Page 66 of Rebel Protector
“You want the helo?” Pat asked.
“Nah, I’ll take the Cessna. It’s faster.” The chopper would take too long, and Ghost didn’t have that kind of time.
Pat slapped him on the back. “Call if you need backup.”
Ghost nodded. “Will do.”
He jumped into the pickup and floored it down the dirt road to the waiting aircraft. His mind raced. Markov was injured, and he’d have to walk a few miles, while Ghost had the advantage of wheels. Plus, the plane was still there—he hadn’t seen it take off.
But he’d forgotten about the guard they’d left behind.
“What’s going on?” the thug demanded as Ghost leaped from the pickup. “I heard gunfire. Where’s the boss?”
Gunfire?That was an understatement—they’d been in a firefight for over twenty minutes.Coward.
Without hesitation, Ghost smashed his fist into the guy’s face, dropping him instantly. He snagged the Glock that fell beside him. There wasn’t time to explain. Besides, the guy owed him for the gut punch earlier.
The pilot flinched at the violence, but Ghost leveled the Glock at him. “Get this thing in the air. We’re leaving.”
The pilot swallowed his objections and started the engine. Ghost climbed into the cockpit, strapped in, and within moments, they were taxiing down the narrow road, ready for takeoff.
Ghost knew Pat had the situation locked down. They had the whole transaction on video, which meant they now had everything they needed to take down Markov and Federico.
It was just a matter of time. There was nowhere left for Markov to hide. He’d never operate in this area again, and if he set foot in the U.S., he’d be arrested for attempted murder, money laundering, arms dealing, and a laundry list of other felonies.
He was done.
As they lifted off into the night sky, Ghost made a vow—he’d hunt Markov down, even if it was the last thing he ever did. But first, he had to get to Becca.
“Head north,” he told the stunned pilot. “We’re going to Panama.”
CHAPTER 27
Please let her still be alive.
They flew north, up the west coast toward Panama and the Villa del Mar hacienda. The Pacific Ocean below shimmered like an oil slick—dark and foreboding.
As they neared the hacienda, Ghost turned his attention to the next problem.Where the hell were they going to put her down?
“We’re out of gas,” the pilot croaked, his voice strained. Right on cue, the little Cessna sputtered and began losing altitude. “We have to land.”
Markov’s sprawling estate, dimly lit by outdoor lamps and the underwater pool light—glowing like a blue homing beacon—came into view.
“Take her down,” Ghost ordered.
“Where?”
Ghost could hear the panic in the pilot’s voice. The plane was dropping fast.
“There!” He pointed to the approach road that stretched from the neighboring village to the estate. It was a few miles long, straight, and though not smooth, it was better than thedirt track they’d landed on at Miguel’s farm. But without landing lights, it was hidden in the darkness.
The pilot squinted through the windshield. “I can’t see it.”
Ghost could only make it out because he knew it was there.
“I’ll guide you.” He leaned forward, eyes locked on the ground, searching for the break in the vegetation that marked the strip of tarmac. He made small corrections as they descended, until the pilot was lined up with the road. Seeing no headlights, they knew the path was clear.
They dropped lower, decreasing speed and altitude until they were just above the ground. The plane hovered, almost suspended in the air, before the wheels screeched as they made contact with the tarmac.