Too Hard to Handle (Black Knights Inc. #8)(53)
She yelped and rubbed her delightful derriere while scowling over her shoulder. “It’s a good thing I like you, you big Neanderthal!”
He winked and watched her trot toward the King Air, the wind blowing her silky hair every which way. Chelsea met her at the top of the plane’s stairs, ushering her inside. Once he was satisfied she was safe and sound, he turned to see Zoelner shove at Winterfield.
“Move it!” Zoelner yelled.
Winterfield adamantly shook his head, remaining glued to the bench seat. Zoelner shoved his pistol into the traitor’s face and thundered, “Out of the vehicle, *!”
“Fuck you!” Winterfield screeched. “If I get out of this van, I’m a dead man!” And like a toddler refusing bath time, Winterfield curled his fingers around the lip of the bucket bench and braced his sneakers against the seats in front of him.
Despite the wind whipping Dan’s shaggy hair around his face, he saw the look Zoelner shot him. It said, Can you believe this guy?
“Time for a few come-along techniques,” Dan advised, ducking his chin close to the mic on his jacket so he wouldn’t have to yell. “A little well-placed pain always goes a long way.”
Zoelner bobbed his chin and dug a thumb in the wound on Winterfield’s arm. Winterfield screamed like the spineless sissy he was, but refused to release his hold on the seat. And it was like the world was conspiring against them, because right at that moment, the sky opened up. Frigid rain sheeted from the dark heavens and cut like sharp icicles into the exposed skin on Dan’s face and neck.
Okay. Enough is enough!
“Jack Bauer his ass!” he hollered at Zoelner. “We don’t have time for this shit!”
Zoelner gritted his jaw and twisted his thumb in Winterfield’s injury. When that didn’t work, he clocked Winterfield in the jaw. That did it. Winterfield howled, releasing his hold on the seat, and Zoelner shoved him out the door. But before he could hustle the traitor toward the waiting plane, the strangest thing happened. A black truck Dan was pretty sure he’d seen parked on a side street near the square—it was memorable because its bed was stacked with all manner of garden equipment, rakes, and hoes, and whatnot—came screaming toward them down the tarmac.
But that wasn’t the strange part.
Or…at least it wasn’t the strangest part.
The strangest part was the guy hanging out the driver’s side window. His face was obscured by the buckets of rain pelting him unmercifully, but what wasn’t obscured was the weapon he was aiming right at them…
Chapter Thirteen
The lizard part of Dan’s brain registered the danger ahead of his rational mind. His Bersa was out and in his hand before he had time to think about making the move. He had already pulled his trigger when their mysterious assailant’s first round slammed into the side of the van not six inches from Winterfield’s head.
Winterfield screamed. Zoelner cursed. And the sound of gunfire had the three crewmen diving beneath the van.
“Get to the plane!” Dan yelled to Zoelner and it occurred to him that, in keeping with the night’s theme, he’d channeled a little Arnold Schwarzenegger à la the classic film Predator. He very clearly remembered the scene where the Governator yelled, Get to the choppa! It played through his head as he squeezed his trigger again, satisfied when this round slammed into the truck’s front windshield.
It was hard as hell to hit a moving target in perfect conditions. And these were not perfect conditions. His face and hands were already numb from the stinging cold. Icy rain slipped beneath his collar to slide down his back, making it feel like he’d received an electrical jolt.
“Move it!” Zoelner shoved at Winterfield with one hand, the other occupied by his Beretta as it barked out round after round in the direction of the advancing truck. They hustled across the tarmac in a classic scoot-and-shoot maneuver. But they still needed cover. Clearly the driver’s target was Winterfield because another bullet dug into the runway not a foot away from the traitor’s feet.
Employing the slow breathing technique he’d perfected as a SEAL, Dan was able to control his heart rate and stress hormone levels as he dropped down to one knee. He only had three slugs left in his clip. Which meant every single one needed to count. Closing one eye, blinking away the frigid water that clung to his lashes, he took a quick aim and fired. The little Bersa jerked in his hand, the .38 bullet flying true.
Bull’s-eye! The truck’s left front tire blew, the rubber shredding apart, rolling under the rear wheel, and leaving nothing but the bare rim to spark against the blacktop of the tarmac. It forced the driver to duck inside to steady the vehicle as it lurched violently, spilling half of the gardening equipment onto the edge of the runway with a mighty clatter.
Chelsea materialized in the open doorway of the plane, lifted her little Springfield XD-S 9 mm, and started wildly peppering the tarmac, the grass at the edge of the tarmac, and the truck’s front bumper with lead. What the…? A quick glance showed her glasses were beaded with raindrops. The woman couldn’t see a damn thing, but that wasn’t stopping her from letting the bullets fly. Orange flashes blinked from the end of her muzzle, and between the boom-boom of Zoelner’s Beretta, the pop-pop of her Springfield, and the loud roar of the rain falling from the low-hanging clouds, the air around Dan was a wall of sound.