Chloe had found a nice shady spot inside a box of musty canvas tent material about mid-hold. She dumped a bolt of it onto the Aoor and kicked it behind another box, then wedged herself into the industrial plastic coffin, pulling the lid mostly shut behind her. She didn’t close it completely. If one of the mercs got close enough alone, she might still try for a gun. The large tent box had its own parachute; if they weren’t searching the individual crates, she’d go for a little ride, hopefully landing on the island hours ahead of Braddock. With Moncada dead there was no percentage coming, but she could fill her pockets and walk away happy enough, knowing that she’d found the treasure.
If the mercs were searching the crates… Well, another reason why she hadn’t latched the door yet. She might need to relocate in a hurry.
Chloe waited, the ratty smell of canvas tickling her nose—and then she heard Nathan Drake’s voice, shouting over the thunder of the plane and the open hold.
Nate? Chloe cracked the door. There was no one in front of the crate, the mercs all closer to the ramp, and she slipped out, crouching her way around to see what was happening.
Braddock and her boys were just in front of Chloe, facing Nate at the mouth of the ramp, Nate’s hand on a crate—on its chute handle, actually. Sully ran out of shadows toward Nate, shouting; he had the map tucked against his chest and a chute on his back. As soon as he was in sight, the mercs opened fire. In a blink Sully was gone, Aying out of the hold like a thrown dart, and Nate yanked the ripcord on the big crate.
Chloe jammed her arm through the wall net, and a beat later the plane’s tail dropped violently and all hell broke loose. Chloe’s cover was jerked away. Mercs were Aying and firing, and Nate was diving between boxes as the plane’s engines roared, the pilots fighting a stall. Crates broke their straps and pitched into others as the jet dipped and yawed, the chain of heavy boxes caught in the slipstream. Even as she watched, another crate was torn up by the weight, zip– ties and straps Aying.
Yeah, bugger this. Chloe kept to the wall and headed for the nose of the plane, hanging onto the net and getting tossed off her feet a few times, ducking to avoid being crushed by Aying boxes. A loose crate Aew past her and into somebody who screamed on his way out. Gotta be a spare gun somewhere. I lock in with the pilots and just shoot anyone who—
The plane pitched left and Chloe was whipped to the side. She caught a glimpse of Nate doing a pushup on the Aoor, looking up at Braddock’s big guy, Hugo, who had his Glock lined up for a head shot—
—and then the box at Nate’s feet Aew out of the hold, taking him with it. She caught a glimpse of his shocked expression, thick hair whipping around his face, and then he was gone.
The smaller crate next in line popped its straps with a twang and snapped down the rail, plunging after him—and then the one after that came up, too. The thrashing line got longer, heavier, snapping more plastic ties. The Scot just missed getting slammed into when one of the boxes caught on the stretched wall net, and something bashed into the exit door mid-cabin across from her and down, the metal squealing as the door crashed open.
BAD!
The deck pitched again as jet-speed winds tore through the back half of the hold and the pilots compensated. Chloe was away from the worst of it but was still swept off her feet, hip slamming into the wall. She planted her boots and clawed her way forward, toward Moncada’s car; the door to the cabins was behind it.
She glanced back and saw that Braddock and her team were still standing, Scotty on the port wall, Hugo and Braddock braced against a storage locker across from him. One wrong move and they’d get sucked to their doom.
Good! Chloe set her sights on the Gullwing and pulled against the violent wind, easier with each step. There were some packed chutes in the passenger cabin, she’d—
“Oye! Aquí!”
Chloe turned and was looking down the barrel of an assault riAe, backed by a sneering ratbag named Paolo. She only knew his name because he’d tried to chat her up the day before with a joke about his penis. He was a foul, smelly pig. Unfortunately, one of his buddies was with him, a thick-necked fella who also had his riAe up. They both had to lean toward her over the suck of the roaring wind, gun barrels bobbing, but they were too close to miss if they got trigger-happy.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, coming after me when we’re crashing?” Chloe snapped, backing up. The survival instincts on these brutes was low to nil. Behind them, she could see Braddock and her guys working their way around the roaring tunnel of wind, clutching at nets, edging behind the crates that were still tacked down. The equipment tail was hanging over the end of the ramp, too heavy to Ay. The parachute must have tangled. The pilots steadied the plane’s wild pitches into swooping waves, but she couldn’t tell if they were headed up or down.
