She took the .45, twisted around in the seat so she was facing backward, flipped off the safety and cocked the hammer. “He's almost on us,” she warned Pitt.
“The pilot will roll and come over us slightly off to one side, giving his gunner a clear shot downward,” Pitt said coolly. “The instant he lines us up in his sights, shout out which side he's passing, left or right, so I can zigzag under him.”
Without questioning Pitt's instructions, Julia gripped the old Colt with both hands, raised the barrel and lined up the sights on the two men perched in front of the wings and engine as it soared down the river. Her face showed more concentration than fear as her finger tightened on the trigger.
“On your left!” she called out.
Pitt threw the runabout in a sharp turn to the left, staying with the ultralight. He heard the quiet staccato burp of an automatic weapon with a suppressor on its muzzle, mingled with the loud thunder of the old Colt, and saw bullets lace the water only three feet alongside the hull as he cut under the ultralight, using its underside to mask the runabout from the gunner's view.
As the ultralight shot ahead, Pitt saw no trace of injury to the pilot or copilot. They looked as if they were enjoying themselves. “You missed!” he snapped.
“I could have sworn I scored,” she snapped back furiously.
“Ever hear of a deflection shot?” Pitt lectured her. “You've got to lead a moving target. Haven't you ever hunted ducks?”
“I could never bring myself to shoot a harmless bird,” she said loftily as she expertly ejected an empty clip and pumped a full one inside the handgrip of the Colt.
Feminine logic again, thought Pitt. Can't shoot an animal or bird, but not hesitating to blow a man's head off. “If he comes at the same speed and altitude, aim a good ten feet ahead of the pilot.”
The ultralight circled around for another attack while its sister craft hung back in the distance. The droning whir of the engine's exhaust echoed off the rock walls of the canyon. The pilot swooped low over the shoreline, the airflow churned out by the propeller blades whipping the tops of the trees along the banks. The serene and picturesque river and the slopes of the forested canyon seemed the wrong location for a life-and-death struggle. The clear green water flowed past banks that were lined with trees marching up the rocky sides of the mountains until they thinned and stopped at the timberline. The yellow aircraft stood out like a colored gemstone, a Mexican fire opal against a sapphire sky. All things considered, Pitt thought fleetingly, there are worse places to die.
The ultralight leveled out and came directly toward the Chris-Craft's bow on this run. Now Pitt had an open field of vision and could see the angle of the gunner's trajectory for himself. Unless the pilot is a certified cretin, Pitt thought, he won't fall for the same sidestep again. Pitt had to reach down in his bag of tricks for another dodge. Maintaining his course until the last possible second, he felt like a herring taunting a shark.
Julia leveled the Colt over the windshield. She almost looked comical, her head slightly tilted to one side as she aimed with the only eye that was partially open. The pilot of the ultralight was sideslipping up the river to give his gunner additional shooting time and a wider range of fire. He knew his stuff and wasn't about to be fooled twice. On this strafing run he hugged the riverbank, cutting off any attempt by Pitt to slip under the plane's narrow belly. The pilot was also playing a more cautious game. Some of Julia's bullets had struck the wing and made him realize his prey had a sting.
Pitt knew with sickening certainty that they were going to take hits. No tricky maneuvers, no fancy footwork, could save them this time around. Unless Julia scored big-time, they were all dead, literally. He watched the ultralight loom up through the windshield. It was like standing in the middle of a bridge over a thousand-foot ravine with an express train hurtling toward him.
And then there was the despairing thought that even if they were successful in downing the first ultralight, they weren't even halfway home. The second and third craft were lagging back, staying out of range and clear of stray bullets while awaiting their turn. Take one out of the game and two substitutes were suited up and ready for action. The moment of trepidation ended as bullets struck and gouged the water, the line of splashes moving inexorably toward the boat.
Pitt jerked the steering wheel, sending the runabout on a skidding turn to his right. The gunner compensated, but too late. Pitt swung the boat in a flat curve to the left, throwing off his aim. He feinted again, but the gunner merely swiveled his weapon and laid down an S pattern. Then, as if he had touched a switch, Julia began blasting away.
This was the moment. As bullets stitched a groove of holes across the lustrous mahogany bow of the Chris-Craft, Pitt took the gear lever in both hands and yanked it back while the boat was at full speed. There was a horrifying grinding noise as the gearbox howled in protest. The engine revolutions raced past the red line on the tachometer, and the boat came to an abrupt stop. Then it leaped backward in a tight arc. Several bullets shattered the windshield but miraculously missed hitting anyone. And then the hail of fire, like a passing rainstorm, moved behind the boat. Julia tracked her target and fired until the last shell flipped out of the firing chamber.
Pitt glanced back and saw a beautiful sight. The ultralight was out of control, the racing engine shrieking like a banshee as fragments of the propeller spiraled in the air, spraying in every direction. He could see the pilot fighting the controls in a futile gesture as the craft hung poised in the air as if tied to a string. Then the nose dipped, and it plunged lifeless into the middle of the river, making a crater in the water and causing a huge splash before bobbing back to the surface for a few moments and then sinking rapidly until it vanished.
“Nice shooting,” Pitt complimented Julia. “Wyatt Earp would be proud of you.”
“I was lucky,” Julia said modestly, not about to admit that she had been aiming at the pilot.
“You put the fear of God in the pilot of the other two. They're not about to make the same mistakes as his buddy. They'll lay back out of range of your Colt, take their time and pepper away at us at a safer altitude.”
“How much farther until we're out of the canyon?” “Four, maybe five miles.”
They exchanged looks, she seeing the fierce determination in his eyes, he seeing her head and shoulders sag from severe fatigue, mental and physical. It didn't take a physician to see Julia was half-dead from lack of sleep. She had run on sheer guts as far as she could go, and had come to the end of the road. She turned slightly and stared at the bullet holes that had splintered the bow of the Chris-Craft.
“We're not going to make it, are we?” she muttered the words dully.
“Hell yes, we're going to make it!” he answered as if he truly believed it. “I didn't interrupt my vacation and go to all the work of bringing you and these people this far to let it end now.”
She gazed at his dark, craggy face for a long moment, then shook her head in defeat. “I can't get off a straight shot if the ultralights stay more than a hundred yards away, not at that distance against a moving target from a boat that's bounding all over the place.”
“Do the best you can.” Hardly brilliant words of encouragement, Pitt conceded, but his mind was on other matters as he swerved around a series of large boulders protruding from the river. “Another ten minutes and we'll be home free.” “What if they both come at the same time?” “You can bet on it. Take your time and divide your fire, two shots at one then two shots at the other. Maintain a show of resistance, just enough to keep them from getting too cocky and coming in too close. The farther they stay away, the more difficult for the gunners to fire with any accuracy. I'll throw the boat all over the river to spoil their aim.”