Chapter 7
Left behind by her colleagues, Jo Santini spent the next fifteen minutes staring at the radio as though by sheer will she could force it to activate. Though no combat pilot, she was wise enough to know better than to initiate contact with the Hawke's; in the middle of aerial battle, a distraction to either one of them could well prove fatal. No, radioing them would be a bad idea. And without weapons and in this tub of a chopper, she couldn't even contribute to the fight. There really was nothing for her to do but wait.
Frustrated, she chewed her nails one by one, wishing for the first time in her life that she smoked. At least then she'd have something to do while she waited. Yeah, stain my teeth, smell up my hair and commit slow suicide all at the same time, she thought sourly, deciding to buy a pack of gum when she got back instead. She'd look like a cow chewing the stuff but at least she wouldn't die of cancer.
"I hope this is worth ruining my manicure over," she grumbled aloud, glaring at the chipped nail polish and torn cuticles that had cost her forty dollars only last week. "Come on, guys, if you don't hurry I'm going to be starting on my toenails next. Blech." But even this dire threat proved ineffectual and the radio remained silent. Jo leaned her head back and shut her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply and allowing her mind to drift. She still couldn't believe that that was actually Stringfellow up there flying Airwolf! The explosion was so fresh in her mind, the image of the young man being flung backward by the fireball too recent. He had been comatose for nearly a week, burned and bruised, bleeding from a dozen fragment wounds, and ... She didn't want to say it even now. ... dying.
Even more vivid was her slow-motion flight to Uncle Dom's side. Contrary to expectations, he hadn't died immediately. An explosion is a perverse thing; it can blow you apart or it can blow you away, the latter having been true in Santini's case. Shot forty-two feet, according to a morbidly detail oriented paramedic, Dominic had come to rest on the tarmac awash in flames but more or less in one piece ... more or less. His limbs had been mangled where he'd hit, and she hadn't even been sure how much of his right leg had been left at all. Everett Logan, Santini Air's ex-part time mechanic, had been the one who had run up with a blanket, smothering the fire and taking charge until the ambulance had arrived, while Jo, too numbed by the tragedy to even think, had concentrated on talking to him in a low, quivering voice to try and defer the onset of shock.
She shuddered, remembering his glazed brown eyes staring up at her from an almost unrecognizable face, seared lips opening and closing wordlessly for several seconds until with great effort they came together to form one word. "String."
"He'll be all right," she remembered choking out, believing the younger man to be already dead despite Everett's dubious assurance. "So will you. You have to be!"
They hadn't let her see him in the trauma unit -- he'd lived long enough to make it that far, at least. According to a brusque hospital administrator in a business suit, it had been the shock that had taken him even more than the burns and fractures. He'd passed away suddenly, his sixty-two year old heart simply ... stopping. The funeral had been a closed casket affair on the mortician's recommendation; she'd agreed. No one needed to remember Uncle Dom the way he looked after the blast. She was glad String didn't. She wished she didn't.
She also wished she knew who had done that to him. And to String. The police had no clues and offered no theories, and even that man in the white clothes, Michael, hadn't been able too offer anything. According to him, the Company -- the Firm, he'd called it -- was perfectly happy to leave Airwolf right where it was, where they could use it -- and Hawke -- and where the Pentagon, National Security Agency, F.B.I. and assorted other bureaus couldn't. The Company had clashed with String on a hundred occasions, but according to Michael there had been nothing recent.
She opened her eyes to find herself staring at the airspeed indicator, which even now sat at zero. Could the assassination have had anything to do with Saint John's imminent return? After all, everything went up not long after that Buchard jerk had pulled Saint John Hawke away from the Cambodians. She'd asked Michael that but even he couldn't find a connection. He had promised to continue looking, however, and she believed him.
"Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III." Feeling itchy, she rose to wander the helicopter, smiling as she repeated the name. It was quite a mouthful, though its formality seemed to suit him somehow. And it certainly beat a name like Stringfellow! She'd liked Michael on sight even after finding out who he was. The elegant white clothes and courtly ways were undeniably charming, his intelligence and sense of competence inducing trust. She grinned to herself. "All that and he's cute, too. Could a girl ask for more?"
A scowl marred her smooth forehead. More, maybe, like the name of a murderer?
Biting her lip hard, she slipped out of the cockpit into the spacious cargo bay. In previous use as a troop carrier, the helicopter was designed to hold many more than the three men she was going in for. She concentrated, forcing herself to see the steel constructed body rather than that lingering, ghastly sight of her uncle and her childhood friend lying on the concrete, forcing herself to contemplate the happinesses following the funeral. After all, Saint John Hawke was back from the war after fifteen years, alive and well!
A happiness, indeed, and she embraced it gratefully. She'd heard the horror stories about POWs left too long in enemy hands -- had seen Holocaust movies in abundance -- and wept to think that Saint John was suffering a like fate. She didn't know what she'd expected when they went into Burma after him. A zombie, a semi-articulate walking skeleton, perhaps. That he'd emerged from his experience a whole man, she'd considered a grace that nearly offset the pains of losing String and Uncle Dom.
There was history between them, after all. Saint John had been so handsome as a teenager! And had had the privilege, such as it was, of being her very first crush. She chuckled, remembering his reaction to that! He'd been fourteen when he and String had moved in with Uncle Dom, and she had just been reaching an age when girls start to notice boys. Visiting Uncle Dom the summer after the death of the Hawke parents, she'd exercised her new-found feminine license by hanging around Saint John constantly, always with an excuse, however lame, to play shadow. Saint John had taken it all with remarkable composure for an adolescent, enduring Stringfellow's childish teasing over her with little more acknowledgment than to occasionally cuff the younger boy's ears when he got out of hand. She hadn't cared -- she'd swatted String for it herself (secretly relieved that he never hit her back), mooned over Saint John, and slowly grown into a woman. Of course, by then Saint John was long gone.
But Saint John was back! Older, perhaps, and more worn, but still the foster cousin she'd adored as a child. Childish crushes long gone and adult affection firmly in place, she allowed herself to dwell on him as he'd looked only hours earlier, back at the cabin. There was leanness where powerful muscles had once covered the big bones, and the thin face was only now starting to fill out, shadows sobering once-dancing eyes. There was no light-hearted merriment left, none of the unguarded accessibility that had once endeared him to her even if his shields weren't so iron-clad as String's. Well, not on the surface, anyway. He wasn't the same man that had gone to Viet Nam so long ago, but he could be again. She was confident that, given a little time and motherly nurturing, he'd break out of the cage those fifteen years had woven and become the Saint John Hawke she'd thought gone forever.
She kicked an empty oil can with the toe of her boot, sending it careening off the Huey's closed hatch with a dull clang, the noise breaking through her happy reminisce and sobering her again. Worry chased joy over the second man in her family equation. Maybe Saint John would recover from his lengthy ordeal -- and she couldn't bear to entertain the possibility that he would not -- but would Stringfellow ever be as he was before the war? There was comfort to be found in the knowledge that, contrary to her prior belief, he was alive and recovering from the blast that had killed Santini. He'd been injured every bit as badly as Uncle Dom and might have succumbed himself had he not had the strength of youth on his side. But that was only physical; emotional recovery was a whole other matter as Marella had pointed out.
