It was hard to keep her attention on the wider goings-on because the team of Abby and Derek formed such a wonderful distraction. Could it have been only three days? She recalled the battles of Trisha and Bill as they’d negotiated how to work together as a team. Trisha seemed born to battle against everything around her just on principle. The whole team had nearly broken around her before she and Bill had resolved their path together. And they’d both brushed close to death so many times in that period that Emily could almost believe in miracles at their survival.
Abby and Derek were already as smooth in operation together as any she’d seen. Too easy. Now she must guard against whatever might break them apart.
For ten minutes Emily had scouted and hovered over the building and become none the wiser. When they all reemerged from the building, racing along behind Zackie, the relief nearly swamped her. She could do nothing to protect them while they’d been inside . And their race across the airport field behind the dog told her that Miss Watson was indeed alive and had freed herself.
She had Ethan swing over the dumpster once Derek had jumped out. He coughed out a brief laugh on spotting the man bound there. Definitely Miss Watson’s work. Following their careful scan of the area, she still spotted nothing out of place, not that she’d expected to.
Emily could only curse when, after a moment’s conference, they all began running down the long taxiway toward the far end of the Base Hangar. They paid no heed as they raced in front of a taxiing Airbus A330 aerial tanker. Whatever they’d figured out, it must be bad. The one in British uniform, which must be Group Captain Cutcher, pulled out a radio, said something, and hung it back on her belt without pausing. The A330 stayed where it was.
“Hey!” Sam the crew chief called out. “On our six, ground level.”
Ethan didn’t wait to find out what it was, he spun the helo hard counterclockwise so that he opened the view to the side gunners and herself.
Emily managed a breath. It wasn’t a tank or technical—a pickup truck with an anti-aircraft gun mounted on the bed. It wasn’t even a phalanx of crazed Royal Marines, if Britain ever allowed such transgressions of emotion, with machine guns and RPGs.
It was a lone Land Rover, racing down the taxiway. Not toward Dilya and the other runners, but aimed past them toward the?—
Emily began issuing orders.
62
Miss Watson heard the heavy beat of the Chinook’s rotors passing overhead. At first she cringed every time they’d done so, afraid of being discovered. She’d taken enough money from her jailers’ wallets that she could get to London. There she kept several sets of identity carefully hidden in various secure drops. After that, she could leave the country cleanly and no one, not even that sweet girl Dilya, would ever find her again.
Except Dilya’s presence had foiled that plan.
Now, she aimed the Land Rover toward the MI6 operatives dispatched to recapture her. MI6 had run into a contingent of American soldiers. Could the Americans take care of themselves? With Emily Beale here, she’d bet on them over the Brits. But Dilya and her dog would stand out like sore thumbs. She’d be a flashing sign in her pink parka saying, Look at this girl. She’s incredibly important. And as much as Miss Watson didn’t trust them, not for a split millisecond, the Brits weren’t stupid.
A massive shadow swept over the Land Rover as she crossed the tarmac at a hundred kmph.
Mere feet off her nose, the flying Chinook descended with its rear ramp down. They scraped it on the pavement, kicking sparks in a bright spray that caused her to blink.
They slowed abruptly.
To veer aside would roll the vehicle.
Before she could think to jam on the brakes, a hard jounce threw her painfully against the seatbelt. The Land Rover shot up the loading ramp and into the cargo bay. Her headlights came on automatically in the dim interior and a crew chief was waving her ahead as calmly as if guiding her to the correct position for an oil change.
The instant he gave her the Stop signal, others appeared from the shadows to wrap chains over the tires. In the rearview mirror, the day disappeared with the closing of the rear ramp. Then she could feel the Chinook lift back into the skies.
Someone rapped their knuckles on her driver’s window.
She pushed the button to lower it.
“Engine please.”
She pressed the Stop button, put it in Park, and stepped on the emergency brake, not that the Rover could so much as wiggle against the chains.
“I’m Sam, crew chief of Charlene One. Welcome aboard, ma’am. She wants to talk to you.” The man hooked a thumb toward the cockpit.
Miss Watson eased the door open, careful not to bang it on the side of the helicopter’s hull, and slid out of her seat. There was no question about who awaited her.
The crew chief followed close behind, as if he didn’t trust her to walk the twenty feet. But when Sam folded down the jump seat for her before returning aft, she felt a little more kindly toward him.
“Hello, my dear girl.”
Emily peeled off her helmet and turned to face her. “Only you get to call me that.”
“I might have heard it from your father a time or two.” She’d met FBI Director Beale several times, though never in Emily’s presence. The girl was sharp enough to figure that out before she spoke.
