Run for Your Life - James Patterson [86]
He had already been given the firing order by the time he’d finished strapping in. He didn’t need to know who or what was on the Cessna—only to knock it out of the sky.
“Cessna Bravo Lima Seven Seven Two,” Burkhart said into the radio. “This is the United States Air Force. Turn around and land back at Teterboro or you will be brought down. This is your only warning.”
The Cessna pilot’s voice crackled back. “Don’t bullshit me, ace. I used to fly one of those things. You can’t risk it. You could wipe out half of Manhattan.”
“That’s a risk we’re prepared to take,” Burkhart said. “I repeat. This is your final warning.”
This time there was no answer.
Had the guy really been a fighter pilot? Vickers wondered. If it was true, that added a wrinkle.
He rolled his neck as the targeting radar lock alarm suddenly sounded.
“Well, you can’t say we didn’t warn ’em,” he said.
The siren quit as the Cessna suddenly swung a hard left west in between the stone and glass towers. It was in Manhattan airspace now, somewhere around 80th Street.
“No!” Burkhart cried. “Shit on a stick! We’re too late!”
“Keep your shirt on,” Vickers said, jogging the joystick between his knees to the right, screaming the dull silver-colored jet in over the West Side. He was coming over Central Park a split second later when the Cessna reappeared ahead above Columbus Circle, then immediately vanished again, weaving through the city’s high-rises, using them for cover.
Though the missile lock siren came back on, he knew he couldn’t chance a missile now. That bastard in the Cessna was right. If he missed, a big chunk of midtown Manhattan would be history.
Vickers squinted beneath his flight visor as his gloved finger reached for the trigger of the twenty-millimeter Gatling gun. He kept it there, waiting for his chance.
Chapter 95
I WAS WIDE AWAKE when I heard Meyer’s radio exchange with the fighter pilot, although I was wishing I wasn’t. I didn’t know which hurt worse, my head or my groin.
“The hell with the Blanchettes,” Meyer said, talking to himself now. He was ignoring me, assuming I was unconscious or dead. “Why waste this stellar opportunity on those old fools? Let’s hit this fucked-up country where it’ll hurt the most—the Big Apple’s pride and joy. Then they’ll read my Manifesto of Nonsense.”
I stayed slumped in my seat, but opened my eyes just enough to see that we were rocketing southward down Fifth Avenue.
Straight toward the glittering, spire-topped, man-made mountain face of the Empire State Building.
One more try, I thought, gritting my teeth against the pain. I was going to die in a fiery explosion anyway. Maybe I could keep us from taking anybody else along—except for the psycho beside me.
Meyer hadn’t bothered to strap me back into my seat. Quietly, I took a long, deep breath.
Then, with every ounce of strength I could muster, I threw my left elbow up into his Adam’s apple.
He reared backward, clutching his throat with one hand and clawing at my face with the other. I lunged into him, pinning him against his door and grabbing the wheel.
“We’re going out over the bay,” I screamed into his headset microphone. “Shoot us down!”
For the next few seconds I had the edge of surprise, and I managed to wrestle the plane into a sharp westward arc. Banking perilously, we skirted the northwest corner of the Empire State by no more than a couple hundred yards.
But Meyer was strong and he came back, pounding at my face and trying to regain control. As the plane yawed wildly from side to side, we battled like caged panthers, snarling, butting heads—both of us injured, both desperate. Once again, we were losing altitude fast.
But this time we were heading out over the bay. I clung to the wheel with everything I had to keep us on that course, my shoulders tensed for the fireball from the fighter jet that was going to blow us into cinders