really, but this is Africa. Things don’t happen in a rush here.”
“They will once the government finds out what just happened at the prison.”
The attractive young pilot took the hint and hurried up the cabin to clamber through an arched opening into the cockpit. Eddie checked on the other passengers. Strutter, evidently as unconvinced by the Antonov’s supposed airworthiness as Eddie, had already strapped himself firmly in. The only thing keeping Boodu down, however, was Maximov’s scowl from the neighboring seat.
“You’ll never get away,” the Zimbabwean snarled as Eddie took the seat next to Strutter, facing him across the cabin. “Not in this antique.”
“Ten miles and we’re across the border,” Eddie reminded him. “Even this thing can make it before any of your fighters reach us.”
TD revved the engine, applying full rudder to turn the elderly aircraft back down the road. The Antonov lurched over the bumps. Strutter nervously pulled his straps even tighter. “If it can make it,” said Boodu.
“I heard that,” TD snapped from the cockpit. She straightened out, braking and checking the instruments before pushing the throttle to full power. The engine roared, the entire fuselage vibrating and rattling.
“I should have kept earplugs in,” Maximov complained. Eddie had to agree; the Antonov betrayed its Soviet military heritage by its utter lack of creature comforts such as soundproofing.
“Hang on,” TD warned. The jolting increased as the biplane picked up speed. Eddie looked out through the row of circular portholes, gripping the arm of his seat with one hand as he kept the gun aimed at Boodu with the other. They were doing forty miles per hour, fifty—then abruptly the juddering eased and the plane tipped back sharply as it took to the air. Antiquated though it might be, the Antonov still had low-speed performance that almost no modern planes could match.
“How long to the border?” Eddie shouted to TD as she banked to head west toward her current home country.
“Less than ten minutes.”
“Okay.” Once the An-2 reached Botswanan airspace—passage had already been secured—another fifteen minutes of flight would bring them to a bush airstrip.
Where the relatives of some of Boodu’s victims awaited his arrival.
Boodu had realized this, his attempt at a neutral expression not hiding the concern on his scarred face. His gaze flicked to the machete, which Strutter had shoved point-down into the frame between his and Eddie’s seats. “Don’t even think about it,” Eddie warned, with a jab of the gun for emphasis. The militia leader leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowed.
Now that they were in the air, Strutter started to relax. He wiped sweat from his forehead, then turned to the Englishman. “You say you are not my friend, Eddie, but for getting me out of that place, you have a friend for life. Whether you like it or not!” He beamed, but the smile faded at Eddie’s unimpressed look. “Whatever you need, whatever you want, you’ll have it.”
“Just information’ll do,” said Eddie. “I’m trying to find someone.”
“If anyone can find them, I can,” Strutter said proudly.
“That’s why I rescued you. In fact, that’s the only reason I rescued you.” The Kenyan looked somewhat deflated, so Eddie softened slightly. “You get me what I want, Johnny, and as far as I’m concerned we’re all square, and you’re free to go. Sound good?”
Strutter nodded. “It does. Thank you.” He offered his hand. “I promise you, I will find—”
A line of ragged holes burst open in the fuselage, shards of aluminum showering the passengers.
Wind shrieked into the cabin. “Shit!” Eddie gasped as TD threw the lumbering plane into an evasive turn. They were being fired on—but how?
The Alouette. Boodu’s helicopter was equipped with a pair of .303-caliber Browning machine guns—and after fleeing the prison, it must have withdrawn to a safe distance before its crew spotted the incoming Antonov and deduced that the highest-value escapees would be taken aboard. Eddie didn’t know the Alouette’s top speed, but suspected it would match—or beat—the old biplane.
Another burst of machine-gun fire punctured the hull, the shots ripping along the length of the plane—
Into the cockpit.
TD screamed. Eddie saw blood on the windshield. The plane lurched. “TD, are you okay? TD!”
Her reply was a barely coherent wail. “Oh God, my arm!”
Eddie jumped up and was about to enter the cockpit to help her when the nose tilted upward, sending him staggering back down the cabin …
Boodu lunged for his machete.
Off balance, Eddie took a shot at him that went wide, adding another hole to the Antonov’s puckered fuselage as Boodu