Chapter 83 - The Crossfire in Tétouan
The shrill wail of the sirens tore through the dry airfield. Roland’s head snapped toward the eastern hangar, where two green patrol trucks were already tearing through the chain-link barricade, blue lights slicing through the shimmering heat.
"Kill them and get the bag!" Roland roared, all pretense of aristocratic composure evaporating.
Lind moved before the command finished echoing off the fuselage. He didn't draw a gun; he hurled the heavy leather travel bag directly into the face of the gunman on the lower stair. The impact cracked bone, sending the man tumbling backward against Roland's knees. A burst of automatic fire tore upward, shredding the underside of the King Air’s wing and showering the asphalt in sparks and burning fuel vapor.
"Down!" Lind barked, grabbing the collar of my jacket and dragging me behind the aircraft's heavy landing gear.
The second shooter fired in panic, bullets chewing through the Beechcraft's aluminum skin. High-octane fuel began spewing from the wing tanks in a hissing spray. The pilot, who had been ducking behind the dashboard, panicked, slamming both throttles forward in a desperate attempt to save his aircraft.
The twin props screamed, tearing the air as the plane surged ahead. The ladder sheared off against the perimeter railing with an ear-splitting metallic shriek. Roland tumbled onto the apron, his cane clattering across the concrete, while his guards scrambled to stay on their feet.
"Run for the perimeter road!" Lind shouted, coughing through the blinding cloud of kerosene fumes.
We broke into a sprint toward the service gate, where our taxi driver had long since abandoned his vehicle, leaving the doors swinging open. Behind us, the Moroccan patrol trucks slammed to a halt, officers spilling out with sidearms raised, shouting orders in Arabic and French.
Roland’s surviving gunman opened fire on the police to buy his boss time, turning the apron into an active war zone. Lind shoved me into the back seat of the abandoned Peugeot taxi, threw himself behind the wheel, and threw the transmission into gear. The tires spun wildly on the dirt shoulder before catching the sun-baked asphalt.
As we rocketed onto the secondary mountain road, I looked back through the cracked rear window. The King Air’s fuel trail had caught fire, sending a thick plume of black smoke billowing into the Mediterranean sky. Roland was being hauled into a dark chase car by two men who had appeared from the outer hangars.
May you like
He was still breathing, and he was right behind us.
***
