Free BRAINRUSH 02 - The Enemy of My Enemy by Richard Bard

abandoned any concerns for his heart condition. He was out of the Jeep and inside the cabin of the plane so fast that its ten occupants, geared up for a group jump, had barely enough time to register their shock.
    Jake shouted over the muted roar of the plane’s props. “Drop your chutes, helmets, and goggles, and get out of the plane immediately.”
    The men and women looked at one another with expressions leaving little doubt that they thought Jake was crazy. One of them—apparently the jumpmaster—started to speak. “Listen here—”
    “You heard the man!” Tony interrupted, his bulk filling the doorway. His MP5 was pressed into his shoulder; its muzzle tracked the line of skydivers that filled the inward-facing row of seats. “Now!”
    The divers jumped to attention. Hands scrambled. Gear spilled to the floor. When the first of them dropped to the tarmac, he beelined toward the terminal, away from the approaching vans. The others rushed after him.
     The pilot watched over his shoulder from the cockpit and spoke rapidly into his boom mike. Jake stepped forward and yanked the headset off him. “You too, pal. Sorry.” As the man hurried to leave, Jake added, “Keep your head down and steer clear of the hangars.” 
    Jake slid into the pilot’s seat and fastened the shoulder harness. He scanned the instruments and placed a hand on the throttle. Outside, Snake’s pickup shot directly at the speeding vans. The Mexicans were challenging the terrorists to a deadly game of chicken. Jake knew Snake. He’d die before he budged from his path.
    Hoorah .
    At the last possible instant, the vans swerved away in either direction. Snake’s pickup shot between them like a cruise missile. Jake saw flashes from both windows as Snake and Papa let loose with their assault rifles. Jake could imagine their death-defying cries of victory.
    One of the vans veered away too sharply. Its top-heavy profile caused it to lift onto its outer wheels. For a fraction of a second it just hung there, speeding at sixty or seventy miles an hour into the turn. But then the startled driver apparently slammed on the brakes—the last thing he should have done. The front wheel locked and the momentum whipped the vehicle onto its side. It left a trail of sparks as it slid across the pavement.
    “Go!” shouted Becker as he launched himself into the rear of the plane. He cradled the dog in his arms.
    Jake jammed the throttle forward and released the brakes. The plane jerked forward in response. He angled for the runway, accelerating quickly.
    Marshall slipped into the copilot’s seat, out of breath. “You ever flown one of these?” he asked.
    “Uh-uh,” Jake said. “You better strap in.” He focused on his takeoff roll.
    The remaining van hadn’t given up yet. It was approaching fast from the plane’s starboard front quarter, bouncing across the grass that abutted the runway. Jake watched in frustration as he calculated speeds, angles, and distance. There was no way he could reach takeoff speed in time to avoid the suicide collision.
    “Crap!” Marshall shouted. “They’re going to ram us!”
    “The hell they are,” Jake said. Instead of steering away from the van, he turned the nose directly at them. The plane shuddered as the wheels left the pavement and spun onto the grass.
    “Oh, no,” Marshall muttered. He swept the harness over his shoulders and cinched it tight.
     “Hang on tight, everybody!” Jake shouted. He glanced at the instruments.
    Fifty feet…
    Twenty…
    He jerked back on the stick. The plane vaulted over the van. The bottom of the starboard landing gear clipped the van’s windshield. Jake jerked the stick hard to the left, smashing his foot on the rudder to keep the right wingtip from dipping into the ground and cartwheeling the plane.
     The van passed beneath them; the plane dropped back to the ground and accelerated. The parking area was less than a hundred feet ahead, filled with tied-down aircraft. Jake