“This isn’t going to work down here,” Dar said to Syd. “We need altitude.”

“We had altitude,” said Syd, still holding the 9mm pistol in both hands. “Then you came down here.”

“I know,” said Dar. “I fucked up.”

Dar worked the glider into the powerful vertical currents closer to the ridge just as the Bell Ranger made another sweep. Constanza was leaning out against his safety strap, blazing away, ejected brass glinting in the sunlight. Slugs struck the Twin Astir’s tail and Dar felt control go sluggish. Another bullet shattered the canopy just behind Dar’s head. He pitched the nose up steeply—trading speed for altitude as he entered the turbulent borders of the lift column—and another bullet ripped through his seat cushion.

Or was it through my parachute? Dar wondered, knowing then what he was going to do.

“Are you all right?” he called again to Syd as they spiraled up, the altimeter and variometer spinning clockwise as they gained altitude rapidly in the lift rotor. The sailplane’s ground speed dropped to almost nothing as they headed back west into the strength of the wind, climbing like a panicked sparrow while the helicopter roared up and around them in a carefully choreographed helix.

Dar’s eyes were on the instruments. He needed at least five thousand feet above ground level for his plan—if he could call it a plan—to have any chance of working. It was obvious that the chopper was not going to give them that kind of time. The Bell Ranger crabbed closer, the shooter leaning out the left side this time, both aircraft climbing in a slow left spiral.

Syd loosened her harness further, leaned forward so she could get an angle through the narrow air vent, and fired five times at the helicopter.

Dar saw sparks fly on the forward fuselage and then watched as Tony Constanza ducked back into the shadows of the backseat. Dar could see the heavyset gunman shouting at the pilot.

The Bell Ranger banked right and roared above them in a counterclockwise spiral; they knew that Dar would have to level off at some point. Then they could come in from the rear or from above—at some angle where Syd could not fire without shooting through the Twin Astir’s own canopy.

“Tighten your straps!” Dar shouted, then explained to her what they were going to do.

Syd’s head swiveled around. Her mouth hung open. “You’re shitting me.”

Dar shook his head. “Hang on.”

The sailplane swept right into the outer edge of the foehn gap rotor thermal. The winds were stronger and the heat of midday had added to the powerful thermal updraft, but Dar could not be sure whether the increased turbulence they encountered was from the lift or from damage to the fuselage and control surfaces of his aircraft. It did not matter. Steve’s beautiful high-performance two-seater only had to hold together for another few minutes.

The Bell Ranger moved in to shooting range, sliding sideways as if it were on rails.

Dar dived to pick up speed and then looped the sailplane. As they passed the helicopter, bullets rained onto the aft part of the fuselage like pellets of hail. Dar felt the right rudder go slack, but he still had some control.

The helicopter stayed where it was: the pilot knew that Dar would have to complete the loop.

He did so, climbing into another, broader inside loop. Syd fired twice from the front seat. Slugs from the AK-47 slammed into Dar’s instrument console, shattering the instruments, punched four holes in the top of the canopy inches above their heads, and struck the nose hard enough to slew the glider to the left as he tried to climb into his second loop.

The Bell Ranger held its place, waiting for Dar to pass by again.

Just before the top of their loop, perhaps five hundred feet above the helicopter, Dar rolled the sluggish Twin Astir until they were performing an outside loop. He felt the negative g’s trying to force him up and out of the aircraft—the pressure of the restraint harness on his shoulders was painful—and he heard Syd gasp. Dar’s vision dimmed and then turned red for an instant before he forced the balking sailplane into level flight and then raised the nose again.

There was no more lift. The Twin Astir stalled and fell out of the sky.

Dar put the nose down enough to keep some control. The helicopter pilot must have been watching their insane aerobatics, for he pitched the nose of the Bell Ranger down and accelerated up the valley.

Too late. Dar’s airspeed was approaching the sailplane’s terminal velocity. For a precious few seconds, he could match the chopper’s airspeed. He did so, attacking the right rear flank of the white-blue-and-red chopper as if the shaking, bucking Twin Astir were a P-51 coming in for the kill. Of course, Syd could not fire forward because of the canopy, and if she waited until they were close to the chopper and alongside it, Constanza’s semiautomatic assault rifle would cut them to pieces. Neither aircraft offered a stable gun platform, but at least Dallas Trace’s ex-mafia hit man had the advantage of being able to spray bullets all over the sky.

Dar was not going to give him that chance again.

What do we have that they don’t? he thought again for the twentieth time. And for the twentieth time he came up with the same answer. Parachutes. Of course, his parachute might have been cut to shreds by the bullet that had passed under him. He would find out.

What glider pilots fear more than anything else is a midair collision. Now he had to cause one.

Dar, Syd, and their fragile, wounded Twin Astir swooped from above—the sparrow attacking the hawk. If he continued on this glide path, he would overtake the chopper for an instant just as they flew into the fifty-foot buzz saw of the rotor blades. That would be fatal for everyone. At the last second, Dar dropped the nose of the Twin Astir, opened his speed brakes, matched velocities as best he could, and banked left.

The glider’s left wing banged against the protected rotor assembly. Part of the wing cracked and bent.

Dar kicked hard right, fighting the stick and rudders. He had perhaps three more seconds of control.

The sailplane slewed left again. This time the torn wing threaded the rotor assembly like a plank of wood going into the hungry maw of a circular saw. The rotor blade made contact with the wing, sliced through it, chewed up chunks of the wing, and then began to tear itself and its jammed rotor assembly apart.

Responding to Newtonian imperatives, the glider was spun violently counterclockwise and tumbled into a flat spin. Dar knew that no pilot in the world could recover from such a flat spin. The sailplane, a work of aerodynamic perfection a few minutes earlier, was now just tangled junk falling straight out of the sky. Dar lost sight of the helicopter and tried to focus on the instruments, but between the bullets that had passed through the console and the rate of deadly spin, he saw nothing intelligible. The horizon, mountains, ridges, desert, were spinning by at unbelievable speed, but because Dar and Syd were still in the center of the swirling mass, there was very little sense of centrifugal force. Dar had no idea whether they were three thousand feet high or thirty feet above the impact point. There was no noise except for ice-cracking sounds as the left wing continued to break up.

Syd was wrestling with the canopy lock, but it seemed to be jammed. Dar slammed his five-point-harness buckle free, shook off the straps, and stood in the wildly spinning plane. He knew that they just had seconds in which to act because already the spin was turning into a tumble in the direction of the shattered wing. He leaned over Syd’s left shoulder and threw his weight against the second canopy latch. The broken Plexiglas flew open and suddenly the wind was cool and rushing against Dar’s face and upper body, trying to pluck him up and out of the little cockpit. He held on to the low instrument console in front of him while he leaned forward to help Syd get free of her harness.