Rankin saw the figures running from the airstrip toward the field.
They must be after Ferguson.
“There,” he shouted at the pilot. “I want to go there.”
“I thought you wanted the plane.”
“There’s no one in the cockpit. We get my guy first.”
The pilot started to answer, but Rankin didn’t hear. He’d already pivoted toward the open door of the helo and put his Uzi on his hip. He steadied the weapon as the aircraft swooped low and began to fire.