"How bad's the plane?" Saint John demanded, watching his brother cut through the last of Mike's bonds impatiently.
"Flyable," Rivers rasped, biting back a groan when String jostled him getting him loose. Gripping his arm, he helped him to his feet.
Paling noticeably, Rivers wavered momentarily before Saint John caught his other arm.
Hawke's blue eyes narrowed suspiciously watching him. "What about the pilot?" he asked.
Mike grimaced, cradling his arm to his chest. "I've been better," he said wryly.
Comprehension dawned in Saint John's lean features as he eyed the two of them. "How much better?" he queried, reaching to take a look at Mike's injured arm.
The younger pilot winced, clamping his fingers around the arm and keeping it well out of reach. Lines of strain were evident around his eyes and in the pinched look around his mouth. "Let's put it this way, Sinj, I won't be flying that plane or any other anywhere any time soon."
"You're sure?" String frowned eyeing Rivers doubtfully, all the while mentally calculating, knowing there was no way he was going to be able to fit all the plane's crew aboard Airwolf, along with the full contingent of weapons he'd need if he had to blow the plane and escape whatever the Cubans threw at them.
Rivers raised bruised and bloody fingers from his sleeve to show a glimpse of bone-white protruding through the skin. "Yeah," he said weakly. "I'm pretty sure."
Grimacing, Hawke swallowed hard, bile tasting bitter in his own throat and feeling vaguely sick.
Compound fracture. Not only was Mike not flying that plane outta here, he'd be real lucky if he didn't lose that arm.
Wincing, Jo pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. To say she had the mother of all headaches, didn't even begin to describe the aching pounding in her head.
Stark white and pale blue walls surrounded her, a single vase of pink-tipped roses on the windowsill.
Sinj, she thought with the faintest ghost of a smile, knowing only he would've remembered they were her favorite. It faded as quickly as it'd come.
Hospital, she thought with a grimace, trying to place how she'd ended up here. The pounding in her head intensified. Great, just getting better by the minute. If Sinj hadn't guessed something was up before, he'd surely know now.
Vaguely, she wondered how he'd taken the news as she slid a hand unconsciously across her flat stomach. She knew better than to hope the doctor's hadn't said anything.
The pounding in her head settled to a dull throb like a herd of elephants stomping in time. Fingers gently probing, she felt the lump at the back of her head and the bandages encircling it.
Memories of standing outside the hanger with the kids came rushing back in - Amelia's face when the man came charging around the corner, shoving her gun in hand, grabbing for her purse and knowing all the while Nicky too was an easy shot, if only he noticed him.
His eyes had been wild, crazed, cold as ice; and all she could think of was they were all going to die - mere feet from the guys and help.
Unthinkingly, she'd fought back, Amelia ducking free and running for the hanger screaming like a banshee. She'd been sure the man would shoot the child and lunged for the gun.
Instead, he'd thrown her to the ground, pain exploding as her head hit the concrete, the bore of the gun he held leveling in her direction. Why she was still alive, she'd never know…
Her fingers snagged on the bandage encircling her midriff and a glance around the room made her wonder though, if there was any reason left to celebrate.
"String, I really don't think this is a good idea," Saint John commented, slanting his brother a worried look.
"Probably not," the younger Hawke agreed, shooting a narrowed look over at Mike where he slumped wanly against Airwolf's side. "As I see it though Sinj, we don't have a lot of other options."
"Yeah, but…"
Ice blue eyes met his. "Look, Sinj, you know as well as I do that plane's crew would be in about the same boat as you were in that Viet Cong prison in Laos. Now, can you really leave them, knowing that?"
Saint John shot a frustrated glance at his friend Rivers, as he huffed an irritated sigh. He raked an exasperated hand through his hair, knowing his brother had him. "No, but…"
Blue eyes glanced up, holding his for half a heart-beat, waiting.
Saint John's gaze was the first to drop. He shoved away from the tree where he leaned. "You realize of course, that half the Cuban airforce is going to come after you the moment you try to get that thing up off the ground?"
"Yep," String replied implacably, as he slammed a new clip into his .45. He slid the gun into his belt with the long practiced ease of experience, all the while Saint John glared at him.