Four years ago she'd been on one of her rare visits to Uncle Dom, and he'd taken her up to visit String at the cabin. Reserved as always, Hawke had suffered her to hug him hello though the tenseness of rejection had communicated itself through her brief touch. He'd cooked dinner -- fish -- for the three of them and even asked her politely about her new job ferrying copters across the country, though she could tell his mind was far removed from the answers she was giving. Dom's happy chatter covered the young man's characteristic silences as a rule, but this time there was something more and she could tell. She'd asked Dom about it as soon as String had gone out for wood for the fire.
Santini had tried to brush it off, only relenting when he'd realized the seriousness of her concern. "Awww, honey, you'll have to excuse String tonight. He's been in Washington all week with one of those veteran's associations -- you know, the ones that investigate MIA rumors?"
"Any word of Saint John?" she'd asked more out of politeness than hope. Back then she'd been as certain as everyone else that the elder Hawke brother was long dead.
His sad headshake was almost unnecessary. "Turns out the photos were all doctored -- some merc trying to scam funds for a phony mission. One of the guys there told me String broke his jaw for him." String had returned then with an arm full of wood and they'd broken off the conversation at once, but it had occurred to her then that she'd instinctively avoided meeting the young man's eyes all evening, and she could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen a genuine smile on his face since he'd returned from Viet Nam. When he walked back into the room she made a point to look directly at him.... It was a long time before she ever did that again. Desolation could be even more terrible to share than hatred.
But wouldn't that change now that Saint John was back? String had always been serious, even as a kid, but he'd known how to laugh back then, and had had a mischievous streak that invariably meant fun. Put him and Saint John together and they could make her giggle for hours on end! Wasn't happiness something you could relearn?
She climbed back into her seat, leaning back against the head rest. Of course, it was, she decided firmly. A little maternal prodding would do wonders in that direction, too. "You'll see, Stringfellow Hawke," she said resolutely. "See if you can resist the combination of your brother being back and the Santini charm ... another Santini's charm for long." She clenched a small hand. "If Uncle Dom could break through that shell of yours, I can too. ... Uh ... can't I?" But to that there really wasn't an answer; maybe once they'd all had a chance to heal. Yeah. Maybe.
A muscle cramped in her back, the result of too much unrelieved tension. She groaned and jabbed at it energetically, actually glad for an excuse to banish her thoughts but no happier to be left with her present worries. Had they made it through the defenses? If this Haversham screen was as deadly as they all said, could even Airwolf make it through? What if Mike was correct -- what if String wasn't recovered enough to handle the action? The past ambushed her again, a bloodless gray face on hospital issue linens, a body so damaged that death had seemed inevitable. A weak voice begging her to continue the search for Saint John....
"Oh, String," she whispered, feeling a stinging behind her eyelids. "You've just got to make it! You both do. I don't want to lose you both again!"
She continued her massage and her back was just starting to loosen when there was a loud squawk from the radio and Saint John's hearty hail came through. "Jo?"
She leaped for the mike, snatching up the headset and turning the selector until she could hear through it. "Right here!" she called, practically singing with relief. They'd made it! "Are you two all right?"
Saint John chuckled, and Jo thought he sounded almost obscenely smug considering the circumstances. "We're fine. We're outside the Casa's walls but there's no sign of Jason or Mike yet. Begin your run but be careful; I think we took out the trash but we might have missed something."
She was cheered to hear String's voice chipping in with real confidence, "We didn't miss anything." She put her hands on her hips. Well. Good. So long as he was sure.
Jo took another calming breath and was pleased to see that by some miracle her hands were not shaking. It wasn't a lack of courage -- that she had and to spare from both the Italian and Irish sides of her family. But truth be told she was no combat pilot and couldn't help the sick dread that never seemed to plague the rest of them. She hated flying into combat -- hated the fear that choked away her breath and made her palms sweat until she could barely work the controls. That other woman, Caitlin, had done it for longer than Jo. Had she felt what Jo felt? Those few times Jo had talked to her, she'd seemed more excited about flying missions than nervous. Admittedly, Caitlin rarely piloted Airwolf in these situations, having been more proficient on the weapons board. And Caitlin had been a cop first. She must have had combat training in some form.
But Jo wasn't a cop. She wasn't a soldier. She was a chopper jockey who just happened to be a very good flier. And Jo Santini was quite naturally afraid. "Not that it's going to stop me," she gritted between clenched teeth.
"Be careful anyway, Jo." Saint John added casually as though hearing her, and she could imagine his affectionate expression when he said it.
"You better believe it!" She tried to match his light tone, the apprehension bleeding through anyway. She touched the controls, increasing the rotor speed smoothly. Though the Huey was clumsy compared to Airwolf it was no worse, really, than the Sikorsky she'd flown to String's cabin. In truth, the maneuvering controls were somewhat more sensitive. The Huey lifted almost gracefully into the sky, and Jo was suddenly very aware of the moment she crested the concealing hill and became visible to enemy radar. If String was wrong -- if there was any defenses left covering her route.... One single missile would reduce this clumsy tub she was flying to powdered metal. Well, she probably wouldn't even know what hit her. She supposed there was some comfort to be found in that. Somewhere.
Precisely ten minutes later she visibly sighted the hovering black death machine that was Airwolf, having followed their radar image for much longer. Beyond the gunship was the great black fortress called Casa del Suerte. Jo took a deep breath, feeling that muscle in her back unkink suddenly. They made it! The worst was over!
Or so she thought.
***
Jason Locke opened the door slowly and peeked into the wreck that had only seconds before been a large, somewhat pleasant kitchen. He stepped out cautiously, Rivers at his shoulder, the two peering to right and left for signs of immediate danger. Plaster motes formed a white pall over the room, obstructing vision and stealing away breath. The tiny specks were in motion, propelled by the brisk zephyr whooshing through the three foot hole in the kitchen's outer wall. There was a charred smell in the air, synthetic -- the plastic explosive -- and to their left the stove was ablaze, blue flames shooting straight up from the ruptured gas lines. Of the furnishings, little remained: cutting tables were reduced to splinters and the sink was a lump of chipped porcelain.
It was the bodies who caught their immediate attention, however -- two of them, khaki uniforms bloody, limbs twisted in that peculiar attitude only attainable by the dead. Of the chef there was no sign.
"Mina must have rustled the Galloping Gourmet out of here with the other servants," Mike said, giving the bodies a single glance. He coughed and swiped at his face; the burning stove was beginning to generate thick black smoke, further fouling the atmosphere. He paused, head cocked in a listening posture; somewhere in the house an alarm bell was clanging, a raucous call to arms. "Word's got out. Better move."
"You'd better move," a gruff voice ordered from behind. This was followed by a shove, then Archangel too emerged from the stair, automatic rifle clenched professionally in both hands. He glanced around, loosing his weapon to adjust his half-darkened glasses. "Mejindas keeps a small army as a security force plus gunships standing by. We won't be able to outrun them once they're aloft."
Mike gestured to the other erstwhile prisoners, still concealed on the stair. They appeared one by one, stopping to gape at the dead guards. "You can sight-see later," he snapped, earning blank looks which turned to immediate alarm when there was a dull rumble from directly below, and the floor shook violently. Mike nodded smugly. "There goes the control center. Don't worry about the choppers," he went on to Coldsmith-Briggs. "Mina ... Mrs. Mejindas planted charges. They should be going up any minute now."
"Remarkable woman," Archangel commented.
Mike grinned. "Yeah."
