He planned on heading into downtown Puerto Vallarta. He owned the cops there, and they would protect him from these two pendejos locos.
The chopper shot to the north, zigzagging and shooting just feet above the ocean waves. Though concentrating most of his faculties on flying, DLR did take his left hand off the collective for a moment to pull the .45 pistol on his left hip. He kept it hidden from view of Gamboa and the Gray Man, and placed it under his left thigh where he could access it in an instant.
Laura kept the gun on DLR’s head as she looked at Gentry. “Can you fly this?”
Court was still trying to get his bearings. Climbing into the helicopter while DLR tried to shake him out had kicked his ass. He felt bruised or broken ribs and an incredible pain in his right knee where it made hard contact with the metal floor as he slammed down inside the cabin.
She repeated her question, screaming over the noise. “Can you fly a helicopter?”
Court crawled over to the door, careful to hold on to a handle behind the copilot’s seat so that he couldn’t be pitched out, and then he pulled the door shut. It was quiet in the craft suddenly; the three could now speak in near normal voices.
“Six! Tell me, can I kill this cabrón? Can you fly the helicopter?” She pressed the barrel of the Uzi hard into the narco’s short hair. He screamed and cussed at her while he kept flying north, jacking the collective left and right.
Gentry had been trained on rotary wing craft, yes, but that was a long time ago, and the few craft he’d flown had not been nearly so complicated as this big machine. Now, as he looked around at computer screens and dials and switches and levers and lights, he knew the answer to her question. “No! Don’t shoot him!”
De la Rocha laughed loudly, pulled back on the cyclic stick, and the chopper quickly began gaining altitude. “You hear that, bitch? If I die, then you die!” De la Rocha smiled with open eyes and flared teeth.
Laura held the Micro Uzi against DLR’s head. He flew the helicopter higher and higher, feeling safer by the second. He headed north out into the bay and closer to the lights of downtown Puerto Vallarta. “You can’t shoot me, Laura!” he repeated, as if he wanted to be certain she understood the stakes. “If I die, then you die!”
They were five hundred feet in the air now.
Laura looked to Court with her big brown eyes.
Gentry saw the eyes turn to narrow slits.
Fuck.
She turned back towards Daniel de la Rocha. Shrugged. “Then I guess I die, pendejo.”
“No!” screamed Daniel de la Rocha.
“No!” screamed Court Gentry.
Their shouts were drowned out by a short but loud burping burst of the Uzi. The back of de la Rocha’s head exploded and sprayed across the lighted instruments and screens and the large glass windscreen. The remainder of DLR’s lifeless body sagged forward in its harness. A .45-caliber pistol dropped out of his left hand.
The helicopter’s forward momentum slowed and ceased, and then it twisted slowly to the right until the lights of the Malecon were in full view. It tipped forward, nose down. The bloody windscreen left the bright lights of the resort city and went dark as the black ocean rushed up to meet it.
Laura crossed herself and began to pray.
Like a wild animal Court scrambled and crawled over Laura Gamboa on his way to the copilot’s seat. He used his hands and knees and elbows; he felt weightless for a moment, clenched the seat back with his right hand to hold steady just as he grabbed hold of the cyclic control in the center of the console in front of the seat. He pulled this back hard—too hard, in fact—and the craft righted itself quickly, sending Gentry chest first into the radio controls between the seats. The breath was knocked out of him, but he kept crawling forward, twisting his body and diving now to get his hand on the collective on the far side of the seat. He turned it, increased the pitch and the throttle, and he felt the helicopter surge forward again, arresting its downward spiral.
But now he found himself facedown on the seat of the helicopter he was piloting, and the hard turn to the right was keeping him pinned there by centrifugal force. He let go of the cyclic for an instant, just long enough to reach down to push the left antitorque pedal to the floor. This brutal movement caused the high-tech aircraft to stop spinning suddenly, and Gentry rolled forward in the seat, finding himself all but upside down now as his feet were in the air, hanging over the headrest.
“What are you doing?” Laura asked. She had stopped praying enough to watch the American’s odd actions.
“Help me!” he screamed frantically. She took his feet and pushed them over to DLR’s lap, again the helicopter lost momentum and lift while Court struggled into the seat, but he finally got both hands and both feet where they belonged and brought the Eurocopter to straight and level flight with no more than twenty-five feet between the belly of the helo and the ocean’s surface.