The Game - Laurie R. King [166]
I pulled the revolver from my pocket and crept forward, wishing there was something I might hide behind: If the moonlight was sufficient to illuminate him, it would betray me as well.
The man did nothing until I was perhaps fifty feet away. And then he spoke.
“I say, is there something on?”
“Who is it?” I demanded.
“Jack Merriam. Er, the pilot?”
I straightened. “Ex-RAF?”
“Right-o. Is the maharaja on one of his stunts?”
“You might say that.”
“You need me to turn on the runway lights?”
“That would be most excellent.”
“Happy to. I do wish he’d tell me when he’s planning one of these night jaunts of his. I wouldn’t have to turn out when I heard noises.”
“This was somewhat spur-of-the-moment. But I’ll mention it to him.”
“I don’t mean to complain. I’ll get the lights, won’t be a tick.”
When I tumbled back through the open door, I found Goodheart’s torch off.
“Who the hell was that?” he hissed.
“The pilot. He’s turning on the runway lights for us. Would that be helpful?”
“Helpful? I thought I’d be doing this by torchlight. Thank God for the Brits. Hope the fellow doesn’t get into trouble.”
“Too late to worry about that.”
True to his word, the pilot illuminated our abduction of his employer. The bank of lights flared on, one block at a time, glaring onto the clean, smooth surface. Our engine caught, the propeller began to turn, and Goodheart pointed its nose between the twin rows of spotlights and revved the engine. We began to move, then to bounce, and on one of the bounces we hesitated briefly, then rose.
But our escape did not go unrecognised by the men we left behind. The guards must have been near the air field even before the lights attracted their attention, because we’d only been airborne a few moments, and were about to bank around the high trees at the end of the runway, when the roar of noise within the machine changed in some indefinable way, and the air blew into our faces in a manner it had not before. I suddenly could see light from the runway, spilling in three clear circles punched through the floor.
“The fools—they’re shooting!” Holmes cried.
My body tried to crawl into itself, although there could be no escape, either from being hit directly, or from going down in a ball of flame. But Goodheart banked hard then, and the change in our outline, or the increased distance from their guns, or even their belated realisation that they might also be shooting at their prince, meant the end of it: No more holes appeared in the thin metal skin. When the plane’s wings had levelled out and we were aimed south, I uncurled to pat our waking prisoner from head to toe. It was a huge relief to find him unwounded: Explaining an abducted maharaja was going to be hard enough; a dead one might present real problems. The man himself appreciated neither concern. He glared at me over his gag, drugged and drunk still but angry; I checked his bindings and went back to Holmes.
“He’s all right. Where are we heading?”
“I don’t suppose you know if the British encampment has a parade grounds?”
“I should very much doubt it, in these mountains.”
“Then it’s Hijarkot.”
I sighed, foreseeing the hell that would break loose the minute we set down with our kidnapped maharaja and no authority, no legal stance, no Geoffrey Nesbit to explain.
I leant forward to yell into Holmes’ ear. “Mycroft is going to be absolutely mortified when he finds out that his sources misled him regarding Goodheart.”
“These amateurs,” Holmes bellowed back, wagging his head in mock disapproval.