Chapter 24
The helicopter had already landed by the time Amira ran through the chain-link fence gate and up the hill. A Bell 505, the smallest utility helicopter in Bell’s production line, the blue and white chopper sat on the pavement thirty yards away from the nose of the Air Force One replica as Trevor Emerson stepped into the open cabin on the passenger side. A man and a woman stood near the ticket booth at the bottom of the drivable passenger stairs that led up to the hatch of the plane. The downdraft of the rotor wash whipped around them, and they huddled together in the waning daylight.
Amira ran as hard as she could towards the helicopter, intent on maximizing her only chance to prevent Trevor Emerson from escaping justice. Her eyes were glued to the cockpit, but she wasn’t fixed on Trevor. The pilot’s the only way. She didn’t know who the man was, his history, what family he had. All that mattered was that he’d agreed to act as a get-away pilot for a traitor, and that fact alone sealed his fate.
As she grew closer, the helicopter lifted into the air as Trevor took the co-pilot’s chair on the right and watched Amira through the plexiglass. She was less than thirty feet away when she stopped and raised the SIGSAUER P229 9mm pistol and trained it on the pilot, who was focused on a clean takeoff so close to the Air Force One Experience. The helicopter continued to climb, but not quickly enough. Even though her sights were placed on the upper body of the pilot, she saw the look of fear appear on the face of Trevor and was pleased at the reaction. Time to test my aim. She pulled the trigger slowly, and the accurate 9mm pistol bucked in her hand.
A spiderweb appeared in the cockpit glass where the pilot’s face had been, and Amira pulled the trigger again. More holes appeared in a perfect grouping. She waited for a response, but the helicopter hung suspended in the air, thirty-five feet above the pavement. Did I miss?
The nose of the helicopter suddenly lurched and tilted forward as if tipping over, its nose pointed to the ground. The two people near the ticket booth were jarred from their amazement, and they turned and fled under the left wing of the Boeing 747 away from the helicopter.
The helicopter shot forward and down, and Amira realized her aim had been true – she’d struck the pilot, and he’d pushed the cyclic flight stick forward and turned the throttle, which both dipped the nose and accelerated the revolutions per minute of the rotors. The Bell 505 shot forward directly towards the upper cockpit area of the Air Force One replica.
Oh no, Amira thought, and turned away from the inevitable.
In a tremendous roar that seemed to rip the world apart, the rotors of the Bell 505 slashed into the aluminum skin of the 747, tearing chunks of the shell away in pieces that flew in all directions, skipping across the pavement. The bird dug into the airplane, burrowing itself deeper as its engine disintegrated and the rotors broke apart, including a huge piece that tore a chunk of concrete three feet away from Amira’s head as she lay prone on the pavement, her hands over her head in defensive but useless protection. And then the world went silent, the unfolding destruction over.
Amira looked back in awe at the 747 and the Bell 505 that now lay partially buried within the nose of the plane, its cockpit swallowed whole. Smoke rose from the ruined engine on top of the helicopter, but there were no flames. That’s one small mercy. But there’s still one last thing to do.
Amira strode purposefully towards the stairs, which had escaped the destruction. She had to confirm that Trevor Emerson was dead or alive. The day could not end without it.
Chapter 25
John cringed in pain as he took the steps two at a time, his back throbbing from where he’d crashed into the railing. He hit the ground floor, ran past the hostess station, and exited the same way he’d entered less than ninety seconds before. There was blood on the sidewalk, and the skewer lay discarded. If nothing else, I hope the bastard dies of some kind of foodborne illness, he thought wishfully.
He looked in both directions and heard shouts from around the curve to the right. He broke into a run, the pain in his back transitioning from the stabbing phase to the dull, throbbing phase, relieved at the slight improvement.
He rounded the corner and spotted Samuel less than a block away, crossing the street in a sprint in front of a Starbucks. Come on, man. Why do you have to make this so hard?
John ignored the pain, tapped into his reserves, and ran faster, his eyes tracking Samuel. While the skinny African was fast, John was faster, and he’d already reached the midpoint of the block when Samuel disappeared to the left around the corner.
John knew there was no chance Samuel could escape, but he also knew the man’s fight-or-flight mode was fully engaged, and there was no shutting it off until he’d been caught. John had participated in too many chases like this one, and just like high-speed police pursuits, they usually ended only one way – with dramatic destruction and the suspect in custody or dead. And it’s your job to make sure no one else gets hurt.
John reached the Starbucks on the corner to his left and kept running. National Plaza Street curved to the right along the water, with the Redstone American Grill restaurant on the left. Just past the restaurant was the entrance to the pier, which was where Samuel was when a second police vehicle squealed to a stop in the middle of the street. Unarmed,