Jason, dark face already powdered with plaster dust, glanced out of the blast hole in the wall, then picked his way across the shattered kitchen, gun at ready, toward the rear exit. "If we're going according to schedule, Airwolf should be waiting for us right now. We've got no time to waste."
"Yeah, if she's not scattered over the landscape," Rivers grumbled, making no move to follow. A frown creased his features, leaving no trace of the cherubic boyishness that was his trademark. "Where is Mina? She was supposed to meet us here."
Michael, limping heavily on his bad leg, stepped over one of the mangled guards, AK-47 cradled comfortably in one arm. A slight movement caught his eye and he reached out, snagging the scruff of Simon Steiner's neck before the man could sidle back into the basement. "Going somewhere, Simon?" he asked casually, allowing the barrel of his rifle to droop until it was pointed more or less at the enemy agent's crotch.
Steiner began to shake, small brown eyes rolling desperately. "You'll never make it!" he blubbered, though moving not a single muscle. "We'll all be killed if you try this!"
Archangel shrugged, his smile so pleasant as to be doubly chilling. "Now? Or later?" he asked, implication clear.
Steiner gulped again and went silent.
Barely audible over the crackle of the flames came a loud groan from the short connecting hallway. Rivers stopped cold, alarm flicking across his round face. "That could be Mina," he said with concern, leaving the knot of men and flattening himself against the undamaged wall, odd looking plastic pistol cocked and ready. "I'm going to check it out; you two get those men over the wall."
"We'll need rope for that," Archangel yelled over the growing din of the fire. The flames were licking at the wall, charring the crumbled plaster black, the hiss of escaping gas an eerie background timbre.
Jason had reached the door first and was cautiously poking his head outside. The crack of a rifle shot barely preceded the ping of the ricochet that hit six inches from his left cheek. He retreated like a turtle back into his shell. "There's ladders in the vicinity," he said, pointing to a spot only feet from the tall stone barrier. "All we have to do is get to them." He jerked his head in the general vicinity of the sky. "Three sentries, semi-auto. Nine o'clock, two and four."
Michael didn't even bother to nod. "On my mark. Ready...." A heartbeat passed, then, with a wordless shout they synchronously leaped from the cover of the kitchen door, backs together, the two highly trained men moving as a virtual unit. Michael sprayed the right wall with the AK-47, one hundred rounds of lead impacting in seconds. The exposed guard threw up his hands, screamed once and fell forward, landing in Mina Mejindas' flower garden. The second sprouted a scarlet blossom of his own in the middle of his forehead; he dropped without a sound.
On the opposite side and carrying only a pistol, Jason Locke stood utterly motionless, ignoring the potential death that rained around him. He frowned, taking his time, drawing a bead on the dark head just visible above the low parapet. He aimed, took a deep breath and gently squeezed the trigger, all in the space of less than five incredibly long seconds. The specialized gun made a coughing noise and the dark head vanished. It did not reappear.
The two glanced around but there were no other targets in sight as yet. "Come on!" Archangel yelled, limping to the long, lengthwise ladder laying conveniently against the base of the wall. "We have to be on the other side before reinforcements arrive!"
The group of prisoners didn't have to be told twice. They trotted to his position, one of them, the bloodthirsty Dox, encouraging Steiner along by the simple expedient of wrapping both hands around his throat and squeezing. Michael regarded the sight with a grin. "Admire your technique, Benjamin."
"Learned it from the best," Dox replied, broken teeth showing through his own long beard. "Didn't I, Simon?" Steiner contented himself with a gurgle and picked up his pace.
The tattered prisoners righted both ladders, setting them against the wall. Michael ascended first, scrambling up the rungs with remarkable agility considering his damaged knee. He arrived at the top unscathed, from which vantage he kept a watchful eye for additional guards. For good measure he occasionally sprayed the courtyard with his gun when a braver than usual soul stuck his head out either window or door. Under his vigil the others began their climb, Dox making sure Steiner went just ahead of himself. Once aloft they hauled the second ladder up, wasting no time in descending the opposite side.
"They're clear!" Michael called down to the lingering Jason Locke. "Your turn."
Rather than beginning his own climb, Jason waited at the bottom, anxiously scanning the kitchen door for signs of his partner. "Not yet!" he returned. "I think Mike might be in tro-- Wait! I think I see something!"
***
Even as Coldsmith-Briggs and Locke were eliminating the sentries, Mike was on the move himself. An agile leap took him through the kitchen doorway and into the short corridor leading to the library. The bark of automatic weapons' fire gave him pause; he hesitated, debating only briefly before resolutely continuing in his original direction. Concern tightened his gut for the pretty Mina Mejindas, respect for her courage only heightening the sexual chemistry he'd felt spark at their first meeting. Though emotionally as rock steady as they come, Mike Rivers had always had the tendency to fall in love at the toss of a beautiful head. He knew it. He didn't care.
"Mina did her part," he muttered, actually wincing at the sudden silence without. "No way I'm leaving a brave woman here to pay for my life."
He waved aside the smoke which was even now seeping out of the kitchen, squinting against it to begin his search. He had taken exactly two steps forward when his toe caught on something soft and yielding. He went to his knees, heart in his throat, and stretched out a quivering hand. "Mina?" he croaked, touching ... an apron? He sighed, relief nearly spilling him the rest of the way to the floor. "Sorry, Cookie," he muttered, regaining his feet. "Hope you and your vegetables think good thoughts of me when you wake up."
He stepped across the semi-conscious chef to the end of the hall, gun gripped in white knuckles, frantically seeking the architect of their escape. He raised his voice, calling, "Mina!"
The answer he received was not the one he expected. There was a masculine shout from directly ahead; he breasted the library threshold to find three uniformed men -- the bored American pilots that had accosted him earlier. Muscles straining, they were shoving at a heavy bookcase that had overbalanced from the blast and now blocked the room's main entrance. Another door, off to the side, hung twisted, jammed in it's frame.
"... choppers are on that side of the building," one was screaming to his comrades. At Mike's footstep the three glanced over their shoulders once and stopped cold, staring astonished at the blond pilot ... and his weapon, which was pointed in their direction.
"Hey! Wha--?" one stuttered, the florid faced redhead with the superstition about the mentally deficient.
Mike waggled a forefinger in their direction. "Unh-unh-uh!" he chided in english. "Whole sentences only, please. Better yet," he corrected, "how about dead silence? If you know what's good for you."
"It's the retard!" the mustached man growled, taking a step forward. "He's some kind'a spy!"
Mike bared his teeth wolfishly, meeting his opponent halfway with a beautiful roundhouse kick to the gut that doubled the man over. He went down, gasping and clutching his stomach. "That's for making fun of the handicapped," he reproved, enjoying himself hugely. He'd been wanting to do that since their first meeting. The mustache's comrades started forward, stopping when he leveled his gun. "If you two want to live ..." he began. He broke off at the sound of a muffled, feminine shout, grinning when small fists began beating on the jammed door. "... you'll get that door opened for the Patron's wife right now."
"Mrs. Mejindas?" That was the third man, now revealed as a fortyish, clean shaven man with a heavily lined face and sharp eyes. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"
"Just do it," Mike ordered, all playfulness dropping away. "Now!"
Being unsuicidal, the men obeyed, putting their shoulders to the heavy door and pushing, while their colleague laid face to the ground and groaned. The door resisted their efforts for a full minute, then there was a splintering noise, that of the frame itself giving way. The door slammed open, crashing against the back wall.
