strong but slow. Whatever Dewatre gave her had put her under, but hadn’t killed her. They still wanted her alive. John thought he saw movement by the door and snapped off two more shots to keep Dewatre from being too daring.
John gripped Caitlin’s coat in both his hands and lifted, but there was unexpected resistance. He looked closely and for the first time noticed the handcuffs that fastened her left wrist to the arm of the seat.
From somewhere outside came the sound of sirens.
“Enough is enough,” John growled to himself.
He set his weapon on the table and gripped the seat arm with both hands. Bracing his feet, he pulled up and back. The metal resisted for a moment, then with a screech, ripped free from the seat.
Keeping an eye out for Dewatre, John dragged Caitlin closer to the cabin door. He retrieved his weapon, closed the case on the helmet, and set the case on the floor next to her.
He peered out the main door but saw no sign of Dewatre. Had he decided to cut his losses when the sirens started or was he hiding somewhere, waiting for another shot at him?
There was only one way to be sure. John leapt down the stairs onto the pavement. He executed a painful tuck and roll, checked his six, dropped quickly and rolled twice to his right until he was beside the Jeep. With his back against the fender, he rose into a crouch and searched for Dewatre.
There was no sign of him in the bright hangar.
The fender moved against his back. Not much, but enough to indicate someone’s weight compressing the Jeep’s springs. John turned, raising his weapon, expecting to see Dewatre aiming at him.
He saw Dewatre, but not aiming at him. He was in the driver’s seat. John fired at the same time the Jeep lunged forward. Dewatre ducked down. The Jeep cut hard and went straight out of the hangar as John emptied the magazine at the fleeing vehicle.
John ejected the magazine and loaded a fresh one, but the Jeep had disappeared into the snow.
Had he hit Dewatre? There wasn’t time to find out. The sirens were louder.
Running for the jet, John holstered his weapon. He stopped on the top step, pulled Caitlin to him, and lifted her onto his left shoulder. Grabbing the case in his right hand, he turned, took the three steps to the pavement, and turned toward the hangar doors.
Dewatre walked toward him, not thirty feet away, a Glock 19 raised in his right hand.
“Surprised to see me?” Dewatre asked and moved closer.
John backed away, keeping the distance between them. “Somewhat. I thought you’d shown sense by escaping while you could. I guess I was giving you too much credit.”
Dewatre laughed. “No, I believe you have underestimated me. You see, I have known about you for several years now. Ever since you first interfered with an operation I was shepherding. I made a point of looking up your
