Stone Barrington 06-11

rapidly. At a thousand feet the pilot headed down the river, and when he was abreast of Forty-second Street he turned right and followed it west across Manhattan. Stone had flown in helicopters before, but never in the cockpit, and he watched as the pilot maneuvered the chopper. For controls there was a stick and two rudder pedals, as on a conventional airplane, then there was a lever Stone knew was called the “collective,” which, apparently, had something to do with the propeller on the tail cone. Stone’s understanding was that it kept the chopper from spinning with the big rotors.
    Stone looked back at Lance, who was on his feet, the big rifle slung over a shoulder, looking ready. “Lance?” he said.
    “Yes?”
    “You will remember that Billy Bob is handcuffed to Peter, won’t you?”
    Lance did not reply.
    “Lance?”
    “Shut up, and be ready to follow me out of the helicopter,” Lance said.
    “Any other instructions?” Stone asked.

    “Yes, don’t let Billy Bob shoot either one of us.”
    “Pilot,” Lance said. “I want you to land very slowly, more slowly than you’re accustomed to, understand?”
    “Yes, sir,” the pilot replied.
    They were passing Times Square. Stone craned his neck and saw that the NYPD had emptied it of traffic, that the only vehicles in the streets were black-and-white cars. He was amazed to see how quickly this had happened, but he knew the department had a procedure for clearing Times Square, as part of its response to terrorist threats.
    “Eighth Avenue,” the pilot called out.
    “Slow down,” Lance said. “I want him to have plenty of time to see you coming.”
    The pilot eased back the throttle, and the nose of the chopper came up to allow it to maintain altitude.
    “You see the building?” Lance asked.
    “Yes, sir,” the pilot replied. “I’m aiming for the big H on the roof. Wind’s from the north, less than ten knots, according to the wind sock on the roof.”
    “Remember, land with the right side of the aircraft pointing at Stanford, regardless of where the wind is.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Stone heard a magazine driven home and the rifle having its action worked.
    “Remember Peter,” he said into his microphone.
    No reply from Lance.
    “I don’t see anybody on the roof,” the pilot said.
    “Neither do I,” Stone replied.
    “Neither do I,” Lance said.
    “If I don’t see him, how do you want me to set down?” the pilot asked.
    “Land into the wind.”
    “Roger.”

    Stone could see other helicopters in the distance, but they were all keeping well clear of Times Square. He wondered what arms Billy Bob had with him, besides the grenades. He supposed he was going to find out in a moment.
    The helicopter turned south, flying a downwind leg to the building, and Stone’s side of the aircraft was now facing the building, perhaps a hundred feet below. He still saw no one on the roof. The chopper turned its base leg, to the east, then turned for its final approach, upwind to the north. The entire rooftop was laid out before them, empty.
    The pilot brought the machine slowly down, and as they cleared the edge of the roof they were only about fifteen feet off the deck.
    Stone glanced back at Lance. He was braced, the rifle ready in his right hand, his left on the door handle.
    Ten feet, then five. Then Stone saw somebody.

55
    THE SOMEBODY Stone saw was a man dressed in black with a helmet, full body armor and an automatic weapon. Then a dozen more of them stepped from behind air-conditioning units, ventilators and other objects on the roof. Stone caught sight of the back of one of them, and emblazoned across it were the letters “FBI.”
    They surrounded the helicopter the moment it touched down, and one of them stood in front of the machine, his arms raised and crossed, which meant “Cut your engine.” The pilot did so.
    Somebody threw open the sliding rear door of the helicopter to find Lance, strapped in place, with his rifle at port arms. Men were all over him, taking the rifle and cutting the straps. Lance was replaced by an FBI agent, who pointed his machine gun at Stone and the pilot.
    “Out!” he screamed. “Out right now!!!”
    Stone and the pilot were assisted violently from the helicopter, thrown facedown on the roof, searched and handcuffed. Then Stone looked up and saw a familiar face, under a mass of blond hair. “Tiff!” he yelled.
    “You!” she yelled back. “What are you doing here? Get him on his feet!” she