"Mina?" Mike called, not taking his eyes off his unwilling allies.
"Here!" She appeared at once, breathing hard and face flushed. She still wore the green jumpsuit and elegant sandals of the morning, but had since augmented her accessories with a silver-plated Ruger, nestled comfortably in one hand. "Sorry I'm late; I had trouble getting all the servants to safety. There were old women and children working for me and I couldn't risk them getting hurt."
She ran into Mike's arms, and he slid an arm around her waist, giving her a squeeze and using the gesture to swing her behind him toward the hall. "Move, babe," he ordered. "Archangel and the other prisoners should be over the wall already."
Surprise blanked the enemy pilots briefly, replaced with scowls. The response to this, however, came surprisingly from the doorway Mina had just quitted. "What is going on here?" a deep bass demanded in spanish.
"Carlos?" She spun toward the short, middle-aged man who was standing in the doorway having obviously arrived only seconds after herself. "Carlos," she repeated, staring around Mike, who had also turned to look, though both kept their guns trained on the tense enemy pilots.
Carlos Mejindas stood stock still in the doorway, looking from his wife, to Rivers and back again. "Mina, what is the meaning of this?" the man went on in good if accented english. "What is happening?"
The woman raised her chin, emerald eyes filled with scorn. "I'm putting an end to your plotting, Carlos. I won't let you endanger my country any more. You're through. We're through."
There was more surprise than hurt in the man's face. Full lips drew together angrily under a neatly trimmed beard. "So, you are a traitor!"
"No," Mina returned defiantly. "I'm an American."
Mike prodded her with a hand. "We'll file the divorce papers later, honey. Let's go."
She nodded and turned away. "Mina," her husband called as farewell. "I shall see you again."
"Not if I have anything to say about it," Rivers muttered, protective instincts shifting into high. "Okay, everybody, time to drop and cover."
"Or?" the redhead snarled, clenching his ham sized fists threateningly.
Mike smiled and leveled his weapon. "Or I shoot you. Any more questions?"
There was a pause while the two stood measuring each other, then, glancing once at Mina Mejindas, the two complied, lying full length on the floor and covering their heads with both hands.
"Or I shoot you," Mina repeated to her husband, face white but aim steady. He too knelt, locking his fingers in his short, gray hair.
"We're not finished yet," the mustache muttered venomously, having recovered his aplomb.
But the object of his hatred was already gone. Together the two fled for the kitchen, which was now quite thoroughly ablaze. The flames from the stove had spread, covering one wall and half the floor. Mike wrapped an arm around the woman's shoulders. "No choice," he shouted over the roar of the flames. "We go for it."
She nodded and the two ran for the outer door, arms raised to shield their faces, coughing in the thick smoke. Mike felt his skin starting to blister from the intense heat, the soles of his feet beginning to smart even through his work boots. Mina was wearing only sandals. Not glancing down, he slid his arm lower, around her small waist, physically lifting her the last several yards. Lungs ready to burst, it was with real relief that they emerged into the relatively clear air of the great outdoors.
"Holy--!" Mina screeched as her silk overjacket burst into flames. Mike, reacting instantly, ripped it off her body and tossed it away. "Whew! Thanks, cowboy!" she managed, bending down to rub at the scarlet blisters raising on both her feet. "You're a real lifesaver."
"Git along, little dogie," the pilot returned, grabbing her hand. The two finished their journey across the wide enclosure at a dead run, reaching the ladder and Jason Locke only seconds later.
"About time you two showed up," Locke growled, ushering Mina up the ladder, then leaping in her wake. "We're running a little late, remember?"
"So long as Airwolf isn't," the blond retorted, bringing up the rear.
It was no more than an additional thirty seconds later before they were joining the knot of men waiting at the bottom. The group remained flattened against the towering wall, watching the barren landscape for signs of their rescuers. All that was immediately visible was fading puffs of smoke in the south.
"Twenty foot safety," Mina gasped, shading her eyes against the bright sun, "then the mine field starts and covers the entire hill. I don't know the pattern. Hello, Michael."
"Mina," Michael returned, giving the woman a warm smile. "You've done a good job. I owe you."
"Job isn't over yet," Jason pointed out, using his gun to indicate the fifty-five degree incline bounding the wall. "Jo isn't going to be able to land a Huey on this steep a hill. We're going to have to reach the bottom before we can be picked up."
Rivers heard them through a mounting fear. Blue eyes scanned the horizon desperately, heart sinking in his chest. "If Airwolf didn't make it through the air defenses," he said aloud, "we'll have no where to run."
Archangel looked up, startling Rivers out of his funk by firing a short burst at the top of the wall; this was followed by a yell and a very satisfying thump. "We may be out of time anyway," the Firm's Deputy Director grunted, checking his magazine. "They'll be up there en masse any moment, and I'm running low on ammo."
Mina slid her hand back into Mike's and he curled his fingers around it, feeling the slight quiver in her body through the contact. "We may have another problem, guys," she said, raising their clasped hands until she could see the diamond studded Rolex on her left wrist. "Even allowing for all the excitement, we should have heard the hangar go up. I set the charge to blow a few minutes early, hoping to draw the rest of Carlos' security men to the other side of the Casa." She tilted her head worriedly. "I didn't hear anything go boom, did you?"
"Must've been cut rate H.E.," Mike joked, seeing no humor in the situation but wanting badly to lighten the tension. "You know the Government."
"Your tax dollars at work," Jason interjected, accurately divining his intention. Good old Jason. "Hope Mejindas' chopper squadron were lowest contractors, too."
Mike waved a hand, heart sinking again. "One more thing for the Kitty Hawke's to worry about." That hadn't come out as off-handed as he'd intended. He added, unable to keep the gloom out of his voice, "I told you baby brother couldn't do it. Why do I always have to be right?"
"If you are," Jason retorted also without humor, "this'll be the last time ... for any of us." He broke off when Archangel grabbed his arm, triumph in his one good eye.
"You're wrong!" he crowed, raising his rifle in salute. "There she is! Airwolf!"
But Mike had already heard it -- the distinctive sound of powerful engines. Two shapes appeared over the occluded horizon, one sleek and deadly, black upper and white belly making her appear as nothing if not a killer whale. The second was rounder, clumsier, and painted the Army's own peculiar shade of olive drab. To the cheering of those assembled, the two helicopters approached rapidly, reaching the waiting group within seconds.
"Get back!" Jason yelled, flattening himself against the wall and shielding his face. The other six did likewise just as Airwolf swept low, her chainguns chattering. She began a strafing run starting twenty feet from the cowering group, twin lines scoring the earth as a direct path. She rose, made a single pass against the top of the wall to discourage guards, then two more to ensure that the grounds were cleared. For good measure she loosed several missiles in the same line; the concussion was deafening and flung Mike and his comrades backward into hard stone. In her wake the mines went up, one ... three ... a dozen ... more, until Mike couldn't even count the number of bursts, nor see much beyond the choking cloud of dust.
Meanwhile, Jo chose a spot off the incline and well within the cleared area, and touched the second chopper down, first tilting her rotors obligingly to blow away the obscuring dirt.
"You were saying, Major Rivers?" Michael grinned, brushing back a long strand of blowing sandy hair."
Mike shrugged, grumbled, "We'll talk about it later," then they were moving rapidly in single file, leaping over miniature craters, eyes fixed on the waiting Huey and the suddenly conceivable concept of salvation.