Chloe backed up another step but then Paolo and his steroid-taking friend were on either side of her, grabbing her shoulders. Paolo was grinning like the dumbo he was, fingers digging into her Aesh; he had a .40 semi on his hip, a worn Velcro tab keeping it in its nylon holster. She didn’t recognize the make but guessed it was fully loaded with one in the chamber. Eleven rounds? Thirteen? His buddy had a .45 Glock on his hip, a heavy snap over the grip on a brand-new leather holster. So, Paolo then. They stood to either side of her, assuming they had control of her with her hands and legs free.
Idiots.
She let them drag her forward, closer to the sucking wind, to where Jo Braddock and her boys had arrived ahead of the shifting daisy chain. The smell of petrol was whirling through the hold, something broken leaking somewhere. Why weren’t they trying to block the open door? Or cutting the heavy box-chain loose? Maybe searching for the source of the gasoline smell, a serious risk considering the crates of Aares and explosives they had packed? No, instead they were fucking with her, because they were greedy and stupid. Psychopaths weren’t forward thinkers.
Braddock saw them coming, saw the small pack on Chloe’s shoulder, and managed to look both haughty and pleased, as if she hadn’t fucked everything up when she’d killed Moncada.
I’m going to kill you, Chloe thought, as the mercs dragged her forward. Braddock had shot Sam Drake, and what were the chances that Nate was still alive? The woman was a ruthless asshole.
Chloe turned her right foot sideways and then dropped like her knee had given out, letting out a pitiful “ow” as she slid out of Paolo and friends’ grubby hands. She planted her boots, shifted her weight.
“Get up,” Paolo sneered. They bent to scoop her up, and when she was halfway to her feet she snapped a kick into the side of Mr. Steroid’s kneecap, and punched Paolo in the jewels, so hard she would swear her knuckles tapped bone.
The weightlifter went sideways but Paolo doubled over, face going white beneath his crappy beard scruff. Chloe came up under him and used his weight to pitch him over her shoulder. She grabbed his heavy semi’s grip as he Aew overhead and yanked, the overworked tab ripping open, the weight of the weapon abruptly solid in her hand. She had the safety punched before he finished landing.
Chloe pivoted and double-tapped the big guy in the chest, bam-bam, driving him backward, the recoil lifting the .40’s muzzle in tight arcs. He tripped over his own feet and fell against the blasting current of air between the side door and the ramp. His big body ricocheted off the wind tunnel, mashed into the fuselage, and bounced back into the whipping hurricane, which easily swept him out the back.
Paolo had come up on his feet, but he was too close to mid-cabin, fighting against the sucking wind and the pain of his punched sac. She helped him along with another double-tap to the upper chest, bam-bam!
He wheeled back into the blasting wind, tripped over the Aailing crate-line, and skipped out the back like a stone across pond water.
Scotty already had his Sig out and Hugo was reaching for his Glock. Chloe turned and dove, came up running for Moncada’s car. She ducked behind a heavy plastic box next to the driver’s side as rounds clanged across the deck, smashed into the wall behind her.
What the fuck now?! She leaned her head back next to a bag of Aares hanging off the side of her cover. At least two guns were trained on her by now, and she had two-thirds of a single mag. Clearly, she should have stayed in the tent box.
* * *
Braddock was furious that Sully had gotten away, that the Drake boy had risked the entire operation in some doomed stand for his brother—and when she saw Alvaro’s men dragging Chloe toward her, she found a focus for her rage, and smiled. The girl had probably snuck Sully aboard, she must have her own plan for stealing the gold… but she was unarmed now, alone, and looked appropriately beaten down. When she pretended to collapse, Braddock stopped smiling.
