"Shaddup," Belloc said, shoving Remo back in the rear seat.
"You said she."
Belloc's face twisted into a lopsided grin. "Hey, baby, you got it wrong. What I said was shut up." He produced a revolver from beneath his seat and pointed it straight at Remo's face.
"Get rid of that, Belloc," the pilot said.
"Aw, dry up. What difference does it make, anyhow? You," he commanded Remo, jutting the gun's barrel forward. "Give over the other five thousand."
"I thought this money was to bribe some kind of Colombian official when we landed."
Belloc chuckled. "Well, I guess you're going to have to think of another way to bribe him, won't you?"
Remo looked out the window. It didn't matter to him if he kept the money or not. What did matter was if the psychopath in front of him discharged a revolver in a small plane at high altitude. He handed over the money. He would get the gun away from Belloc later, when they were nearer to Peruvina. What mattered now was a smooth flight and a quick one.
"That's better," Belloc said, taking the cash. "Nice and cooperative. That's how we like our passengers." He took another drink. Drops of sweat formed on his upper lip. "How much longer?" he asked Thompson.
The pilot didn't answer.
Belloc shifted the barrel of the gun violently to Thompson's head. "I said, how much longer?"
"Get that away from me," the pilot said coldly. "You can't fly this plane."
"Neither can you, if you're dead."
"Crazy son of a bitch," Thompson whispered. "There's Peruvina." He pointed to a green area beyond some trees. "I've already started the descent."
A huge outcropping of rock towered above the greenery. On the very top of the rock rested a palatial hacienda. Beside the sprawling residence squatted a large, opaque white dome.
"What's that?" Remo asked.
"Shut your face," Belloc said, pointing the revolver back at Remo. "It's time you and me had a talk. That means I talk, you listen. Got it?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I listen better without a gun in my face," Remo said.
"Tough." He drained the flask and tossed it away with a clatter. " 'Cause that's where it's going to stay. Remember your buddy Pappy Eisenstein?"
"Just keep your mouth shut, Belloc," the pilot said. "You've talked too much already."
"How do you know?" Belloc shouted. "You don't know nothing."
"That's how I want to keep it. I'm sure as hell not getting killed because you couldn't keep your trap shut."
"Shit," Belloc said miserably. "It don't make no difference what I tell him. The twerp's going to die anyway."
For the first time, Thompson looked Belloc straight in the face. His expression was one of horror.
Belloc found it amusing. "Oh. Beg your pardon. You're just the' pilot, like you say. You don't know nothing."
"I didn't know you were going to kill a man."
"You going to do something about it?" Belloc pointed the gun at Thompson. It was a slow, deliberate gesture. Shakily Thompson faced front, gripping the steering column.
"That's better, flyboy."
"What about Pappy?" Remo was getting impatient.
"He set you up, jerk. Look, I don't know who you are, but I know you're some kind of fed. And you must be pretty hot stuff, too, 'cause the person who wants you dead ain't taking no chances." He squinted through the sight of the revolver. "A bullet in the head in the middle of Colombia."
"In the middle of Peruvina, you mean," Remo said. "A nice private burial on private property. No body, no explanations."
"You catch on fast, pretty boy." Belloc's index finger pulled almost imperceptibly on the trigger. As he did, Remo lashed out with his left hand and, at the precise moment when the bullet began its spiraling trajectory through the barrel, he clasped his hand over Belloc's and squeezed it around the length of the revolver. The heat from the trapped bullet fused the gun into a hot metal ball that burned Belloc's fingers to the bone.
Belloc screamed, trying to shake the blob of molten metal from his blackened hand.
"Now I'm going to ask the questions," Remo said. "Starting with who 'she' is."
But a terrible scraping rattle of metal reverberated through the plane. A black screen of smoke poured out of the engines. Red lights glowed on the instrument panel.
"What— what is it?" Belloc shrieked.
"Engines on fire, both of them," the pilot muttered, struggling with the controls. The plane whistled as it careened downward toward the hills 12,000 feet below.
"Who's 'she'?" Remo repeated, grabbing Belloc by the throat. Belloc only sobbed and hacked as the smoke filled the cockpit and the front of the windscreen burst into a wall of yellow flame.
Remo turned to the pilot. "What do you know about this?"
Thompson's mouth was set. "Mister, all I know is that this plane's been sabotaged. If I knew who did it, believe me, I'd tell you."
"Who's 'she'?"
"I never talked to her. Some woman gave Belloc his instructions over the phone. I didn't know they included you." He made a final desperate thrust on the controls. "Can't make it. Get the 'chutes from the back."
Belloc scrambled over Remo toward the back of the plane, weaving crazily with the craft's erratic movement.
"They're gone!" he screamed. "The parachutes are gone. The bitch! She did it. She wanted us all dead!"
The pilot sat back and exhaled deeply. "Nothing more I can do," he said.
"The bitch!" Belloc raged. He was like a crazy man, beyond comprehension, running through the fuselage as if he were on fire. "The murdering little bitch!"
Remo grasped the door by the hinges and ripped it off. A sheet of flames roared in. The pilot looked over incuriously.
"He's no use," Remo said, nodding his head toward Belloc. "But you're coming with me."
Thompson was stone faced. "Are you planning to get me down there in one piece?"