Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [123]
Alex nodded. He took one more look around him. It didn’t seem as if anyone was going to come to his rescue. The whole airfield had emptied. The other planes—and now he spotted the Skyhawk that had first brought him to Simba River Lodge—were silent, unmoving. Surely someone would have called the police by now . . . assuming that there were any police operating in a remote town like Laikipia.
“All right,” he said.
He unbuckled his belt, gripped the sides of the plane, and began to pull himself out. At the same time, he glanced into the front of the plane, past the slumped figure of the pilot. He knew that Rahim had a gun. But there was no sign of it and no way he could search around without receiving a bullet himself.
What else? His eyes fell on the metal lever between the two seats. He thought of the two rubber pipes running underneath his feet, connected to the plastic tanks at the back of the plane. The pipes that had sprayed a wheat field with death.
The whole system must work on pressure, with the tank pumped up by the engine. They had been flying for an hour, so there had to be enough pressure in the tubes. But was there any of the mushroom spore left in the tanks? Alex didn’t dare turn around and look. McCain was still standing under the wing, waiting for him to climb down.
Alex stood up. As he swung his leg over the side, he pretended to stumble. His hand shot out, slamming the lever down. At once he heard a hiss—and a mere second later, a film of gray, slimy liquid squirted out of the pipes. McCain was taken by surprise. For a moment he was blinded, caught in the middle of the shower, the mushroom brew splashing over his head and into his eyes.
McCain fired his gun—but missed. After slamming the lever, Alex had thrown himself the other way, tumbling over the far side of the plane and down to the grass below. He heard the bullet thwack into the fuselage, inches from his head. At the same time, he hit the ground and cried out, a white flash blazing behind his eyes. He had landed badly, twisting his ankle beneath him. Worse still, the tanks had only contained a few dregs. Alex had barely got to his feet and begun to limp away before the shower stopped and McCain, cursing and wiping his eyes, was after him.
Alex could barely do more than hobble. His foot wouldn’t take his full weight. Every step was an agony that shot up his leg and all the way to his neck. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go much farther, and anyway, there was nowhere to go. Behind him, the grass and the landing strip stretched out, flat and empty. The perimeter was fenced off with an open gate leading to the edge of the town, but it was too far away. He would never reach it. McCain didn’t seem to be moving fast, but like a figure in a nightmare he was getting closer with every step.
Alex came to a line of drums stacked up on the grass right next to the tarmac, each one marked TOTAL ESSENCE PLOMBÉE. Leaded fuel. Why was it written in French? McCain fired five times. The nearest drum shivered and fuel began to splash out, spouting in five directions. Alex dived for cover behind it. His ankle burned with pain. He wondered if he would be able to get up again.
McCain stopped about ten paces away, as if this was a game and he had all the time in the world. Casually, he took out a fresh ammunition clip and reloaded the gun. Meanwhile, the fuel continued to gush out.
“You can’t hide from me, child,” McCain shouted. “ ‘Vengeance is mine. I will repay, sayeth the Lord.’ That’s Romans chapter twelve. A vengeful god . . . isn’t that a wonderful thing? And now, finally, the time for my vengeance has come. Let me see you.”
Alex tested one of the drums. It was full of fuel and too heavy to move. But the drum that McCain had punctured was emptying rapidly. Lying on his back, he pressed both feet against it and pushed with all his strength. It toppled over. Now Alex was exposed. There was nothing between him and McCain’s gun. He got to his knees, leaned on the drum, then rolled it over the tarmac toward McCain.