STONE LOOKED AROUND for Lance, but he was nowhere in sight. Billy Bob’s voice came back on the radio.
“I want you to start your engine and prepare to take off when I instruct you to do so.”
Stone looked over at the FBI agent guarding the door from the roof. The man was lying on his side, his helmet was next to him with a hole in it, and blood was pooling around his head. “Tell him yes,” Stone said.
“Yes, sir, will do,” the pilot said.
“Go and start the engine,” Stone said, “but don’t take off until I’m aboard.”
“Yes, sir,” the pilot said and strode toward the helicopter.
Stone ran around the roof, looking behind equipment, but Lance was nowhere to be found. He gave up and sprinted for the helicopter. Its rotor was already turning.
Stone dove into the back of the helicopter. He was on the floor between two facing rows of seats. He looked aft, found a baggage compartment and rolled over the rear seats into that area. There was a small window in the compartment, and he looked out both sides, wondering what was going to happen. He was looking west when Billy Bob’s head rose above the building’s parapet, followed a moment later by Peter’s head. Billy Bob was holding the boy in his arms.
As Stone watched, Billy Bob swung a large case over the parapet and dropped it onto the rooftop, then he got a leg over and dropped Peter, who landed on his feet. They were still handcuffed together, and Billy Bob had an assault rifle fitted with a suppressor/silencer slung over one shoulder. Stone was still being amazed by Billy Bob’s feat of levitation when it occurred to him that there must be a window-washer’s platform on that side of the building, one of those things that went up and down like an elevator to allow workers to clean the windows on each floor. The fucking FBI, he thought, had not bothered to look over the parapet when they searched the roof.
Billy Bob strode toward the chopper, dragging Peter, who was struggling to keep up. Stone unholstered his 9mm, but he knew that, because of Peter, he would not have a shot, until Billy Bob got into the helicopter. Stone ducked behind the seat to avoid being seen.
He felt a bump when Billy Bob dumped his case and climbed into the machine, but he could not see between the seats, only over them, and he did not want to risk popping up at a time when Billy Bob might be facing him. Also, he didn’t know Peter’s position.
“Take off now!” Billy Bob shouted over the whine of the engine, and the chopper immediately leaped off the roof.
The motion cost Stone his balance, and he toppled sideways. By the time he regained his knees they were moving forward. Stone knew they were beyond the help of anyone in the building, and that the NYPD helicopters had been told to stand off.
“Fly right up the middle of Broadway!” Billy Bob shouted, “and stay just above rooftop level!” He must have encountered some resistance from the pilot, because he began shouting again. “Do it, or I’ll blow your fucking head off!”
Stone popped his head up for a split second, then ducked. Billy Bob had been standing, facing forward, while Peter sat on the floor, still handcuffed. The sliding door on the right was open.
“Now you be still!” Billy Bob shouted, apparently at Peter. “I’m going to unlock the handcuff, and you don’t want to fall out, do you?”
Stone flicked off the safety on his pistol and waited a reasonable time for the cuff to be unlocked, then he sat up and pointed his pistol forward. Peter was free, and Billy Bob was still facing the pilot, the assault rifle pointed at the man’s head. Stone climbed over the seat and swung the barrel of his pistol at the back of Billy Bob’s head, hard. A gunshot could be heard over the noise of the engine, and Stone thought his pistol had gone off, but, as Billy Bob collapsed at his feet, he saw that the back of the pilot’s head was gone. Billy Bob’s weapon had fired a round when he was struck.
The helicopter began a slow, descending left turn, and Stone made a leap for the copilot’s seat. “Hang on, Peter!” he yelled, grabbing the boy’s hand and dragging him forward. Stone made the copilot’s seat and grabbed the stick, trying to get the chopper level, but then he saw the top of a building coming at him. He yanked back on the stick and cleared the building by a foot, then continued climbing, feeling the airspeed bleed off. They were going to stall any second.
Stone pushed the pilot’s body out of the way and found the throttle, pushing it forward. The chopper climbed, and he breathed a sigh of relief, until he realized that Peter was no longer next to him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the boy tugging at the inert Billy Bob, one of whose legs was dangling out the open door.
“Come back to me, Peter!” he shouted, and in that moment of looking back, he lost control of the helicopter. It banked sharply to the left, and Stone desperately tried to correct. The chopper had turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees before he could level it again and glance back. The good news was both Billy Bob and Peter had been thrown against the left side of the helicopter, away from the open door. “Come to me, Peter!” he shouted.
“No,” the boy shouted back. “He’ll fall out, if I let him go.”
“No, he won’t. Come to me!”
Peter shook his head and clung to Billy Bob.
Stone looked at the chopper’s instrument panel, trying to find something that looked like an autopilot. He found nothing but the usual flight instruments, like the ones on his own airplane. He was headed north again, toward Central Park. At least that was open space, he thought. He might have some chance of setting the thing down. He looked back at Peter.
“Listen to me!” he shouted. “He’s all right, he won’t fall out. I want you to climb over the backseat and stay there while I land. Sit down and don’t move!”
The boy looked at the rear seats, then at Billy Bob, then at Stone. He nodded.
Stone tried to keep the chopper level while Peter inched his way aft. He glanced back to see the boy disappear behind the rear seats. “Thank God,” he said, then he turned his attention back to flying.
It didn’t feel like an airplane, exactly, but it had a stick, rudder pedals and a throttle, like an airplane. He hoped to God he wasn’t going to need the collective handle, because he didn’t really know what would happen if he used it. They were crossing Fifty-seventh Street now, and the bare trees of Central Park beckoned.
Then he heard Peter scream, “Stone!!!” He looked back to find Billy Bob on his knees, his head bleeding and his assault rifle pointed at Stone. What was worse, he could see that a grenade had been attached to the rifle.
“Shoot me, and you die!” Stone shouted.
“Do what I say, or we all die,” Billy Bob shouted back. “The boy, too!”