***
Left behind by her colleagues, Jo Santini spent the next fifteen minutes staring at the radio as though by sheer will she could force it to activate. Though no combat pilot, she was wise enough to know better than to initiate contact with the Hawke's; in the middle of aerial battle, a distraction to either one of them could well prove fatal. No, radioing them would be a bad idea. And without weapons and in this tub of a chopper, she couldn't even contribute to the fight. There really was nothing for her to do but wait.
Frustrated, she chewed her nails one by one, wishing for the first time in her life that she smoked. At least then she'd have something to do while she waited. Yeah, stain my teeth, smell up my hair and commit slow suicide all at the same time, she thought sourly, deciding to buy a pack of gum when she got back instead. She'd look like a cow chewing the stuff but at least she wouldn't die of cancer.
"I hope this is worth ruining my manicure over," she grumbled aloud, glaring at the chipped nail polish and torn cuticles that had cost her forty dollars only last week. "Come on, guys, if you don't hurry I'm going to be starting on my toenails next. Blech." But even this dire threat proved ineffectual and the radio remained silent. Jo leaned her head back and shut her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply and allowing her mind to drift. She still couldn't believe that that was actually Stringfellow up there flying Airwolf! The explosion was so fresh in her mind, the image of the young man being flung backward by the fireball too recent. He had been comatose for nearly a week, burned and bruised, bleeding from a dozen fragment wounds, and ... She didn't want to say it even now. ... dying.
Even more vivid was her slow-motion flight to Uncle Dom's side. Contrary to expectations, he hadn't died immediately. An explosion is a perverse thing; it can blow you apart or it can blow you away, the latter having been true in Santini's case. Shot forty-two feet, according to a morbidly detail oriented paramedic, Dominic had come to rest on the tarmac awash in flames but more or less in one piece ... more or less. His limbs had been mangled where he'd hit, and she hadn't even been sure how much of his right leg had been left at all. Everett Logan, Santini Air's ex-part time mechanic, had been the one who had run up with a blanket, smothering the fire and taking charge until the ambulance had arrived, while Jo, too numbed by the tragedy to even think, had concentrated on talking to him in a low, quivering voice to try and defer the onset of shock.
She shuddered, remembering his glazed brown eyes staring up at her from an almost unrecognizable face, seared lips opening and closing wordlessly for several seconds until with great effort they came together to form one word. "String."
"He'll be all right," she remembered choking out, believing the younger man to be already dead despite Everett's dubious assurance. "So will you. You have to be!"
They hadn't let her see him in the trauma unit -- he'd lived long enough to make it that far, at least. According to a brusque hospital administrator in a business suit, it had been the shock that had taken him even more than the burns and fractures. He'd passed away suddenly, his sixty-two year old heart simply ... stopping. The funeral had been a closed casket affair on the mortician's recommendation; she'd agreed. No one needed to remember Uncle Dom the way he looked after the blast. She was glad String didn't. She wished she didn't.
She also wished she knew who had done that to him. And to String. The police had no clues and offered no theories, and even that man in the white clothes, Michael, hadn't been able too offer anything. According to him, the Company -- the Firm, he'd called it -- was perfectly happy to leave Airwolf right where it was, where they could use it -- and Hawke -- and where the Pentagon, National Security Agency, F.B.I. and assorted other bureaus couldn't. The Company had clashed with String on a hundred occasions, but according to Michael there had been nothing recent.
She opened her eyes to find herself staring at the airspeed indicator, which even now sat at zero. Could the assassination have had anything to do with Saint John's imminent return? After all, everything went up not long after that Buchard jerk had pulled Saint John Hawke away from the Cambodians. She'd asked Michael that but even he couldn't find a connection. He had promised to continue looking, however, and she believed him.
"Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III." Feeling itchy, she rose to wander the helicopter, smiling as she repeated the name. It was quite a mouthful, though its formality seemed to suit him somehow. And it certainly beat a name like Stringfellow! She'd liked Michael on sight even after finding out who he was. The elegant white clothes and courtly ways were undeniably charming, his intelligence and sense of competence inducing trust. She grinned to herself. "All that and he's cute, too. Could a girl ask for more?"
A scowl marred her smooth forehead. More, maybe, like the name of a murderer?
Biting her lip hard, she slipped out of the cockpit into the spacious cargo bay. In previous use as a troop carrier, the helicopter was designed to hold many more than the three men she was going in for. She concentrated, forcing herself to see the steel constructed body rather than that lingering, ghastly sight of her uncle and her childhood friend lying on the concrete, forcing herself to contemplate the happinesses following the funeral. After all, Saint John Hawke was back from the war after fifteen years, alive and well!
A happiness, indeed, and she embraced it gratefully. She'd heard the horror stories about POWs left too long in enemy hands -- had seen Holocaust movies in abundance -- and wept to think that Saint John was suffering a like fate. She didn't know what she'd expected when they went into Burma after him. A zombie, a semi-articulate walking skeleton, perhaps. That he'd emerged from his experience a whole man, she'd considered a grace that nearly offset the pains of losing String and Uncle Dom.
There was history between them, after all. Saint John had been so handsome as a teenager! And had had the privilege, such as it was, of being her very first crush. She chuckled, remembering his reaction to that! He'd been fourteen when he and String had moved in with Uncle Dom, and she had just been reaching an age when girls start to notice boys. Visiting Uncle Dom the summer after the death of the Hawke parents, she'd exercised her new-found feminine license by hanging around Saint John constantly, always with an excuse, however lame, to play shadow. Saint John had taken it all with remarkable composure for an adolescent, enduring Stringfellow's childish teasing over her with little more acknowledgment than to occasionally cuff the younger boy's ears when he got out of hand. She hadn't cared -- she'd swatted String for it herself (secretly relieved that he never hit her back), mooned over Saint John, and slowly grown into a woman. Of course, by then Saint John was long gone.
But Saint John was back! Older, perhaps, and more worn, but still the foster cousin she'd adored as a child. Childish crushes long gone and adult affection firmly in place, she allowed herself to dwell on him as he'd looked only hours earlier, back at the cabin. There was leanness where powerful muscles had once covered the big bones, and the thin face was only now starting to fill out, shadows sobering once-dancing eyes. There was no light-hearted merriment left, none of the unguarded accessibility that had once endeared him to her even if his shields weren't so iron-clad as String's. Well, not on the surface, anyway. He wasn't the same man that had gone to Viet Nam so long ago, but he could be again. She was confident that, given a little time and motherly nurturing, he'd break out of the cage those fifteen years had woven and become the Saint John Hawke she'd thought gone forever.
She kicked an empty oil can with the toe of her boot, sending it careening off the Huey's closed hatch with a dull clang, the noise breaking through her happy reminisce and sobering her again. Worry chased joy over the second man in her family equation. Maybe Saint John would recover from his lengthy ordeal -- and she couldn't bear to entertain the possibility that he would not -- but would Stringfellow ever be as he was before the war? There was comfort to be found in the knowledge that, contrary to her prior belief, he was alive and recovering from the blast that had killed Santini. He'd been injured every bit as badly as Uncle Dom and might have succumbed himself had he not had the strength of youth on his side. But that was only physical; emotional recovery was a whole other matter as Marella had pointed out.
