Page 45

CHAPTER 44

WAS I DEAD?

Not quite. I could still move and breathe.

It was still pitch-black. My head was covered by a soaking wet blanket. I ached from head to toe. The rain had slowed, but the boat was being blown by a strong wind. A loud throbbing sound was blasting down from above.

I pulled the blanket aside and got blinded by a huge light from about thirty feet up. It was all I could see. Then a shape came down through the glare.

A basket stretcher!

Was I hallucinating?

The padded edge of the basket whacked me in the head and I heard a man’s voice through a loudspeaker.

“Climb into the basket! Center yourself and hold on to the sides! Do not let go!”

I grabbed the basket with both hands and rolled into it. The steel ribs and straps cut into my back, but at this point I didn’t care.

It was a helicopter! I was being rescued!

I felt a sudden tug from above as I was lifted off the inflatable—or what was left of it. When I looked down, I could see that the engine cowling had been torn off and one pontoon was underwater. At this point, it was barely a life raft. More like a deflated pool toy.

The chopper engine was pulsing above me. The higher I went, the louder it got, until my ears were pounding. The downdraft from the prop swung the basket back and forth until a pair of gloved hands grabbed the cable to steady it.

A few seconds later, I was inside the door and somebody was sliding me onto a rubber cushion. The basket went away. The chopper door slid shut. The nose of the chopper dipped and we surged forward.

We were flying. Fast.

I felt a plastic straw between my lips. Omigod, yes! I sucked in something cool and sweet, gulp after gulp, until somebody pulled the straw away. I felt my shirt being ripped open. I heard Velcro ripping and felt a strap being wrapped around my bicep. The inside of the chopper was dim, but I could see four or five helmeted heads hovering over me with small lights pointed down.

I felt somebody holding my hand and then the sting of a needle on the back of my wrist.

“Who are you?” I asked. “Where the hell am I?”

“Off the grid, that’s where,” said one of the helmets. “You’re lucky we found you.” Western European accent. I couldn’t quite place it.

For a second, I felt a swell of panic. I stared up at the faces. Were any of them smiling—like the killers in Chicago? Like Aaron Vail? Had I been rescued, or had I been captured again? I looked for patches on the uniforms. Flags or military badges. But all I saw was the glare from the headlamps.

I lifted my head and grabbed at somebody’s arm. “Who the hell are you? Who sent you?”

I felt a slight burn at the site of the needlestick. My head was being pushed back onto the cushion.

“Good night, Doctor.”

And that was that.