Chapter 64

CHAPTER 64

I MOVED TO one side as the pilot wrestled the first crate of snakes across the hold and onto the top of the ramp. He was stronger than he looked. The guys in the jeep hopped out and caught the crate as it slid down. They were muttering to one another in a language I couldn't pick out. Maybe Kirundi.

They grabbed the crate by the sides and slid it flat onto the tarmac. One of the guys leaned into the jeep and pulled out a thin metal pole with a hooked end. Another guy grabbed a power screwdriver and unfastened the wooden frame of the crate in front.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"We watch," said the pilot. "We hope."

The guy with the pole stood in front of the open crate and reached in, keeping his feet in a wide stance. The pilot was standing beside me in the doorway. He was practically vibrating with nervous energy.

The guy with the pole had hooked a boa behind its head. He leaned back and dragged it out of the crate. The snake was not cooperating. It kept slipping the hook and coiling back inside. The guy shouted a few words. Two of his buddies hurried over. They bent down and dragged the snake out with their bare hands.

The thing was massive. Thick body, muddy brown with black bands. It must have weighed sixty pounds.

The guy with the hook kept shouting orders. The two men stretched the snake out on the tarmac until it was full length—nine feet at least. A monster. I figured the next thing to appear would be a measuring tape. They probably paid by the inch.

Instead, the fourth guy walked from the jeep with a survival knife. He knelt down and rolled the snake's midsection until it was belly up. Then he jammed the knife into the snake's gut, right up to the hilt.

The snake twisted and coiled into itself. One guy held the head while the other two pulled on the tail, stretching it out again. The guy with the knife went back at it, making the opening a little bit wider. He reached inside with his fingers and pulled out a long plastic packet filled with white powder. Then another. And another.

Jesus. No wonder they needed security.

The boa was thrashing and twisting on the hot tarmac. The guy with the hook pulled out his .45 and blew its head off.

"Maybe that would have been a better place to start," I muttered to the pilot. He didn't answer. He was still trembling.

Right. None of my business.

The guy with the hook looked up at us. One of the others carried a packet to the jeep. He sliced it open with a penknife and placed a fingernail's worth of powder on the hood. He took a small glass vial from his pocket, unscrewed the top, and dribbled a single drop onto the powder.

The other three men crowded around him like they were watching a science experiment. The pilot tensed up. I saw him suck in a deep breath and hold it.

After a few seconds, one of the men looked up at the pilot and gave him a jaunty thumbs-up. The pilot started breathing again. His whole body relaxed. He nodded back, and gave a weak little wave.

I looked back into the hold. Christ. Five more crates. The sweat was dripping off my forehead and soaking through my shirt. It was going to be a long morning. Especially for the snakes. The pilot moved back and started unfastening the second crate.

Suddenly a series of cracks echoed across the runway. On reflex, I ducked back from the doorway. When l looked out again, three of the smugglers were lying on the tarmac. One was sprawled across the hood of the jeep. Blood was pooling underneath the bodies.

I heard engines revving in the distance. Two more jeeps appeared from around the back of a closed hanger about a hundred yards away. Each jeep carried two men. Face masks. Guns. No uniforms. Not good.

The pilot crawled up beside me and looked out. I tried to push him back into the plane, but he squirmed away and jumped down onto the runway. He ducked behind the parked jeep for a second, then took off in a sprint in the opposite direction, his skinny legs and arms pumping like crazy.

Another crack. A bullet punched him square in the back and exploded through his chest. In like a dime, out like a cash register. He flopped forward, dead before he hit the ground.

The jeeps were driving in wild, weaving patterns as they headed toward the plane. I took aim and emptied my first clip. I hit the lead jeep. The right headlight shattered and a rear tire blew. The jeep spun out. But the other one kept coming.

I pulled out the empty clip and jammed in my second. I knew that if I didn't get moving, I'd die right there in the plane. I reached back and grabbed the sack with my money and my cutlass. I hopped down and sprayed fire single-handed while I sidestepped toward the smugglers' jeep. With my free hand, I dragged the dead smuggler off the hood and let him flop onto the ground next to his buddies.

The jeep was still running. I jumped over the side door and slid into the driver seat.

I tossed my rifle into the footwell and floored the pedal. For a few seconds, I was heading straight for the other jeep, like a game of chicken. The driver swerved. I cranked my wheel, made a tight ninety-degree turn, and headed for the lake.

I kept my head down as rounds whizzed past me. My right-side mirror blew off. I checked my rearview. The guys from the disabled jeep were running toward the dead snake. The other jeep was still on my tail. Both men had dropped their masks now. I could see them smiling.

Sick, twisted smiles.

Goddamnit! Kira was right.

These assholes were everywhere.