Four years ago she'd been on one of her rare visits to Uncle Dom, and he'd taken her up to visit String at the cabin. Reserved as always, Hawke had suffered her to hug him hello though the tenseness of rejection had communicated itself through her brief touch. He'd cooked dinner -- fish -- for the three of them and even asked her politely about her new job ferrying copters across the country, though she could tell his mind was far removed from the answers she was giving. Dom's happy chatter covered the young man's characteristic silences as a rule, but this time there was something more and she could tell. She'd asked Dom about it as soon as String had gone out for wood for the fire.
Santini had tried to brush it off, only relenting when he'd realized the seriousness of her concern. "Awww, honey, you'll have to excuse String tonight. He's been in Washington all week with one of those veteran's associations -- you know, the ones that investigate MIA rumors?"
"Any word of Saint John?" she'd asked more out of politeness than hope. Back then she'd been as certain as everyone else that the elder Hawke brother was long dead.
His sad headshake was almost unnecessary. "Turns out the photos were all doctored -- some merc trying to scam funds for a phony mission. One of the guys there told me String broke his jaw for him." String had returned then with an arm full of wood and they'd broken off the conversation at once, but it had occurred to her then that she'd instinctively avoided meeting the young man's eyes all evening, and she could count on one hand the number of times she'd seen a genuine smile on his face since he'd returned from Viet Nam. When he walked back into the room she made a point to look directly at him.... It was a long time before she ever did that again. Desolation could be even more terrible to share than hatred.
But wouldn't that change now that Saint John was back? String had always been serious, even as a kid, but he'd known how to laugh back then, and had had a mischievous streak that invariably meant fun. Put him and Saint John together and they could make her giggle for hours on end! Wasn't happiness something you could relearn?
She climbed back into her seat, leaning back against the head rest. Of course, it was, she decided firmly. A little maternal prodding would do wonders in that direction, too. "You'll see, Stringfellow Hawke," she said resolutely. "See if you can resist the combination of your brother being back and the Santini charm ... another Santini's charm for long." She clenched a small hand. "If Uncle Dom could break through that shell of yours, I can too. ... Uh ... can't I?" But to that there really wasn't an answer; maybe once they'd all had a chance to heal. Yeah. Maybe.
A muscle cramped in her back, the result of too much unrelieved tension. She groaned and jabbed at it energetically, actually glad for an excuse to banish her thoughts but no happier to be left with her present worries. Had they made it through the defenses? If this Haversham screen was as deadly as they all said, could even Airwolf make it through? What if Mike was correct -- what if String wasn't recovered enough to handle the action? The past ambushed her again, a bloodless gray face on hospital issue linens, a body so damaged that death had seemed inevitable. A weak voice begging her to continue the search for Saint John....
"Oh, String," she whispered, feeling a stinging behind her eyelids. "You've just got to make it! You both do. I don't want to lose you both again!"
She continued her massage and her back was just starting to loosen when there was a loud squawk from the radio and Saint John's hearty hail came through. "Jo?"
She leaped for the mike, snatching up the headset and turning the selector until she could hear through it. "Right here!" she called, practically singing with relief. They'd made it! "Are you two all right?"
Saint John chuckled, and Jo thought he sounded almost obscenely smug considering the circumstances. "We're fine. We're outside the Casa's walls but there's no sign of Jason or Mike yet. Begin your run but be careful; I think we took out the trash but we might have missed something."
She was cheered to hear String's voice chipping in with real confidence, "We didn't miss anything." She put her hands on her hips. Well. Good. So long as he was sure.
Jo took another calming breath and was pleased to see that by some miracle her hands were not shaking. It wasn't a lack of courage -- that she had and to spare from both the Italian and Irish sides of her family. But truth be told she was no combat pilot and couldn't help the sick dread that never seemed to plague the rest of them. She hated flying into combat -- hated the fear that choked away her breath and made her palms sweat until she could barely work the controls. That other woman, Caitlin, had done it for longer than Jo. Had she felt what Jo felt? Those few times Jo had talked to her, she'd seemed more excited about flying missions than nervous. Admittedly, Caitlin rarely piloted Airwolf in these situations, having been more proficient on the weapons board. And Caitlin had been a cop first. She must have had combat training in some form.
But Jo wasn't a cop. She wasn't a soldier. She was a chopper jockey who just happened to be a very good flier. And Jo Santini was quite naturally afraid. "Not that it's going to stop me," she gritted between clenched teeth.
"Be careful anyway, Jo." Saint John added casually as though hearing her, and she could imagine his affectionate expression when he said it.
"You better believe it!" She tried to match his light tone, the apprehension bleeding through anyway. She touched the controls, increasing the rotor speed smoothly. Though the Huey was clumsy compared to Airwolf it was no worse, really, than the Sikorsky she'd flown to String's cabin. In truth, the maneuvering controls were somewhat more sensitive. The Huey lifted almost gracefully into the sky, and Jo was suddenly very aware of the moment she crested the concealing hill and became visible to enemy radar. If String was wrong -- if there was any defenses left covering her route.... One single missile would reduce this clumsy tub she was flying to powdered metal. Well, she probably wouldn't even know what hit her. She supposed there was some comfort to be found in that. Somewhere.
Precisely ten minutes later she visibly sighted the hovering black death machine that was Airwolf, having followed their radar image for much longer. Beyond the gunship was the great black fortress called Casa del Suerte. Jo took a deep breath, feeling that muscle in her back unkink suddenly. They made it! The worst was over!
Or so she thought.
***
Jason Locke opened the door slowly and peeked into the wreck that had only seconds before been a large, somewhat pleasant kitchen. He stepped out cautiously, Rivers at his shoulder, the two peering to right and left for signs of immediate danger. Plaster motes formed a white pall over the room, obstructing vision and stealing away breath. The tiny specks were in motion, propelled by the brisk zephyr whooshing through the three foot hole in the kitchen's outer wall. There was a charred smell in the air, synthetic -- the plastic explosive -- and to their left the stove was ablaze, blue flames shooting straight up from the ruptured gas lines. Of the furnishings, little remained: cutting tables were reduced to splinters and the sink was a lump of chipped porcelain.
It was the bodies who caught their immediate attention, however -- two of them, khaki uniforms bloody, limbs twisted in that peculiar attitude only attainable by the dead. Of the chef there was no sign.
"Mina must have rustled the Galloping Gourmet out of here with the other servants," Mike said, giving the bodies a single glance. He coughed and swiped at his face; the burning stove was beginning to generate thick black smoke, further fouling the atmosphere. He paused, head cocked in a listening posture; somewhere in the house an alarm bell was clanging, a raucous call to arms. "Word's got out. Better move."
"You'd better move," a gruff voice ordered from behind. This was followed by a shove, then Archangel too emerged from the stair, automatic rifle clenched professionally in both hands. He glanced around, loosing his weapon to adjust his half-darkened glasses. "Mejindas keeps a small army as a security force plus gunships standing by. We won't be able to outrun them once they're aloft."
Mike gestured to the other erstwhile prisoners, still concealed on the stair. They appeared one by one, stopping to gape at the dead guards. "You can sight-see later," he snapped, earning blank looks which turned to immediate alarm when there was a dull rumble from directly below, and the floor shook violently. Mike nodded smugly. "There goes the control center. Don't worry about the choppers," he went on to Coldsmith-Briggs. "Mina ... Mrs. Mejindas planted charges. They should be going up any minute now."
"Remarkable woman," Archangel commented.
Mike grinned. "Yeah."
