“I NEED YOUR HELP,” said Willy.
Guy, dazed and still half-asleep, stood in his doorway in only a towel. Willy tried to stay focused on his face, but her gaze kept dropping to the scar on his upper abdomen.
He merely shook his head in disbelief. “What made you change your mind?”
“You were right, that’s all. No one’s willing to talk to me, answer my calls. I don’t know what else to do.”
“Last night hell had to freeze over before you’d come to me for help. Now here you are.” He took a step closer. “What really made you change your mind?”
“Oh, I haven’t changed my mind about you. You’re still a mercenary.” Her disgust seemed to hang in the air like a bad odour. She looked down at her lap and sighed. Reluctantly she opened her purse and pulled out a slip of paper. “I found this under my door this morning.”
He unfolded the paper. In a spidery hand was written “Die Yankee.”
Also available from MIRA® Books and
Tess Gerritsen
CALL AFTER MIDNIGHT
UNDER THE KNIFE
IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS
PRESUMED GUILTY
MURDER & MAYHEM ANTHOLOGY
Coming soon
STOLEN
Never Say Die
Tess Gerritsen
To Adam and Joshua, the little rascals
Prologue
1970
Laos–North Vietnam border
THIRTY MILES OUT of Muong Sam, they saw the first tracers slash the sky.
Pilot William “Wild Bill” Maitland felt the DeHavilland Twin Otter buck like a filly as they took a hit somewhere back in the fuselage. He pulled into a climb, instinctively opting for the safety of altitude. As the misty mountains dropped away beneath them, a new round of tracers streaked past, splattering the cockpit with flak.
“Damn it, Kozy. You’re bad luck,” Maitland muttered to his copilot. “Seems like every time we go up together, I taste lead.”
Kozlowski went right on chomping his wad of bubble gum. “What’s to worry?” he drawled, nodding at the shattered windshield. “Missed ya by at least two inches.”
“Try one inch.”
“Big difference.”
“One extra inch can make a hell of a lot of difference.”
Kozy laughed and looked out the window. “Yeah, that’s what my wife tells me.”
The door to the cockpit swung open. Valdez, the cargo kicker, his shoulders bulky with a parachute pack, stuck his head in. “What the hell’s goin’ on any—” He froze as another tracer spiraled past.
“Got us some mighty big mosquitoes out there,” Kozlowski said and blew a huge pink bubble.
“What was that?” asked Valdez. “AK-47?”
“Looks more like .57-millimeter,” said Maitland.
“They didn’t say nothin’ about no .57s. What kind of briefing did we get, anyway?”
Kozlowski shrugged. “Only the best your tax dollars can buy.”
“How’s our ‘cargo’ holding up?” Maitland asked. “Pants still dry?”
Valdez leaned forward and confided, “Man, we got us one weird passenger back there.”
“So what’s new?” Kozlowski said.
“I mean, this one’s really strange. Got flak flyin’ all ’round and he doesn’t bat an eye. Just sits there like he’s floatin’ on some lily pond. You should see the medallion he’s got ’round his neck. Gotta weigh at least a kilo.”
“Come on,” said Kozlowski.
“I’m tellin’ you, Kozy, he’s got a kilo of gold hangin’ around that fat little neck of his. Who is he?”
“Some Lao VIP,” said Maitland.
“That all they told you?”
“I’m just the delivery boy. Don’t need to know any more than that.” Maitland leveled the DeHavilland off at eight thousand feet. Glancing back through the open cockpit doorway, he caught sight of their lone passenger sitting placidly among the jumble of supply crates. In the dim cabin, the Lao’s face gleamed like burnished mahogany. His eyes were closed, and his lips were moving silently. In prayer? wondered Maitland. Yes, the man was definitely one of their more interesting cargoes.
Not that Maitland hadn’t carried strange passengers before. In his ten years with Air America, he’d transported German shepherds and generals, gibbons and girlfriends. And he’d fly them anywhere they had to go. If hell had a landing strip, he liked to say, he’d take them there—as long as they had a ticket. Anything, anytime, anywhere, was the rule at Air America.
“Song Ma River,” said Kozlowski, glancing down through the fingers of mist at the lush jungle floor. “Lot of cover. If they got any more .57s in place, we’re gonna have us a hard landing.”
“Gonna be a hard landing anyhow,” said Maitland, taking stock of the velvety green ridges on either side of them. The valley was narrow; he’d have to swoop in fast and low. It was a hellishly short landing strip, nothing but a pin scratch in the jungle, and there was always the chance of an unreported gun emplacement. But the orders were to drop the Lao VIP, whoever he was, just inside North Viet-namese territory. No return pickup had been scheduled; it sounded to Maitland like a one-way trip to oblivion.
“Heading down in a minute,” he called over his shoulder to Valdez. “Get the passenger ready. He’s gonna have to hit the ground running.”
“He says that crate goes with him.”
“What? I didn’t hear anything about a crate.”
“They loaded it on at the last minute. Right after we took on supplies for Nam Tha. Pretty heavy sucker. I might need some help.”
Kozlowski resignedly unbuckled his seatbelt. “Okay,” he said with a sigh. “But remember, I don’t get paid for kickin’ crates.”
