Page 149 of King’s Ransom

He was alive.

‘Murph!’ I leaned over, unclipped his seatbelt—

—just as the drone swooped into a hover right in front of our crashed chopper.

And in that split second, I got a look at it.

I saw the bullet holes and scratches from the gunshots it had received at the cemetery.

It was the drone from December 21st.

It fired again.

Braaaaack!

The already-cracked windshield of our chopper exploded into a zillion shards as I yanked Murph into the luxurious rear section an instant before a shit-ton of machine-gun rounds tore his seat apart.

We tumbled onto the plush carpet of the rear section, in between all the leather chairs.

‘Murph! Can you walk?’

‘I don’t kn—urgh . . .’ He groaned, clutching his bloodied chest.

More bullets rushed into the chopper, sizzling over our crouched bodies, shredding the leather seats.

Murph grimaced in pain.

I checked his wound. It was a ragged bloody hole.

‘The good news is the bullet went right through your pec,’ I said. ‘The bad news is it was a big damn bullet.’

‘That’s one of the boss’s drones . . .’ Murph gasped. ‘Why would he . . .?’

‘It may not be your boss controlling it,’ I said.

Or maybe it could be. I wasn’t yet sure of Aristo King’s role in the events of December 21st.

‘We can’t stay here,’ I said. ‘Have you got a gun on board?’

‘In the cockpit . . . under my seat . . .’ Murph grunted.

I lunged forward, reached under the pilot’s seat and extracted a Glock 9mm pistol from under it. Compared to the firepower of the drone, it was a peashooter.

I slid back into the rear hold, searching. I needed something to—

Then I saw them.

Under the leather seats: emergency kits.

In each of them were life jackets.

Ration packs.

A tent tarp with ropes.

And flare guns.

A few seconds later, the drone swung into a hover on the left side of the chopper, searching for us—