Jason, dark face already powdered with plaster dust, glanced out of the blast hole in the wall, then picked his way across the shattered kitchen, gun at ready, toward the rear exit. "If we're going according to schedule, Airwolf should be waiting for us right now. We've got no time to waste."
"Yeah, if she's not scattered over the landscape," Rivers grumbled, making no move to follow. A frown creased his features, leaving no trace of the cherubic boyishness that was his trademark. "Where is Mina? She was supposed to meet us here."
Michael, limping heavily on his bad leg, stepped over one of the mangled guards, AK-47 cradled comfortably in one arm. A slight movement caught his eye and he reached out, snagging the scruff of Simon Steiner's neck before the man could sidle back into the basement. "Going somewhere, Simon?" he asked casually, allowing the barrel of his rifle to droop until it was pointed more or less at the enemy agent's crotch.
Steiner began to shake, small brown eyes rolling desperately. "You'll never make it!" he blubbered, though moving not a single muscle. "We'll all be killed if you try this!"
Archangel shrugged, his smile so pleasant as to be doubly chilling. "Now? Or later?" he asked, implication clear.
Steiner gulped again and went silent.
Barely audible over the crackle of the flames came a loud groan from the short connecting hallway. Rivers stopped cold, alarm flicking across his round face. "That could be Mina," he said with concern, leaving the knot of men and flattening himself against the undamaged wall, odd looking plastic pistol cocked and ready. "I'm going to check it out; you two get those men over the wall."
"We'll need rope for that," Archangel yelled over the growing din of the fire. The flames were licking at the wall, charring the crumbled plaster black, the hiss of escaping gas an eerie background timbre.
Jason had reached the door first and was cautiously poking his head outside. The crack of a rifle shot barely preceded the ping of the ricochet that hit six inches from his left cheek. He retreated like a turtle back into his shell. "There's ladders in the vicinity," he said, pointing to a spot only feet from the tall stone barrier. "All we have to do is get to them." He jerked his head in the general vicinity of the sky. "Three sentries, semi-auto. Nine o'clock, two and four."
Michael didn't even bother to nod. "On my mark. Ready...." A heartbeat passed, then, with a wordless shout they synchronously leaped from the cover of the kitchen door, backs together, the two highly trained men moving as a virtual unit. Michael sprayed the right wall with the AK-47, one hundred rounds of lead impacting in seconds. The exposed guard threw up his hands, screamed once and fell forward, landing in Mina Mejindas' flower garden. The second sprouted a scarlet blossom of his own in the middle of his forehead; he dropped without a sound.
On the opposite side and carrying only a pistol, Jason Locke stood utterly motionless, ignoring the potential death that rained around him. He frowned, taking his time, drawing a bead on the dark head just visible above the low parapet. He aimed, took a deep breath and gently squeezed the trigger, all in the space of less than five incredibly long seconds. The specialized gun made a coughing noise and the dark head vanished. It did not reappear.
The two glanced around but there were no other targets in sight as yet. "Come on!" Archangel yelled, limping to the long, lengthwise ladder laying conveniently against the base of the wall. "We have to be on the other side before reinforcements arrive!"
The group of prisoners didn't have to be told twice. They trotted to his position, one of them, the bloodthirsty Dox, encouraging Steiner along by the simple expedient of wrapping both hands around his throat and squeezing. Michael regarded the sight with a grin. "Admire your technique, Benjamin."
"Learned it from the best," Dox replied, broken teeth showing through his own long beard. "Didn't I, Simon?" Steiner contented himself with a gurgle and picked up his pace.
The tattered prisoners righted both ladders, setting them against the wall. Michael ascended first, scrambling up the rungs with remarkable agility considering his damaged knee. He arrived at the top unscathed, from which vantage he kept a watchful eye for additional guards. For good measure he occasionally sprayed the courtyard with his gun when a braver than usual soul stuck his head out either window or door. Under his vigil the others began their climb, Dox making sure Steiner went just ahead of himself. Once aloft they hauled the second ladder up, wasting no time in descending the opposite side.
"They're clear!" Michael called down to the lingering Jason Locke. "Your turn."
Rather than beginning his own climb, Jason waited at the bottom, anxiously scanning the kitchen door for signs of his partner. "Not yet!" he returned. "I think Mike might be in tro-- Wait! I think I see something!"
***
Even as Coldsmith-Briggs and Locke were eliminating the sentries, Mike was on the move himself. An agile leap took him through the kitchen doorway and into the short corridor leading to the library. The bark of automatic weapons' fire gave him pause; he hesitated, debating only briefly before resolutely continuing in his original direction. Concern tightened his gut for the pretty Mina Mejindas, respect for her courage only heightening the sexual chemistry he'd felt spark at their first meeting. Though emotionally as rock steady as they come, Mike Rivers had always had the tendency to fall in love at the toss of a beautiful head. He knew it. He didn't care.
"Mina did her part," he muttered, actually wincing at the sudden silence without. "No way I'm leaving a brave woman here to pay for my life."
He waved aside the smoke which was even now seeping out of the kitchen, squinting against it to begin his search. He had taken exactly two steps forward when his toe caught on something soft and yielding. He went to his knees, heart in his throat, and stretched out a quivering hand. "Mina?" he croaked, touching ... an apron? He sighed, relief nearly spilling him the rest of the way to the floor. "Sorry, Cookie," he muttered, regaining his feet. "Hope you and your vegetables think good thoughts of me when you wake up."
He stepped across the semi-conscious chef to the end of the hall, gun gripped in white knuckles, frantically seeking the architect of their escape. He raised his voice, calling, "Mina!"
The answer he received was not the one he expected. There was a masculine shout from directly ahead; he breasted the library threshold to find three uniformed men -- the bored American pilots that had accosted him earlier. Muscles straining, they were shoving at a heavy bookcase that had overbalanced from the blast and now blocked the room's main entrance. Another door, off to the side, hung twisted, jammed in it's frame.
"... choppers are on that side of the building," one was screaming to his comrades. At Mike's footstep the three glanced over their shoulders once and stopped cold, staring astonished at the blond pilot ... and his weapon, which was pointed in their direction.
"Hey! Wha--?" one stuttered, the florid faced redhead with the superstition about the mentally deficient.
Mike waggled a forefinger in their direction. "Unh-unh-uh!" he chided in english. "Whole sentences only, please. Better yet," he corrected, "how about dead silence? If you know what's good for you."
"It's the retard!" the mustached man growled, taking a step forward. "He's some kind'a spy!"
Mike bared his teeth wolfishly, meeting his opponent halfway with a beautiful roundhouse kick to the gut that doubled the man over. He went down, gasping and clutching his stomach. "That's for making fun of the handicapped," he reproved, enjoying himself hugely. He'd been wanting to do that since their first meeting. The mustache's comrades started forward, stopping when he leveled his gun. "If you two want to live ..." he began. He broke off at the sound of a muffled, feminine shout, grinning when small fists began beating on the jammed door. "... you'll get that door opened for the Patron's wife right now."
"Mrs. Mejindas?" That was the third man, now revealed as a fortyish, clean shaven man with a heavily lined face and sharp eyes. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"
"Just do it," Mike ordered, all playfulness dropping away. "Now!"
Being unsuicidal, the men obeyed, putting their shoulders to the heavy door and pushing, while their colleague laid face to the ground and groaned. The door resisted their efforts for a full minute, then there was a splintering noise, that of the frame itself giving way. The door slammed open, crashing against the back wall.
