about fifty hours, either. That might have something
to do with it. Yeah, he was sleepy, that was all. And if he was incredibly lucky and made it back to camp as fast as he had
left it, he might even be able to get a nice long sleep of about forty-five minutes or so.
Excaliber sensed it first. In a flash he was up on the backseat, his front paws up over Stone’s shoulders, a motion that his
master knew the animal only exhibited on threatening occasions. He loosed his jacket with one hand, freeing the Uzi for quick
draw if he needed it. Then Stone heard it—a drone like a mosquito, then a bee, getting louder by the second. Suddenly he saw
it—a light coming straight toward them. But it seemed to be floating. As the beam came to rest squarely on his face, nearly
blinding him, Stone realized it was a chopper. They were being hunted from the air.
The whirring blades of the Mini Huey filled the sky over Stone’s head with a deafening roar, and the pitbull set to barking
up at the craft, which, even twenty yards up and forty or so in front of them, sent a gale storm of wind down at them, whipping
the grit from the road into their eyes and mouths. Above the Harley, which had skidded to a stop—Stone couldn’t see, could
barely keep the big bike upright—three men looked down from the mini-attack chopper debating whether to try to take Martin
Stone alive or shoot him dead on the spot. Their boss had said either way was fine. As long as his head was brought back—attached
to its body or not. They decided to kill him. From each side of the chopper’s bulbous plastic cockpit two hit-men opened up
with ,45-caliber Ingrams, the preferred hit weapon, Stone knew, of the Mafia death squads.
Two rows of slugs plowed straight toward the bike and its occupants, sending up small violent eruptions of dust in the exploding
asphalt of the one-laner as they scissored their way inexorably forward.
“Jump,” Stone screamed, leaping from the bike with every ounce of strength in his tired legs. He felt the muscles tighten,
then uncoil—and he was flying through the air and darkness. Everything around him was a screaming hell of whistling slugs
that he could feel tearing right by him, just inches away from his face, his chest. His body flipped and corkscrewed through
the shadows and then came down hard in some bushes. Stone felt the air get knocked out of him as he landed, but he made himself
go with it, not panicking, and was able to absorb most of the blow. He spun around from the darkness of the little grove of
wild shrubs as the chopper buzzed past, its scythes of .45-caliber steel leaving a pockmocked, broken road behind.
Stone knew he had only seconds. Already the chopper was turning around a hundred yards past and starting back. This time they
would hover over him and send down a fusillade. There was no way he could survive. He looked off behind him, hoping to find
sheltering woods but saw only a long, sloped field of low bushes, a few cacti—no place to hide. Suddenly his head swung around
to the Harley, on the road twenty feet ahead of him. He had rearmed the Luchaire back at the bunker. See, he wasn’t such a
stupid guy, after all. Getting to it, loading it, before the chopper reached him again, that was another…
Stone let his mind argue about the feasibility of such an action while his body took off leaping over the bushes on the run.
He reached the bike just as he saw the chopper complete half its turn, about fifty feet up, the wide and blinding searchlight
beneath the craft lighting a circular patch of terrain below with the sudden noonday illumination of the sun. Animals and
lizards, caught in the light, froze like statues until the Huey was past, and then ran, terrified, back to their holes and
lairs. Only Stone had nowhere to hide.
He fumbled at the autofeed of the magazine that was attached to the side of the Electraglide. His hands seemed to want to
move by
to do with it. Yeah, he was sleepy, that was all. And if he was incredibly lucky and made it back to camp as fast as he had
left it, he might even be able to get a nice long sleep of about forty-five minutes or so.
Excaliber sensed it first. In a flash he was up on the backseat, his front paws up over Stone’s shoulders, a motion that his
master knew the animal only exhibited on threatening occasions. He loosed his jacket with one hand, freeing the Uzi for quick
draw if he needed it. Then Stone heard it—a drone like a mosquito, then a bee, getting louder by the second. Suddenly he saw
it—a light coming straight toward them. But it seemed to be floating. As the beam came to rest squarely on his face, nearly
blinding him, Stone realized it was a chopper. They were being hunted from the air.
The whirring blades of the Mini Huey filled the sky over Stone’s head with a deafening roar, and the pitbull set to barking
up at the craft, which, even twenty yards up and forty or so in front of them, sent a gale storm of wind down at them, whipping
the grit from the road into their eyes and mouths. Above the Harley, which had skidded to a stop—Stone couldn’t see, could
barely keep the big bike upright—three men looked down from the mini-attack chopper debating whether to try to take Martin
Stone alive or shoot him dead on the spot. Their boss had said either way was fine. As long as his head was brought back—attached
to its body or not. They decided to kill him. From each side of the chopper’s bulbous plastic cockpit two hit-men opened up
with ,45-caliber Ingrams, the preferred hit weapon, Stone knew, of the Mafia death squads.
Two rows of slugs plowed straight toward the bike and its occupants, sending up small violent eruptions of dust in the exploding
asphalt of the one-laner as they scissored their way inexorably forward.
“Jump,” Stone screamed, leaping from the bike with every ounce of strength in his tired legs. He felt the muscles tighten,
then uncoil—and he was flying through the air and darkness. Everything around him was a screaming hell of whistling slugs
that he could feel tearing right by him, just inches away from his face, his chest. His body flipped and corkscrewed through
the shadows and then came down hard in some bushes. Stone felt the air get knocked out of him as he landed, but he made himself
go with it, not panicking, and was able to absorb most of the blow. He spun around from the darkness of the little grove of
wild shrubs as the chopper buzzed past, its scythes of .45-caliber steel leaving a pockmocked, broken road behind.
Stone knew he had only seconds. Already the chopper was turning around a hundred yards past and starting back. This time they
would hover over him and send down a fusillade. There was no way he could survive. He looked off behind him, hoping to find
sheltering woods but saw only a long, sloped field of low bushes, a few cacti—no place to hide. Suddenly his head swung around
to the Harley, on the road twenty feet ahead of him. He had rearmed the Luchaire back at the bunker. See, he wasn’t such a
stupid guy, after all. Getting to it, loading it, before the chopper reached him again, that was another…
Stone let his mind argue about the feasibility of such an action while his body took off leaping over the bushes on the run.
He reached the bike just as he saw the chopper complete half its turn, about fifty feet up, the wide and blinding searchlight
beneath the craft lighting a circular patch of terrain below with the sudden noonday illumination of the sun. Animals and
lizards, caught in the light, froze like statues until the Huey was past, and then ran, terrified, back to their holes and
lairs. Only Stone had nowhere to hide.
He fumbled at the autofeed of the magazine that was attached to the side of the Electraglide. His hands seemed to want to
move by
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