Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (196 page)

STONE LOOKED AROUND
for Lance, but he was nowhere in sight. Billy Bob's voice came back on the radio.

“I want you to start your engine and prepare to take off when I instruct you to do so.”

Stone looked over at the FBI agent guarding the door from the roof. The man was lying on his side, his helmet was next to him with a hole in it, and blood was pooling around his head. “Tell him yes,” Stone said.

“Yes, sir, will do,” the pilot said.

“Go and start the engine,” Stone said, “but don't take off until I'm aboard.”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot said and strode toward the helicopter.

Stone ran around the roof, looking behind equipment, but Lance was nowhere to be found. He gave up and sprinted for the helicopter. Its rotor was already turning.

Stone dove into the back of the helicopter. He was on the floor between two facing rows of seats. He looked aft, found a baggage compartment and rolled over the rear seats into that area. There was a small window in the compartment, and he looked out both sides, wondering what was going to happen. He was looking west when Billy Bob's head rose above the building's parapet, followed a moment later by Peter's head. Billy Bob was holding the boy in his arms.

As Stone watched, Billy Bob swung a large case over the parapet and dropped it onto the rooftop, then he got a leg over and dropped Peter, who landed on his feet. They were still handcuffed together, and Billy Bob had an assault rifle fitted with a suppressor/silencer slung over one shoulder. Stone was still being amazed by Billy Bob's feat of levitation when it occurred to him that there must be a window-washer's platform on that side of the building, one of those things that went up and down like an elevator to allow workers to clean the windows on each floor. The fucking FBI, he thought, had not bothered to look over the parapet when they searched the roof.

Billy Bob strode toward the chopper, dragging Peter, who was struggling to keep up. Stone unholstered his 9mm, but he knew that, because of Peter, he would not have a shot, until Billy Bob got into the helicopter. Stone ducked behind the seat to avoid being seen.

He felt a bump when Billy Bob dumped his case and climbed into the machine, but he could not see between the seats, only over them, and he did not want to risk popping up at a time when Billy Bob might be facing him. Also, he didn't know Peter's position.

“Take off now!” Billy Bob shouted over the whine of the engine, and the chopper immediately leaped off the roof.

The motion cost Stone his balance, and he toppled sideways. By the time he regained his knees they were moving forward. Stone knew they were beyond the help of anyone in the building, and that the NYPD helicopters had been told to stand off.

“Fly right up the middle of Broadway!” Billy Bob shouted, “and stay just above rooftop level!” He must have encountered some resistance from the pilot, because he began shouting again. “Do it, or I'll blow your fucking head off!”

Stone popped his head up for a split second, then ducked. Billy Bob had been standing, facing forward, while Peter sat on the floor, still handcuffed. The sliding door on the right was open.

“Now you be still!” Billy Bob shouted, apparently at Peter. “I'm going to unlock the handcuff, and you don't want to fall out, do you?”

Stone flicked off the safety on his pistol and waited a reasonable time for the cuff to be unlocked, then he sat up and pointed his pistol forward. Peter was free, and Billy Bob was still facing the pilot, the assault rifle pointed at the man's head. Stone climbed over the seat and swung the barrel of his pistol at the back of Billy Bob's head, hard. A gunshot could be heard over the noise of the engine, and Stone thought his pistol had gone off, but, as Billy Bob collapsed at his feet, he saw that the back of the pilot's head was gone. Billy Bob's weapon had fired a round when he was struck.

The helicopter began a slow, descending left turn, and Stone made a leap for the copilot's seat. “Hang on, Peter!” he yelled, grabbing the boy's hand and dragging him forward. Stone made the copilot's seat and grabbed the stick, trying to get the chopper level, but then he saw the top of a building coming at him. He yanked back on the stick and cleared the building by a foot, then continued climbing, feeling the airspeed bleed off. They were going to stall any second.

Stone pushed the pilot's body out of the way and found the throttle, pushing it forward. The chopper climbed, and he breathed a sigh of relief, until he realized that Peter was no longer next to him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the boy tugging at the inert Billy Bob, one of whose legs was dangling out the open door.

