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Rivera’s man in the passenger seat, already unbelted, was driven headfirst into the windshield, snapping his neck and killing him. Rivera, still belted in, flew forward and slammed into the back of the passenger seat, while Sam, clutching the sleeping bag in front of his face and chest, smashed into the dashboard. In the backseat Remi’s impact was cushioned by two sleeping bags. She was the first to regain consciousness after the impact.
SHE RELEASED HER BELT and heaved herself forward between the seats. She grabbed Sam by the shoulders and eased him backward. Water was gushing into the cabin through the hole left in the windshield by Rivera’s man. Already nose down in the water, the Ikarus began tipping forward under the weight of its engine, lifting the tail from the water.
“Sam!” Remi shouted. “Sam!”
His eyes snapped open. He blinked a few times, looked around. “Did it work?” he asked.
“We’re both alive. I’d call that a success.”
“What about Rivera?”
Remi looked at Rivera, who lay slumped forward, bent at the waist.
“Unconscious or dead. I don’t know and I don’t care. We need to think about leaving, Sam.”
“How about right now?”
“Great!”
Sam braced his feet against the dashboard, fighting gravity, then punched the button to release his seat belt. He tried his door. It didn’t budge. He tried again. “My door’s jammed. Try Rivera’s door.”
“He’s blocking it.”
Sam pressed with his legs and arched his back, sliding
his upper body into the backseat. “Get his belt.” Remi hit the release. Rivera slid forward into Sam’s outstretched hands. He let gravity do the rest, and Rivera tumbled headfirst onto the remains of the passenger seat and his dead friend.
Remi crawled across the seat and grabbed the door handle. “Are you ready?”
“Whenever you are.”
“Deep breath!”
SHE MUSCLED THE DOOR OPEN. A column of water surged into the cabin. They let the cabin fill up, then Remi shoved off and swam out. Sam was halfway out the door when he stopped and turned back. He kicked into the front seat and started probing the floorboard with his hands. Under the dead man’s left boot Sam found what he was looking for: the semiautomatic pistol the man had been holding. He tucked it into his belt.
He made his way back out and kicked for the surface. He broke into the air beside Remi. Ten feet to their right the plane’s tail was jutting straight out of the water.
“It’s not going down,” Remi said.
“Probably a pocket of air in the tail. I’m going back down to see what I can salvage. My plan didn’t include that part. I’ll meet you on the beach.”
Sam took in a lungful of air, flipped over, and dove. His outstretched hand found the leading edge of the wing, and he pulled himself across the fuselage, then down into the doorway.
He stopped.
Rivera was gone. Sam looked into the tail section, saw nothing, and checked the front seat again. He saw movement out of the corner of his right eye and turned his head. A shadow rushed toward his face. He felt something hard strike his forehead. Pain flashed behind his eyes, and everything went dark.
“SAM!” HE HEARD DISTANTLY. The voice faded, then returned. “Sam!”
He felt hands on his face. He knew that touch: Remi. He forced his eyes open. She was leaning over him, her auburn hair dripping onto his face. She smiled. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Very funny. None. I’m okay. Help me sit up.”
“Just stay there. You’ve got a nasty gash on your forehead.”
“Rivera . . . Where is—”
“I’m here, Mr. Fargo.”
