At the top of the ramp she stopped at the bench seat and removed her sunglasses.
“Yes, ma’am?” the man said.
Theresa dropped the sunglasses on the seat and reached into her bag, fingers closing around the grip of the Walther PPK.
“Yes, ma’am?”
In a flash she jerked the pistol out and whirled on the bearded mercenary, chopping the suppressor hard across his face.
The blow sent the man to his knee and Theresa jammed the suppressor into the center of his forehead, her voice like ice when she spoke.
“I ought to shoot you right here.”
“Wh-what did I do?” the man asked, ignoring the rivulet of blood running down his face.
“What was the one thing you were told?” she demanded.
“No one sees the girl.”
“And if you failed?”
“Please, Theresa . . . I . . .”
“Sorry, luv,” she said, pulling the trigger.
The Walther spat, and the bullet snapped the man’s head back, Theresa stepping out of the way as the body tumbled forward.
Bloody idiot, she thought, stepping to the troop door.
“Wikus, you are in charge. Get someone to clean this up and get ready to leave.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Theresa returned the pistol to her bag, exchanged it for a satellite phone, and dialed.
“Yes?” a voice answered in French.
“Monsieur Cabot, we may have a slight problem.”
“You know how I feel about problems.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Well, what is it?”
“The general, he saw the package.”
There was a pause, and for a moment Theresa thought he’d hung up.
“Did he recognize her?”
“No, I don’t thi—”
“You don’t know?”
She wanted to tell him that Dábo had not recognized the other woman, but she wasn’t sure and knew better than to lie.
“No, sir, I do not know for sure.”
“Well, that is a problem,” Cabot said, and then the line went dead.
18
BOBO-DIOULASSO
One second the sky in front of the Provider was clear and blue and in the next instant, tracers were coiling up toward the windscreen like red whips. The bullets punched through the bottom of the aircraft, blowing fist-sized holes through the cargo hold.
“Hold her steady!” Hayes yelled, turning back to the ramp.
The ground fire had picked up, and all he could do was watch as the tracers blinked like fireflies on a summer evening.
Just kick it out, the voice urged.
But that wasn’t an option. Hayes had come too far, risked too much to take the easy road now, and held fast—knowing that there were more lives than just his at stake.
Holding on to the edge of the ramp, he leaned out into the slipstream, squinted against the burning mix of wind and engine exhaust that clouded his vision. The camp was coming up fast, and Hayes ducked back inside.
He wiped the tears from his eyes and grabbed the bundle, ready to throw it out, when Vlad screamed over the radio, talking so fast in Russian the only words Hayes made out were “RPG” and “pulling up.”
In the cockpit, Vlad jammed the throttles forward and yanked back on the yoke, sending the Provider’s nose skyward. The sudden change in the aircraft’s attitude threw Hayes off balance, and he stumbled forward.
He reached out to snag a strut but missed, and then he was tumbling forward, falling hard across the bundle, the sudden push of his body sending it shooting across the rollers—toward the gaping maw of the open cargo hatch.
Hayes kicked his legs behind him, desperately trying to hook his foot around anything that would keep him inside the plane, but there was nothing there. The bundle hit the lip of the ramp, bounced into the air, and launched him from the back of the aircraft.
Twisting in midair, he grabbed the bundle’s handle with his left hand and the static line with his right. By now Vlad had the Provider in a near-vertical climb, and when Hayes jerked to a halt, the deadweight of the bundle threatened to pull his shoulder from its socket.
While the static line was strong enough to hold him, the quarter-inch nylon was too thin for a proper handhold, and the scalding of his palm told Hayes that he was slipping.
Drop it, drop it now! the voice screamed.
But Hayes held on, ignoring the static line slicing into his left palm and the tug of the bundle that threatened to rip his right arm from the shoulder joint. He waited until he saw the camp below, and only when he was sure the bundle would hit its target did he let it go.
The bundle tumbled from his grasp, its static line snapping taut, ripping the parachute from the pack tray. It caught air. The silk dome inflated with a whump and the bundle slowly dropped gracefully into the center of the camp.
While the camp’s occupants rushed to claim the bundle, one thousand feet above them, Hayes was trying to save his own life—frantically trying to climb back inside the plane.
The ramp was less than four feet above his head, but even with the surge of adrenaline rushing through his veins and two hands on the static line, Hayes knew the odds of making it to safety were not in his favor.
He started up the static line, climbing hand over hand, ignoring the bullets snapping past his head, the rush of the wind buffeting his body.
“Get your fat ass up there,” he yelled at himself.
By the time he reached up and grabbed ahold of the ramp, his forearms were on fire and his clothes soaked with sweat. His shoulders and lats screamed as he pulled himself onto the ramp and squirmed his way into the cargo hold.
Once inside the aircraft, Hayes crawled to the bulkhead and slapped the plunger, his mangled hands leaving a crimson streak on the button. The ramp closed behind him and he collapsed to the floor, chest heaving, throat burning from breathing in the acrid exhaust.
He was worn out and his body screamed for rest, but Hayes knew he had to get to the cockpit. Had to get the plane back on the deck before Vlad got them both blasted out of the sky.
Shrugging out of the chute, he climbed to his feet and was staggering toward the cockpit stairs when a 14-millimeter shell hit the belly of the Provider and detonated.
The explosion opened up a section of the floor like a can opener, blasted Hayes off his feet, and bounced him off the bulkhead. The impact left him dazed and wobbly, but the sight of the flames spreading across the floor launched him into action.