Court nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good.” He glanced out the window again, ready to get back in the air, but then a trace of movement in the distance, beyond the lights of the SUVs, caught his eye.

It was an airport truck; on its side it said Lavatory Services, and behind it a catering truck appeared. Bringing up the rear was an unmarked black van.

The men pulling security saw the movement, as well, but there was a moment’s hesitation in their response, probably while they conferred with the Americans to find out if these newcomers were here to service the aircraft.

Court spun his head back to the refueling truck. All four men were behind it, out of his view, and this fired off threat alarms and warning lights in his well-tuned combat brain.

He saw a pair of flashes from the darkness beyond the tarmac lights, and instantly a pair of men by the silver SUVs fell to the ground.

The refueling crew ran back into view from behind the truck. The men held rifles now, obviously pulled from inside their vehicle, and together they opened fire on the Brits and Americans on the tarmac as they advanced on them.

The booms and chatter of gunfire rocked the night.

More flashes from the darkness. The Lavatory Services truck and the black van skidded to a stop behind the refueling truck.

Court leapt to his feet and pushed the flight attendant down to the floor, shielding the woman with his body. He heard full-auto gunfire tearing into the fuselage now, puncturing windows, sending debris and bullet fragments throughout the cabin.

Another explosion shook the Gulfstream, and Court figured someone was taking out the SUVs with grenades.

“Get off me!” the woman shouted, and she crawled out from under Court and raced through the cabin. She pulled the M4 from the coat closet, flipped it to semiautomatic, and spun into the open doorway while raising it up to eye level.

Court began crawling up the aisle as more rounds pocked the skin of the Gulfstream just feet above him. He moved towards the door and the flight attendant as she fired a burst at a target.

Just five feet in front of him the woman cried out and crumpled down to the floor. The rifle spilled down the jet stairs to the tarmac.

Court grabbed the woman by the collar of her jacket and dragged her out of the doorway. Looking her over, he saw she’d been shot both through the left wrist and in the palm of her right hand, likely from a single round that caught her as her hands held the forward and rear grips of the rifle. Her hands bled freely and she writhed in pain.

As he knelt over her Court yanked a fleece hoodie off a hanger in the closet next to him and wrapped her hands with it.

“Gun?” he shouted.

“Small of my back,” she grunted. Blood soaked through the fabric of the hoodie.

Court reached behind her back on the floor and pulled a SIG P320 from her skirt, then stood and stepped over her, racing past the open doorway and to the closed cockpit door.

As he passed the jet stairs he glanced out. In the near distance, not twenty-five yards from where Court stood, all three silver SUVs were in flames, and bodies littered the ground around them.

Two men in coveralls—members of the ground crew—had their hands on the hooded prisoner and were running with him towards the row of four trucks at the edge of the tarmac lights, and bullets continued to strike the concrete and the SUVs while those CIA and MI6 still standing returned fire.

Court also saw two men from the refueler on the ground near their vehicle, submachine guns lying by their bodies.

He fired once into the back of each of the two men with the prisoner, sending them both face-first to the ground, then shifted aim towards the men in the catering truck, but a volley of fire zinged by him in the doorway, sending him to his knees. He turned away and crawled to the cockpit door and leaned in behind the pilot and copilot. “Move this plane!” he shouted, and then he noticed both men’s heads hanging to the side. A pair of bullet holes in the windscreen told him the pilots had been taken out to keep them grounded, and it also told him there was at least one sniper with eyes on the cockpit, hiding somewhere out there in the dark. Court dropped below the glass, taking cover behind the pilot’s seat, then reached up and unhooked the copilot from his harness. He grabbed the dead man, pulling him out of his chair and onto the floor.

Court climbed into his position, keeping his head down other than to steal a glance to orient himself at the airfield.

The turbines of the jet were spinning still, so Court found the brake release and then rocked forward the thrust levers twenty percent. Instantly the aircraft began to roll slowly on the ramp. He used the foot pedals to steer the plane down the taxiway, in the general direction of the terminal, a quarter mile away.

He backed off to ten percent power, then climbed out of the cockpit and returned to the open passenger-entry doorway, the pistol high in front of him.

A raging gun battle continued on the tarmac, but at least he was rolling away from it now.

He saw a man in coveralls behind the fuel truck, spinning around and raising a large rifle Court recognized as an L86A2, a light support weapon used by the British military. The man fired with discipline, short bursts towards the few men still in the fight in front of him.

Court did not hesitate. He lined up his front sight on the attacker who, with the Gulfstream’s movement, was becoming a smaller target every second, and squeezed off four rounds from his SIG.

The man fell dead onto the tarmac, his rifle on top of him.

Beyond the body by the fuel truck Court saw that the hooded and handcuffed man was being pushed into the back of the black van by two more attackers. The catering and lavatory services vehicles were next to it, and several armed men had fanned out away from them.

Almost instantly more gunfire slammed into the Gulfstream near Court. He emptied the SIG at the distant threats but knew he was making more noise than hits because he was firing at a difficult angle back around the doorway of the moving aircraft.

When the pistol locked open, he rushed back to the cockpit.

The Gulfstream rolled on towards the taxiway and the darkness at twenty knots, a slow escape from the danger. Court knew there was nothing more he could do for the Americans back on the tarmac, nor for the MI6 officers.

He grabbed the medical bag off a small shelf just next to the cockpit doors and raced back to the injured woman. She was sitting up now, trying to reach into the closet.

Court knelt above her and began looking over her bloody wounds. “Both pilots are dead.”

She looked out the door, and then back at him with confusion. “Then who the hell is taxiing the plane?”

“That would be me, I guess.” He finished his examination of her injuries. “I know this hurts like hell, but all your fingers are still here and they’re moving. Your wrist is broken, but you weren’t hit through the nerves or the vein. You’ll be fine.”