In addition to the throwing star he had strapped to an ankle, Henson had a hunting knife affixed to the other. He approached the man who’d crudely addressed him. The other two tensed. He knew better than to be making a habit of burying knives in white men—but still.
“I’m not here for a job. I’m here to borrow one of your motorcycles. Or shall I tell Miss DeHavilin just how goddamn rude you were?” His friend owned a fair amount of stock in the enterprise.
“You’re Matthew Henson,” said one of the others. He was in dungarees and sweat-stained shirt. I’ll be,” he muttered.
“That’s right.” Henson and the mechanic stared challengingly at one another.
“Come on, then,” said the other man.
Reluctantly he broke eye contact and walked out with the one he presumed was Culver. He took him over to an Indian Scout with saddlebags.
“You do know how to handle one of these babies, don’t you? That there has 750 ccs.” He glanced from the bike to Henson. “Miss Lacy said give you the best.”
“I haven’t spent all my time on dogsleds,” Henson answered. He took a leather helmet with goggles off a shelf, and after mounting the motorcycle, got it running. “Much obliged,” he said and rode out of the messenger service. Sure enough, using the map that Tesla had drawn, he got to the airfield in the wetlands.
Roaring up, he saw the experimental airplane outside a hanger. Three people were standing near it and turned toward him as they heard the motorcycle approach. Then there was the report of a shot, and a head exploded in red mist.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Henson purposely slid the motorcycle out from under him as the next shot punctured his front tire. He rolled on the ground like someone afire and smothering the flames. Quickly, he was up in a crouch and running to where the other two had scrambled behind the plane.
“Run, Matt,” Bessie Coleman yelled.
“Who you tellin’?” he shouted back.
Another shot from the rifle sunk into the asphalt just behind where he was running full bore. He dove, and crawled to make it to the side of the plane to join Coleman and the mechanic Shorty Duggan.
“Any idea on who the hell’s shooting?” Henson said.
“Damned if we know,” the older man said.
“And that poor bird?” Henson said, pointing at the dead man.
“That’s the fella Hugo sent over to see about our security,” Coleman said.
“Shit,” Henson said.
“Yeah,” she agreed.
Two more shots rang out, puncturing the aircraft.
“Bastard,” Duggan swore. “He’s gonna tear apart our beauty, then us.”
Henson looked over at the fresh corpse, then looked into the hanger. “Got an idea.”
“You tend to have dangerous ideas,” Coleman said with a tight smile.
Henson went past the two, heading toward the tail end of the craft. From there, it was a open space to the hangar. Too bad he didn’t have one of his smoke bombs with him. He turned back to Coleman.
“Can you make this contraption smoke?”
“I see what you’re getting at,” she said.
“You’ll burn out the wiring,” Duggan cautioned.
“You like being a sitting duck?” Henson retorted.
Duggan groaned, but said no more.
Fortunately for them, the door to the plane was on their side and they hoisted Coleman inside, not bothering to lower the step ladder. She cranked the engines as a gunshot shattered part of the windshield.
“Bessie,” both men cried out.
“I’m fine. Get to it,” she called.
She started the engines, careful not to flood them with too much fuel least they stall out. Like with a car and the mixture being too rich to burn off completely, she caused black smoke to eddy from the engine ports. As the cloud billowed, the dead man was obscured. Henson dashed to his body, having seen the man had a gun in a shoulder holster. He liberated the weapon. The smokescreen drifted in such a way that it provided cover for a running Henson. Though rifle shots punctured the shifting pall, he reached the hangar intact.
Henson grabbed a gas can, swishing it to make sure there was fuel inside. With that and an oily rag, he paused, waiting for the drifting black-grey smoke to snake back toward the plane. He then hopped on the wing strut opposite Coleman’s pilot seat.
“You ready?” he said.
“No choice, in another minute or so, the engines will be fried.” She released the brakes and began taxiing the plane, the smoke from the over-burdened engines blowing across the windshield. The shooter tried, but couldn’t get a bead on the engine—at least not yet. They knew where the shots were originating, the sun was glinting off the long gun’s barrel at the edge of the airfield among a copse of white pines.
The Skathi’s frame shuddered and one of the engines threaten to seize as a bullet punched into its metal shell. Still, the craft rolled forward even though one of the tires had been shot and was losing air fast.
“Now or never, Matt,” Coleman yelled. “She’s about to shut down.”
“I hear you.” Henson had climbed atop the wing. At first, the smoke hid him, but now as the plane heaved to a stop, the propellers stalled, and his cover was beginning to dissipate. He felt his pockets, swore, and on his stomach, bent down to the cockpit.
“You got any matches?” he asked Coleman.
“Flare gun,” she said, reaching for it where it was clamped inside the pilot’s side door. The smokescreen was almost all gone, drifting upward into the clear skies. She handed it to Henson.
On a knee, Henson threw the can of gas as the sharpshooter continued blasting rounds into the wing and body of the plane., flung himself prone on the wing again, and shot the flare at the soaring can of gas