"Mina?" Mike called, not taking his eyes off his unwilling allies.
"Here!" She appeared at once, breathing hard and face flushed. She still wore the green jumpsuit and elegant sandals of the morning, but had since augmented her accessories with a silver-plated Ruger, nestled comfortably in one hand. "Sorry I'm late; I had trouble getting all the servants to safety. There were old women and children working for me and I couldn't risk them getting hurt."
She ran into Mike's arms, and he slid an arm around her waist, giving her a squeeze and using the gesture to swing her behind him toward the hall. "Move, babe," he ordered. "Archangel and the other prisoners should be over the wall already."
Surprise blanked the enemy pilots briefly, replaced with scowls. The response to this, however, came surprisingly from the doorway Mina had just quitted. "What is going on here?" a deep bass demanded in spanish.
"Carlos?" She spun toward the short, middle-aged man who was standing in the doorway having obviously arrived only seconds after herself. "Carlos," she repeated, staring around Mike, who had also turned to look, though both kept their guns trained on the tense enemy pilots.
Carlos Mejindas stood stock still in the doorway, looking from his wife, to Rivers and back again. "Mina, what is the meaning of this?" the man went on in good if accented english. "What is happening?"
The woman raised her chin, emerald eyes filled with scorn. "I'm putting an end to your plotting, Carlos. I won't let you endanger my country any more. You're through. We're through."
There was more surprise than hurt in the man's face. Full lips drew together angrily under a neatly trimmed beard. "So, you are a traitor!"
"No," Mina returned defiantly. "I'm an American."
Mike prodded her with a hand. "We'll file the divorce papers later, honey. Let's go."
She nodded and turned away. "Mina," her husband called as farewell. "I shall see you again."
"Not if I have anything to say about it," Rivers muttered, protective instincts shifting into high. "Okay, everybody, time to drop and cover."
"Or?" the redhead snarled, clenching his ham sized fists threateningly.
Mike smiled and leveled his weapon. "Or I shoot you. Any more questions?"
There was a pause while the two stood measuring each other, then, glancing once at Mina Mejindas, the two complied, lying full length on the floor and covering their heads with both hands.
"Or I shoot you," Mina repeated to her husband, face white but aim steady. He too knelt, locking his fingers in his short, gray hair.
"We're not finished yet," the mustache muttered venomously, having recovered his aplomb.
But the object of his hatred was already gone. Together the two fled for the kitchen, which was now quite thoroughly ablaze. The flames from the stove had spread, covering one wall and half the floor. Mike wrapped an arm around the woman's shoulders. "No choice," he shouted over the roar of the flames. "We go for it."
She nodded and the two ran for the outer door, arms raised to shield their faces, coughing in the thick smoke. Mike felt his skin starting to blister from the intense heat, the soles of his feet beginning to smart even through his work boots. Mina was wearing only sandals. Not glancing down, he slid his arm lower, around her small waist, physically lifting her the last several yards. Lungs ready to burst, it was with real relief that they emerged into the relatively clear air of the great outdoors.
"Holy--!" Mina screeched as her silk overjacket burst into flames. Mike, reacting instantly, ripped it off her body and tossed it away. "Whew! Thanks, cowboy!" she managed, bending down to rub at the scarlet blisters raising on both her feet. "You're a real lifesaver."
"Git along, little dogie," the pilot returned, grabbing her hand. The two finished their journey across the wide enclosure at a dead run, reaching the ladder and Jason Locke only seconds later.
"About time you two showed up," Locke growled, ushering Mina up the ladder, then leaping in her wake. "We're running a little late, remember?"
"So long as Airwolf isn't," the blond retorted, bringing up the rear.
It was no more than an additional thirty seconds later before they were joining the knot of men waiting at the bottom. The group remained flattened against the towering wall, watching the barren landscape for signs of their rescuers. All that was immediately visible was fading puffs of smoke in the south.
"Twenty foot safety," Mina gasped, shading her eyes against the bright sun, "then the mine field starts and covers the entire hill. I don't know the pattern. Hello, Michael."
"Mina," Michael returned, giving the woman a warm smile. "You've done a good job. I owe you."
"Job isn't over yet," Jason pointed out, using his gun to indicate the fifty-five degree incline bounding the wall. "Jo isn't going to be able to land a Huey on this steep a hill. We're going to have to reach the bottom before we can be picked up."
Rivers heard them through a mounting fear. Blue eyes scanned the horizon desperately, heart sinking in his chest. "If Airwolf didn't make it through the air defenses," he said aloud, "we'll have no where to run."
Archangel looked up, startling Rivers out of his funk by firing a short burst at the top of the wall; this was followed by a yell and a very satisfying thump. "We may be out of time anyway," the Firm's Deputy Director grunted, checking his magazine. "They'll be up there en masse any moment, and I'm running low on ammo."
Mina slid her hand back into Mike's and he curled his fingers around it, feeling the slight quiver in her body through the contact. "We may have another problem, guys," she said, raising their clasped hands until she could see the diamond studded Rolex on her left wrist. "Even allowing for all the excitement, we should have heard the hangar go up. I set the charge to blow a few minutes early, hoping to draw the rest of Carlos' security men to the other side of the Casa." She tilted her head worriedly. "I didn't hear anything go boom, did you?"
"Must've been cut rate H.E.," Mike joked, seeing no humor in the situation but wanting badly to lighten the tension. "You know the Government."
"Your tax dollars at work," Jason interjected, accurately divining his intention. Good old Jason. "Hope Mejindas' chopper squadron were lowest contractors, too."
Mike waved a hand, heart sinking again. "One more thing for the Kitty Hawke's to worry about." That hadn't come out as off-handed as he'd intended. He added, unable to keep the gloom out of his voice, "I told you baby brother couldn't do it. Why do I always have to be right?"
"If you are," Jason retorted also without humor, "this'll be the last time ... for any of us." He broke off when Archangel grabbed his arm, triumph in his one good eye.
"You're wrong!" he crowed, raising his rifle in salute. "There she is! Airwolf!"
But Mike had already heard it -- the distinctive sound of powerful engines. Two shapes appeared over the occluded horizon, one sleek and deadly, black upper and white belly making her appear as nothing if not a killer whale. The second was rounder, clumsier, and painted the Army's own peculiar shade of olive drab. To the cheering of those assembled, the two helicopters approached rapidly, reaching the waiting group within seconds.
"Get back!" Jason yelled, flattening himself against the wall and shielding his face. The other six did likewise just as Airwolf swept low, her chainguns chattering. She began a strafing run starting twenty feet from the cowering group, twin lines scoring the earth as a direct path. She rose, made a single pass against the top of the wall to discourage guards, then two more to ensure that the grounds were cleared. For good measure she loosed several missiles in the same line; the concussion was deafening and flung Mike and his comrades backward into hard stone. In her wake the mines went up, one ... three ... a dozen ... more, until Mike couldn't even count the number of bursts, nor see much beyond the choking cloud of dust.
Meanwhile, Jo chose a spot off the incline and well within the cleared area, and touched the second chopper down, first tilting her rotors obligingly to blow away the obscuring dirt.
"You were saying, Major Rivers?" Michael grinned, brushing back a long strand of blowing sandy hair."
Mike shrugged, grumbled, "We'll talk about it later," then they were moving rapidly in single file, leaping over miniature craters, eyes fixed on the waiting Huey and the suddenly conceivable concept of salvation.
***
