Part 47 (1/2)

”Holy s.h.i.+t,” Seth said.

The 757 growled into the air. In her rearview mirror, the headlights of the pickup reached the runway. Jo bounced onto the taxiway, turned hard, and drove toward a line of airliners parked at the terminal.

”Oh, G.o.d,” Misty said.

The pickup raced onto the runway behind the 757. Jet blast hit it, engines at full takeoff thrust.

”No!” Misty cried.

Calder fishtailed. Her headlights went awry, veering like a light-house searchlight. The pickup jacked sideways and flipped. In the fury of the jet blast, it caught air and lifted off the ground. Six feet, ten, truly airborne.

It was going so fast that it landed on the dirt, halfway to the taxiway. In the rearview mirror its headlights spun like bulbs in a tumble dryer.

”Ian!” Misty cried.

”Dad!” Seth yelled, and turned to Jo. ”Stop, stop.”

The pickup landed sideways, bounced, and rolled, tires spinning around overhead, dust blowing in a vortex around it. Still traveling immensely fast, it bounced upright and went over again, rolling across the dirt and across the taxiway.

Jo reached the terminal and swerved to a stop behind the tail of an MD-80. She heard Seth and Misty thud against the side of the Tahoe.

The pickup flipped again and rolled to a stop. Debris was scattered across the tarmac behind it.

”Dad,” Seth cried.

”Let us out,” Misty said.

Jo jumped out, ran to the back of the Tahoe, and raised the tailgate. In the distance, the tarmac was a mess of metal and gla.s.s. Steam boiled from the pickup's shattered radiator. The truck lay wrecked on its side against the engine of a 737.

From the windows of the jet, a hundred stunned faces stared out at it.

* 39 *

Kanan blinked and cleared his vision. His head was spinning. His chest felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. His right leg throbbed and his right arm responded sluggishly when he moved it. In front of him he saw the shattered winds.h.i.+eld of a pickup truck.

He heard tires, horns, his own pulse, and the roar of jet turbines at takeoff thrust. A rifle barrel lay across his shoulder. It was hot.

He heard a woman moaning.

Ambush. Zimbabwe. Slick.

”Ian...”

He took hold of the rifle, unbuckled his seat belt, and pushed himself up. The woman's voice sounded familiar. He was bleeding. Through the sunroof he saw a dark sky. They were on an airport tarmac, flipped on their side, urban setting. Major mayhem. Kabul. IED. He pulled the stock of his rifle against his shoulder and aimed out the sunroof.

”Ian, get me out of here,” the woman said.

He turned his head. Riva Calder was hanging sideways from her seat belt in the driver's seat. She gave him a long hard look.

”The kidnappers are out there. Shoot,” she said.

Have a plan to kill everybody you meet today. He turned and lowered his eye to the rifle's night scope. His vision was blurry. Blood was running from his scalp across his face.

Across the tarmac, by the tail of an MD-80, three people stood beside a Chevy Tahoe. He saw a woman in Western clothing. She had long dark curls. Another woman. A young man.

”Do it, Ian,” Riva said. ”Your vision's affected. That's them, the kidnappers.”

The dark-haired woman turned and grabbed the hand of the woman standing beside her. They were yelling something, but the roar of jet engines obliterated their words. He blinked again. He had a clear field of fire. He focused on her and drew a breath.

”Shoot, Ian. Shoot,” Calder said. ”Look at him-you already shot him once. He's bleeding. Ian, we're trapped here. Don't let them get to us.”

Kanan focused through the night scope. He blinked and looked at the people across the tarmac.

”You really want me to squeeze the trigger?” He raised the HK pistol in his left hand and aimed it at Riva's face. ”Ask me again to fire at my family, and I'll do exactly that.”

Facing the wrecked pickup, Jo, Misty, and Seth held their linked hands aloft. They held there, breathless.

Across the tarmac, Ian Kanan tossed his rifle through the sunroof and crawled from the wreck.

Misty let out a cry of relief.

Seth slumped. ”He's okay.”

Seth's tank finally ran dry, and his legs gave way. Jo and Misty eased him down on the tarmac and leaned him back against the rear wheel of the Tahoe. He was pale and near shock, but his eyes were filled with wonder.

Fire trucks rolled toward them from the distant end of the runway, lights and sirens turning the night to popcorn. Misty was using a strip torn from her sweater as a pressure bandage on Seth's shoulder. She took Jo's hand and pressed it against the wound.

”Keep the pressure on. I'll be back.”

”No.” Jo grabbed her arm. ”Hold on.”

Misty pulled loose. ”Ian's hurt.”

”And contaminated. You can't touch him, or you and Seth could be contaminated too. Wait for the fire crew.”

The fire trucks rumbled up, towering yellow engines blowing diesel fumes. Firefighters jumped out. Jo jogged toward them, waving with both arms.

”I'm a doctor and a San Francisco Police Department liaison. We need hazmat decontamination. We have a blood-borne pathogen. Universal exposure control precautions.”

Kanan pulled himself upright. He threw two pistols on the tarmac beside the rifle and limped toward his family. He was a mess, but the expression suffusing his face, erasing all his pain, was joy.

Jo ran halfway to him and held up her hands. ”Stop, Ian. You've been contaminated with Slick. You can't touch anybody until you've been cleaned up.”

He halted, swaying, and stretched a hand toward his wife. ”Misty.”