“Come back to me, Peter!” he shouted, and in that moment of looking back, he lost control of the helicopter. It banked sharply to the left, and Stone desperately tried to correct. The chopper had turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees before he could level it again and glance back. The good news was both Billy Bob and Peter had been thrown against the left side of the helicopter, away from the open door. “Come to me, Peter!” he shouted.

“No,” the boy shouted back. “He'll fall out, if I let him go.”

“No, he won't. Come to me!”

Peter shook his head and clung to Billy Bob.

Stone looked at the chopper's instrument panel, trying to find something that looked like an autopilot. He found nothing but the usual flight instruments, like the ones on his own airplane. He was headed north again, toward Central Park. At least that was open space, he thought. He might have some chance of setting the thing down. He looked back at Peter.

“Listen to me!” he shouted. “He's all right, he won't fall out. I want you to climb over the backseat and stay there while I land. Sit down and don't move!”

The boy looked at the rear seats, then at Billy Bob, then at Stone. He nodded.

Stone tried to keep the chopper level while Peter inched his way aft. He glanced back to see the boy disappear behind the rear seats. “Thank God,” he said, then he turned his attention back to flying.

It didn't feel like an airplane, exactly, but it had a stick, rudder pedals and a throttle, like an airplane. He hoped to God he wasn't going to need the collective handle, because he didn't really know what would happen if he used it. They were crossing Fifty-seventh Street now, and the bare trees of Central Park beckoned.

Then he heard Peter scream, “Stone!!!” He looked back to find Billy Bob on his knees, his head bleeding and his assault rifle pointed at Stone. What was worse, he could see that a grenade had been attached to the rifle.

“Shoot me, and you die!” Stone shouted.

“Do what I say, or we
all
die,” Billy Bob shouted back. “The boy, too!”

STONE TRIED
to think of something, but he could only concentrate on keeping the helicopter in the air.

Billy Bob slipped on a headset and handed Stone one. “We're going back to Times Square,” he said.

Stone put on the headset. “I've never flown a helicopter before. I don't know if I can make that kind of turn without dumping this thing.”

“Well, you seem to be doing okay,” Billy Bob replied. “Let's give it a whirl. Say, where's the boy?”

“I lost him trying to turn this thing. He was trying to keep you inside, and he went out.”

“And I had grown so fond of the little shit,” Billy Bob said. “To think he gave his all for me. Hey, why aren't you turning?” He nudged the back of Stone's head with the assault rifle.

Stone started a right-hand turn, keeping it shallow. He was making a wide arc to the east, now, and they were over Fifth Avenue before he was headed south.

“You know,” Billy Bob said, “there are an awful lot of cops around Times Square, and they probably have snipers set up by now. Maybe a nicer spot would be Rockefeller Center, and you're right on course.”

“Oh, shit,” Stone muttered.

“I can put a grenade right into the skating rink,” Billy Bob said. “The area will be jammed with tourists this time of year.”

“Why are you doing this?” Stone asked. “What's in it for you?”

“I know I'm not getting out of this alive,” Billy Bob said. “I may as well make a splash.”

“Look, I can fly this thing to Teterboro right now. Don't you have an airplane out there?”

“Not anymore, Stone.”

“Then hijack one. There are always a dozen jets on the ramp with their engines running, waiting for passengers to arrive. Take one and get the hell out of here.”

“And where would I go?”

“Iceland doesn't have an extradition treaty with the United States.” This wasn't true, but maybe Billy Bob didn't know that.

“Iceland doesn't have an extradition treaty? I've never heard that.”

“Few people know about it, but it's true.”

“Bullshit. I don't believe that for a moment.”

“Then . . .” Stone was about to make another suggestion, but he was interrupted by the sound of the engine sputtering and dying. The helicopter began to descend.

“What the hell is wrong?” Billy Bob shouted.

“I don't know,” Stone replied. He was scanning the instrument panel, looking for a warning light or some other reason. His eyes stopped on the fuel gauges: One of them showed full, the other empty. He found a lever and shoved it sideways, changing tanks. The engine came back to life, as if it had never been starved for fuel.

