TEN
The Sphinx jolted forward as the pilot decreased power to both engines and Brent began a mental countdown, believing he could estimate their altitude.
Who was he fooling? He was counting just to keep his mind off their impending doom. Smoke obscured all view through the window, but it seemed they would hit the ground at any second. They weren’t kidding when they said the waiting was the hardest part. Something buffeted the Sphinx, and he wondered if they’d just taken some fire or hit a downdraft.
Whether they had actually reached RAF Lakenheath remained to be seen. Any solid ground would do for now. He was rooting for the pilot the way he rooted for the Dodgers: with balled fists and pure fury, even when the team was down by ten runs and most fans had already left after the seventh inning. Brent would shove his fourth Dodger dog into his mouth, rise, and with a mouth full of mustard, relish, and hot dog, scream, “Come on, you bums, score a freaking run!”
Their forward momentum began to decrease as the bird pitched forward and descended even more. Brent thought of stealing one more glance through the window to see if the smoke had cleared, but that thought was lost on a terrific boom resounding from the cockpit.
The racket swept over the craft.
And Brent realized they’d struck the ground and were scraping forward because the gear had not fully lowered and locked into place.
That boom had been the gear snapping off.
They began to fishtail like a sports car driver accelerating too hard — and Brent was too familiar with that sensation.
Thrown right, then left, he tightened his grip on the seat rails as the fuselage floor buckled beneath his boots. The cacophony of the impact was muffled only by the sound of his panting into the oxygen mask.
At once a massive crack opened in the deck, and a large piece of the landing gear — one of the wheel arms — burst up into the hold, severed hydraulic lines dancing like bleeding snakes as the nails-on-chalkboard scraping continued.
Brent glanced over at his people, expecting them to be praying some more or cursing or screaming or doing something that would indicate that they were railing against their fate — or at the very least, afraid to die. But there was none of that now. They eyed each other and nodded. They’d had good lives. Done good work. Made a difference. And screw it, if today was the day, they would take it like warriors. Just take it.
In that moment, as he seemed to hang there between worlds, between life and a sudden and horrific death, he never felt more proud of a team. He took a deep breath.
And then, quite suddenly. .
It was over.
The Sphinx burrowed itself into the earth and came to a sudden halt, lying there, somewhere, creaking, the engines still groaning but winding down — as opposed to Brent’s heart, which jackhammered in his chest.
His ears betrayed him for a moment. The world went muffled, almost silent.
And then it hit: the fear of fire and explosion. And the racket returned, the volume on ten. “On your feet! On your feet!” he cried. “Lakota, blow the exit door! Everybody evac right now! Right now!”
Brent unbuckled from his seat and rose, counting off his people as Lakota worked the release mechanism on the side door and the hatch yawned open.
The pilot and co-pilot hustled through the cabin and joined the group. The co-pilot was nursing her left arm but seemed otherwise okay. Everyone was on the ready line to pile out, everyone except the quiet man, Park. Brent saw him still seated in his chair and unmoving. He raced past the line as the others shifted out. He got to Park, found him unconscious, felt his neck for a carotid pulse and got one. Brent wasn’t sure if the fumes had gotten to him or something else, but he unstrapped the guy and took him up in a fireman’s carry. With his knees buckling, he turned for the doorway—
To find a wall of flames blocking his path.
With a gasp, he realized the fire wasn’t coming from inside the Sphinx.
The words slipped from his mouth. “Oh my God…”
Their hot landing and even hotter exhaust had set fire to the brown grass field outside. It was midsummer, and parts of the U.K. had been suffering a record drought. The others had made it out seconds before the ground beneath them burst into flames.
Brent’s worst nightmares regarding an explosion would not play out. He wouldn’t die in a crash and fireball like Villanueva had. He’d die in a grass fire created by the ninety-three-million-dollar taxicab in which he’d been a passenger.
You call that a blaze of glory? Aw, if he died, he’d go to customer service with his receipt for a life well lived and ask God for a refund. He deserved a much more dramatic death.
Then again, he was assuming he’d go upstairs instead of downstairs, where the fires of hell would be fueled by the gas tanks of a million burning Corvettes.
He lowered Park to the deck, his gaze sweeping the compartment for a fire extinguisher.
There! On the wall ahead, near the entrance to the cockpit. He darted for the long red cylinder and tugged it free from its rubberized holder. Smoke now billowed into the hold and burned his eyes. He pulled the extinguisher’s pin as he swung around toward the flames.
The air raid sirens came as a muffled hum from somewhere outside, beyond the boy’s room, and the Snow Maiden paused a moment to prick up her ears and listen.
Patti had warned her about trouble — but nothing quite as dramatic. Were the Russians making a move? She’d expected the Americans or Haussler to show up…
“Is the city under attack?” asked Chopra.
“Those sirens go off a lot,” said the boy. “Usually just a warning.”
The Snow Maiden cocked a brow. “Not this time.”
“How do you know?” the boy asked.
“I know. Both of you — up. We’re leaving.”
“Where are we going?” Chopra demanded.
It didn’t matter if he knew, so she just told him the truth. “Geneva.”
“Geneva? Why there?”
“I know a good restaurant for lunch. Now quiet. Let’s move.” She motioned with her pistol toward the door.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Hussein, rubbing his neck. “You can’t kidnap me. That’s ridiculous. That’s probably not even a real gun.”
She grinned. “You’re right. This is ridiculous. And I have no use for you, so…” She moved toward him, raised the pistol, and felt pretty comfortable about putting a bullet in his head.
“Please,” cried Chopra. “You have no idea who… I mean, he’s just… he’s a boy. There’s no need to kill him. Hussein, you will come with us!”
The kid snorted. “Yeah, right.”
Chopra began to lose his breath. “Hussein, we’ll go with her now.”
“You heard me, old man. I’m staying.”
The Snow Maiden couldn’t believe what she was hearing from this little punk bastard. She walked up to him, smiled, then quickly punched him in the face so hard that he fell back onto the floor. Then she fired a round not three inches from his kneecap. The bullet burrowed into the floor. “Now get up. You’re coming!”
He looked at her, at the gun, then began shaking and struggling to his feet. Chopra went to him, and together