"What?" he queried, feeling the heat of his brother's gaze.
Scowling, Saint John shook his head.
Realization dawned at the worry he saw in his brother's face and he flashed him a wicked grin. "Hey, that's what I've got you for, right?" he teased.
In spite of his own worry, Saint John felt his own lips twitch. "Cait was right, you know," he complained. "You are crazy."
"Well," String drawled, "You know what they say…"
"What?" his brother demanded, suddenly suspicious.
"Insanity runs in families."
Hazel eyes meeting blue, Saint John bit off a hoarse laugh. "They must be right," he agreed dryly. "I'm flying shotgun for you, and it doesn't get any crazier than that."
Stiletto heels echoed across polished concrete floors, reverberating off the shelves stacked high with files, files dating back two and a half decades.
"Can I help you?" a strident voice clipped out.
Lips pursed, Marella paused in mid-stride, ivory skirts swishing around her knees. Irritated, she worked to paste a half-smile to her lips as she turned around.
"I sure hope so," she grinned, flashing her trademark smile, her dark eyes twinkling.
The stern-faced Staff Sergeant doffed his cover. "Begging your pardon, ma'am. No one mentioned any visitors being expected today."
Marella sighed prettily. "Wouldn't you just know it…they would send me on another wild goose chase." A slender hand fluttered helplessly. "I don't suppose you could help me, Mr…um?"
Weathered cheeks creased appreciatively. "Staff Sergeant Santos. What was it I could help you with, Ms…?"
"Briggs," Marella replied with a smile, warmly clasping his hand in her own. "Well, I…"
The wind blew hot and humid across his skin, sweat sticking light brownish fringe to his forehead, blue eyes narrowed against the unrelenting glare. Gut clenching, Stringfellow Hawke eyed the distance to the plane seated squarely in the center of the runway.
150 yards, he told himself, eyeing the pock-marked, dilapidated strip of gravel and hardpan. It's only a 150 yards - how far can that be?
The sound of rifle fire ricocheting off composite hide and the answering thud of Airwolf's chain guns told him it'd have to be close enough. Gun in hand, he lunged for the battered plane, hoping saint John's distraction would be enough to get her in the air.
Heart pounding, he thudded towards the plane, the pounding of his heart keeping up with the pounding of his boots against the uneven concrete.
"There! Allí!"
Cringing, he caught the guard's cry, his Spanish rusty from disuse, but not rusty enough to not know he'd been spotted. Yells split the air behind him, sharp, barked commands, the grinding of gears as a jeep was thrown into pursuit. Overhead, Airwolf whipped by, swooping back, the rattle of 30mm gun fire cutting a trench between Hawke and his pursuers.
Fifty yards to go. Turning, String swung a hasty glance over his shoulder, weaving to avoid the gunfire.
Even as he did so, his foot hit an uneven spot in the weed-ridden runway. Twisting his ankle, he slammed to the ground, the air whooshing out of his lungs, the .45 slamming to the ground from his outstretched hand, skittering across the uneven concrete.
A muttered curse cut across Saint John's ears as Piersoon struggled to run engineering and caught sight of Hawke near the plane.
It was enough to send Mike shoving past him, the fingers of his good hand scrabbling over the keys.
"Mike?" Saint John's voice cut across the helmet feed, tense and worried. "Where's String? He okay?"
The blonde pilot bit back a grunt of pain as Samuels jostled against his arm. Airwolf banked sharply, the force of her abrupt turn nearly dumping him from the jumpseat. Grasping the edge of the console, he struggled to stay out of the floor as Saint John swung back the way they'd come, placing Airwolf squarely between his brother and the oncoming jeep.
A volley of machine gun fire slammed across the windscreen.
"He's up," Pierson's tense voice clipped across the air waves. "Almost there…"
"He okay?" Saint John demanded, the question clearly directed at Mike.
Rivers fought to bring the video feed into focus, his fingers trailing a bloody smear across the keyboard. "Yeah," he muttered, watching Hawke scoop up the dropped gun and stagger up the stairs, still holding his side.
At least, he hoped so.