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The wind had teeth and as they approach the black wall of clouds it grabbed the helicopter and chewed on the fuselage, whipping it to the left then spitting it out to the right.

The chopper was a mid-size model. Two seats up front. A bench seat in the back along with a cargo hold. It was not built to withstand heavy cross currents or the wind shear it was currently wrestling. It was the kind you’d typically see at city helipads or hovering over traffic jams. The kind for shuttling busy executives or emergency medical supplies between cities.

It was not the kind for carrying dead bodies.

Not that Donnelly was dead yet.

“How much farther?”

The pilot risked a glance at the instrument panel. “Four minutes out, sir.”

He still had four minutes.

The man sitting next to the pilot stared through the canopy’s screen and watched the fat rain drops compress and disappear. He noticed thin threads of light start to reach out and brighten along the horizon below the storm front. He wanted to be back before sunrise.

He pulled a silver flask from his breast pocket, tipped it to his lips, but came up empty. He rubbed his tongue against the top of his mouth then slipped the flask back into his pocket.

He turned and looked into the back seat. Donnelly sat gagged and bound in the middle. The men on either side wore matching black suits. One tailored and cut right, the other off the rack and sagging.

Donnelly just wore blood and bruises.

The remnants of his clothes were torn and stained. His head was slumped against his chest and his eyes were swollen shut to thin slits. His left shoulder bulged against the fabric and hung at an unnatural angle in front of him.

“Make sure he is awake.”

The two men in the back looked at each other. Lightning flashed and briefly lit up the cabin. They each gripped the loops attached to the ceiling for support as the cabin rocked to the right against the percussive slap of thunder.

The older one other pulled out a packet of smelling salts, broke it open and held it under Donnelly’s nose until he jerked, sputtered and blinked one eye. The abrasive chemicals gave Donnelly a momentary jolt, but not enough. After a moment, the swollen lid closed and his head listed back to the left.

The older man grimaced with disgust and tossed the broken packet away. He let go of the support strap and grabbed Donnelly’s limp arm and twisted it backward. They all heard it pop over the sound of the rotor wash.

“Ahhhh.” Donnelly choked against the gag and came awake as if they’d hit him with a cattle prod.

“One minute out,” the pilot said.

“Open the door.”

The younger man slid open the chopper’s side door and the noise inside the small cabin increased to deafening levels.

The man in front came out of his seat, grabbed Donnelly by his ragged shirt and leaned in very close, his lips pressed against the pulpy hole that was once an ear. “Did you ever really think I’d let this slide? Huh? I don’t think you were ever that stupid. Surely some part of you wanted to get caught. Yes? Maybe wanted to die.”

“Screw you Drobhov.”

“No, I think you are not in such a good position for profanities.”

“You’re a drunk. Only reason you caught me was your guard dog over there has a good nose and even better luck. You won’t last a month without me. You’ll be breathing down my neck on the way to hell.”

Drobhov either couldn’t or pretended not to hear and continued, “You see I thought about it. I really have. I think some part of you wished to die. That’s what led you to such foolishness.” He nodded. “And now I will make that happen. I will grant you your wish, but it should not have been this way. It could have been very different, yes?”

Rain from the storm was coming in the cargo door, coating the floor and soaking those inside. Drobhov looked out the door as if considering the possibilities, then lifted one hand to wipe the drops of rain from his eyes.

“It could have been good business.”

He turned back just as Donnelly brought his forehead crunching down on the bridge of his nose.

Blood immediately gushed out and stained the front of Drobhov’s white dress shirt. He put his hands up to staunch the flow and stumbled backwards into the pilot. The helicopter pitched forward then left, knocking everyone off balance.

Donnelly needed to press the advantage. He looked right. The younger suit slipped off the seat and laid half in and half out of the cargo door. The thin fabric of his cheap suit snagged on the door latch and held him inside. Not a threat.

The older suit reached out to grab Donnelly from the left, but as the chopper pitched the other way to correct, his feet slipped on the slick deck and he cracked his head hard on a metal support post. He went still. His eyes were open, but punch drunk and glazed as blood dripped from a cut on his scalp down into his left ear.

Donnelly braced himself, but the man went to his knees then went over on his back like a cut tree. Not a threat.

Donnelly’s hands were bound, but after breaking one of his ankles with a hammer back in the basement, they hadn’t bothered tying his feet. He struggled upright, leaning against the same support beam to keep some pressure off the ruined ankle. Still, the pain was excruciating and he knew he only had a few seconds till he probably blacked out.

He looked around the cramped space for anything to prolong his advantage or at least inflict a little more damage before they regained control and ended it. Ended him, more accurately. By now, he was realistic about that fact. Three men, four with the pilot, against one bound and severely injured man was too lopsided, even for someone with his training.

He cursed his luck and Alexei one more time, but then let it go. Second thoughts weren’t worth a damn. His lone regret was Cindy. A picture flashed into his mind of a summer night and dinner on the patio. Man she’d loved those red shoes. Wore them every day for months. At least he’d talked to Michaels and made a few provisions. He wasn’t stupid, just reckless. He was the type of man that saw a difference. He’d lived his life one way and now it looked like he’d die that way.

The rain was loosening the tape around his wrists and as he struggled to get a hand free he saw the case tucked under the front passenger seat. He smiled. It was almost poetic in a way. The cocky bastard had even left the key in the lock.

The pilot had almost steadied the swaying chopper and he saw Drobhov pull a gun free from his shoulder holster. The sight of the blood staining Drobhov’s white shirt gave him some satisfaction.

He dropped to his knees and reached his bound hands under the seat. His numb fingers felt fat and clumsy like he was wearing his daughter’s mittens. He reached for the case, but couldn’t get a grip.

He looked up and saw the empty blackness of the gun’s muzzle. Then it exploded in the small cabin. The chopper lurched yet again as the pilot jerked in surprise.

Donnelly flinched, but felt nothing. He was beat to a pulp, but surely he’d feel a gunshot. He looked down. No wound. Even dead drunk, Drobhov could not have missed from four feet. He looked backwards and saw the guard, the younger one, pinwheeling down into the dawn.

The pilot’s reaction had thrown Drobhov off balance again, back in his seat. Donnelly had only seconds. He felt them counting down in the back of his head like a doomsday clock.

Black spots danced on the edge of his vision. He struggled forward on his knees till his face was pressed up against the vinyl seatback. He pushed his arms farther under the seat. Pain lit up his shoulder and spread through his chest like a wildfire, but he finally managed to get his fingers around the handle and pull the case free.

He clutched it to his chest and rolled out the open door.