Along Came a Spider (Alex Cross #1)(31)

There was a narrow landing strip on the beach. The hard-packed sand ran on for several hundred yards. The plane was set down easily and expertly. The pilot made a quick U-turn, then taxied straight for a stand of palm trees. It seemed like part of a plan. Every detail in its place. Perfect so far.

There was no quaint island shack here. No small reception area that I could make out. The hills beyond the beach were lush and thick with tropical vegetation.

There was no sign of anybody, anywhere. No Maggie Rose Dunne. No Soneji.

“Is the girl here?” I asked him.

“Good question,” he answered. “Let’s wait and see. I’ll take first lookout.”

He shut off the engine, and we waited in silence and suffocating heat. No more answers to my questions, anyway. I wanted to rip out the armrest and beat him with it. I’d been gritting my teeth so hard that I had a headache.

He kept his eyes pinned on the cloudless sky over the landing strip. He watched through the windshield for several minutes. I was having trouble breathing in the heat.

Is the little girl here? Is Maggie Rose alive? Damn you!

Bugs landed continually on the tinted glass. A pelican swooped by a couple of times. It was a lonely-looking place. Nothing else was happening.

It got hotter, unbearably so. Hot the way a car gets when it’s left in the sun. The pilot didn’t seem to feel it. He was evidently used to this kind of weather.

The minutes stretched on to an hour. Then two hours. I was drenched with sweat and dying of thirst. I tried not to think about the heat, but that wasn’t possible. I kept thinking that the FBI must be watching us from the air. Mexican standoff. What was going to break it?

“Is Maggie Rose Dunne here?” I asked him a few more times. The longer this went on, the more I was afraid for her.

No answer. No indication that he had even heard me. He never checked his watch. He didn’t move around, didn’t fidget. Was he in some kind of trance? What was with this guy?

I stared for long stretches at the armrest he’d cuffed me to. I thought it was as close to a mistake as they’d made yet. It was old, and rattled when I tested it. I might be able to rip it out of its socket. If it came to that, I knew I was in trouble. But I had to try. It was the only solution.

Then, as abruptly and unexpectedly as we had landed, the Cessna rolled back out toward the beach runway. We took off again.

We were flying low, under a thousand feet. Cool air came into the plane. The roar of the propeller was growing hypnotic for me.

It was getting dark. I watched the sun do its nightly disappearing act, slipping completely off the horizon that lay before us. The view was beautiful, and eerie, under the circumstances. I knew what he’d been waiting for now. Nightfall. He wanted to work by night. Soneji liked the night.

About half an hour after dark, the plane began to descend again. There were twinkling specks and spots of light below us—what looked like a small town from the air. This was it. This was showdown time. The exchange for Maggie Rose was about to happen.

“Don’t ask. Because I’m not telling you,” he said without turning from the controls.

“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” I said. Trying to make it look like I was shifting positions in the seat, I gave the armrest a yank and felt something give. I was afraid to do more damage.

The landing strip and airfield were small, but at least there was one. I could see two other small planes near an unpainted shack. The pilot never attempted radio contact with anyone on the ground. My heart was racing.

An old-fashioned Flying A sign balanced precariously on the building’s roof. No sign of anyone as we bumped to a stop. No Gary Soneji. No Maggie Rose. Not yet, anyway.

Someone left a light out, I thought to myself. Now, where the hell are they?

“Is this where we’re making the exchange for Maggie Rose?” I went at the armrest again. Another yank with most of my strength behind it.

The contact man got up from his seat. He squeezed past me. He started to climb out of the plane. He was holding the suitcase with the ten million.

“Good-bye, Detective Cross,” he turned and said. “Sorry, but I have to run. Don’t bother searching the area later. The girl isn’t here. Not even close to here. We’re back in the States, by the way. You’re in South Carolina now.”

“Where is the girl?” I yelled after him, straining at the handcuffs attached to the armrest. Where was the FBI? How far behind us were they?

I had to do something. I had to act now. I stood up to get some leverage, then pulled with all my weight and strength at the small plane’s armrest. I yanked the armrest again and again. The plastic and metal piece ripped halfway out of the seat. I kept at it. The other half of the armrest broke off with a ripping noise like a deep and painful tooth extraction.

Two running strides and I was at the plane’s open doorway. The contact man was already down on the ground, getting away with the suitcase. I dived at him. I needed to slow him until the Bureau got there. I also wanted to flatten the bastard, show him who was doing the controlling now.

I hit the contact man like a hawk striking a field rat. We both struck the tarmac hard, woofing out air. The armrest still dangled from my handcuffs. Metal raked across his face and drew blood. I belted him once with my free arm.

“Where is Maggie Rose? Where is she?” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

To my left, over the shiny darkness of the sea, I could see lights floating toward us, approaching fast. It had to be the Bureau. Their surveillance planes were coming to the rescue. They had managed to follow us.