“Good work, Stone.”

But now they were low over Fifth Avenue. Stone eased the throttle forward, and the chopper began to climb again. “What's wrong with Mexico?” he asked.

“Too far. They'd shoot me down before I could get there.”

“Then go offshore and head for South America. They can't shoot you down over international waters.” This was a lie, too.

“You know, you might have something there.”

“So, we'll head for Teterboro?”

“Yeah, but not yet; first I want to lob a couple of these grenades into Rockefeller Center, see how they perform. Call it a test.”

“You do that, and they'll never stop looking for you, Billy Bob. Come on, you've got money offshore, right? Head south and lie low. Find some nice spot and buy a house and a few girls. Eventually, they'll get tired of looking.”

“You make it sound so inviting,” Billy Bob said.

“It'll never happen if you fire those grenades,” Stone said. “The cops will blow us out of the sky; they'll be finding pieces of us around midtown for days. But, right now, they're standing off. We can make Teterboro.”

“That's a very tempting thought, Stone,” Billy Bob said.

“Turning right for Teterboro,” Stone said. He eased the chopper into a right turn. Then he felt the gun barrel at the back of his head again.

“I don't think so,” Billy Bob said.

“Come on, why not?”

“Because I'm tired, Stone. I've run out my string, and this is going to be my last day on the planet. Yours, too. You know, I'm really sorry about the boy; he was a sweet kid.”

Stone leveled out heading west. He wasn't going to be complicit in this. If he and Peter were going to die today, then they weren't going to take hundreds of others with them. If a grenade had to go off, then the Hudson River, he decided, was the best place for it to happen. He didn't think Billy Bob would have time to fire one and reload from the case before he could dump the helicopter into the icy river.

“Hey, you're headed in the wrong direction,” Billy Bob said.

“No, I think you really want to go to Teterboro; that's the best deal.” They had crossed Sixth Avenue, now, and Seventh was coming
up fast. Five more crosstown blocks, and he'd make the water. Stone pushed the throttle farther forward and adjusted the trim to keep the chopper level, so it would pick up speed. He watched the airspeed climb from eighty-five to a hundred knots.

Billy Bob rapped him sharply on the head with the barrel of the assault rifle. “You're not paying attention,” he said.

Stone felt a warm trickle of blood run down his scalp to his neck. “There's something I've got to do before we go back to Rockefeller Center,” Stone said.

“What do you mean, there's something
you've
got to do?” Billy Bob demanded. “This is
my
party, and we'll go where I say.”

“Yeah, well you're going to have to say it to that police helicopter on our tail. Those things are equipped with rocket launchers, you know, but if we can get across the Hudson, they can't touch us. They'll have to scramble Jersey State Police choppers on the other side, and that will take time.” He was coming up on Twelfth Avenue, now, and the river was just ahead.

“What police chopper?” Billy Bob asked. “I don't see it.”

“It's dead behind us, and gaining,” Stone said. “But we can make Jersey, and we'll be okay. The chopper crossed the banks of the Hudson at a thousand feet, and then Billy Bob did something that Stone would always be grateful for.

He stepped back, transferred the assault rifle to his left hand, grabbed a handgrip bolted to the airframe and stuck his head into the slipstream, leaning out and looking behind them for the police helicopter.

Stone yanked back on the throttle, whipped the stick to the right and the chopper went into an impossibly steep right turn. He looked back to see Billy Bob hanging out of the helicopter, still gripping the rifle, hanging on to the handgrip for dear life. Stone kicked the right rudder, and the chopper's roll became even steeper. It was more than Billy Bob's grip could handle. His grip failed, and Stone watched him begin his plunge toward the icy Hudson a thousand feet below.

But Stone had no time to relish the moment, because the helicopter continued to roll. Stone could see the George Washington Bridge, in the distance, and it was upside down. Stone had a sensation of falling from the sky, and he closed his eyes. Then a huge explosion rocked the helicopter, and Stone knew Billy Bob had tested his grenade.