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“More than half a mile, with a handgun? Yeah, sure.”
“Me neither,” she said. “We need to get closer to the airplane.”
“It’s all open ground between here and there,” Grant said. “And there’s a moon up there, remember?”
“They’re not expecting us,” Holly said. “And they’re looking at the airplane. Come on.” She got up, crossed the runway, and began running down the opposite side, Daisy keeping pace with her. As she ran, she saw the headlights of a vehicle approaching the ramp, down the road on the other side of the runway. From the direction of the main gate she heard four or five gunshots. She began to run faster. How long did it take to run half a mile?
She could see the van stopping at the airplane and people getting out. Their movements were not leisurely; they were in a hurry. Half a dozen people boarded the airplane.
“We’re not going to make it,” Grant said.
Holly stopped running. They were still at least five hundred feet from the airplane. “We don’t have to,” she said.
“What?”
“I can get a shot from here.”
“Holly, you might hit something with a rifle and a scope, but not with the Beretta.”
The airplane’s engines started, and it began to move.
“They’ve got to use the runway to take off; let’s let them come to us.” The airplane was taxiing down the runway in the opposite direction.
“Where’s he going to go?” Grant asked.
“The Bahamas? The Dominican Republic? Haiti? Wherever he can get fuel, and then he’s off.”
Grant lay down on the ground and pulled his knees up. “Brace on my knees,” he said. “Keep your arm straight and fire one round at a time—no rapid fire. Try for the nosewheel.”
The airplane had turned and was starting down the runway, the two turboprop engines screaming as they achieved full power.
“Don’t pan with the airplane,” Grant said. “Let it come to you, then fire, re-aim, and fire again.”
“Daisy, down,” Holly said. She braced herself against Grant’s knees and took aim about a third of the way down the runway. She reckoned she could get off three shots that had any hope of connecting—one early, one abeam of her, and one late.
“Lead it a little,” Grant said.
The airplane was picking up speed now, and in a second, Holly would fire her first shot. She squeezed off the round and saw sparks as the bullet ricocheted off the runway, a yard ahead of the airplane’s nosewheel.
“Next one is the toughest,” Grant said. “Lead a lot.”
As the airplane drew abeam of her, Holly fired her second round and saw nothing, no effect.
“Now don’t lead,” Grant said.
Holly swung the gun around, aimed carefully, and fired. The airplane’s nose dropped a little, and sparks flew as the tire disintegrated and the metal wheel ran along the runway. The pilot lifted the nosewheel off the ground.
“Shit, he’s going to take off!” Holly yelled.
The airplane rose at a nose-high angle, and the main gear came a couple of feet off the ground. But it wasn’t gaining any altitude. She saw the landing gear come up.
“He doesn’t have enough airspeed,” Grant said. “He’s going to stall it.”
As if on cue, the King Air fell onto the runway from a height of about six feet. The airplane skidded down the runway, turning sideways, then swapping ends.
Holly was on her feet, running, amazed by how far the airplane could slide. Finally, the airplane slowed, then stopped. It was a thousand feet away, and Holly knew the pilot would want to get his passengers off in a hurry. The door fell open, banging on the runway, and people began to pour out.
Grant yelled, “FBI! Freeze! FBI! Stop or we’ll fire.”