Chloe danced between the pair of unsuspecting mercs, disabling them handily, one-two, a kick and a blow. She tumbled with one of them and came up armed, then sent both men into the screaming wind behind them, no hesitation. Braddock ducked behind a crate with Hugo while Scotty got his back to a thin partition sticking out of the wall. Both men took aim and fired, ringing crashes above the howling wind.
A half dozen rounds smashed into the Gullwing and the back wall, but the girl had disappeared behind a block of industrial gray plastic. She popped up to fire twice, disappearing as Hugo fired a last round, chipping the corner off the container. There was a brief pause.
Braddock made eye contact with Scotty, Aicked her gaze to the crate, and he nodded.
“We can patch this up, Frazer!” Braddock called. “Drop the gun! Let’s talk!”
This pause was different. Chloe only had what was left in the merc’s .40, and no way out. Braddock leaned out to look—
—and saw Chloe take aim at her from down low behind her container, her dark eyes narrowed.
Braddock fell back and the shot nicked the very edge of her cover, centimeters from where she’d peeked out. Scotty got a bead on Chloe and fired, but Chloe ducked back in time.
Fuck! Braddock drew her own piece as both men fired again, chipping away at Chloe’s scarce defense.
* * *
Braddock ducked back just as Chloe got her shot off. Too bad, she’d missed by a hair.
“Sure thing!” Chloe responded. “I love teaming up with murderous psychos!”
Sounded brave, but a new volley of shots lit up the roaring hold, and bits of her lifesaving crate went Aying. She needed a new plan. The smell of gasoline was thicker at this end of the hold, something close by had been damaged. And there was a bag of Aares tied to the plastic crate she’d ducked behind; the helpful fire hazard symbol had finally sunk in.
Fire plus hurricane equals fire hurricane. Bad, but in terms of a diversion…
Chloe aimed toward Hugo and fired over the top of the box, wasting the rounds so she could sneak a look at the hold’s Aooring. She spotted the leak by its glistening, shuddering puddle, less than ten meters ahead, to the right. A lone can of petrol knocked from a case of them.
Oh, this is berko! It was a wonder the plane hadn’t crashed already, and she was about to make things a lot worse.
“Crazy to want all of us to have a share?” Braddock screamed, and then more of the plastic in front of Chloe chipped up, the crate jerking against its straps. They were reloading in turns, giving her no chance to line up another shot.
Chloe snatched a Aare out of the hanging bag and broke the tip, looking away from the sputter of chemical reaction. She held the hissing stick up, made sure they got an eyeful of the blinding white burn, then stood and whipped it at the wet spot on the Aoor.
She dropped Aat and felt the Aoor tremble as Braddock and her guys dove away from the sudden fire that swirled to life, shedding in burning droplets against the blasting wind. There was no explosion, but she’d take it.
Chloe leapt up and rolled over the hood of the Mercedes, landed behind a big wooden box on the other side with its own chute—loaded with boat motors, if she remembered correctly. She fired twice more and ducked down, pulling at the netting on the box. If I can get the chute off, maybe…
The chute was double strapped to the sturdy container. It wasn’t budging.
Chloe ejected the nameless .40’s mag halfway and cursed. One single bloody round left.
“I gotta give it to you, Frazer!” Braddock crowed, advancing as her men opened fire again. “A fighter to the bitter end! But this is the end!”
Hugo and Scotty absolutely unloaded into her crate. Splinters Aew, the crate rocking back on its rail. The release lever keeping it in place was barely holding.
Fuck me. Chloe looked at the useless parachute strapped to the top of the rocking crate. There had to be a couple dozen individual boxes still on board with chutes attached, set onto the rails in front of the Gullwing—
Oh. She saw how it might be done, and it was even more insane than the fire she’d started, that still Aickered somewhere ahead of her and poured smoke into the blasting wind. It was a huge risk, barely a chance of survival, but that was more than she could count on where she was.
“Chloe, this is the stupidest idea you have ever had,” she breathed, then reached down and Aipped the crate’s release lever.
She aimed Paolo’s piece at the passenger-side window of Moncada’s car and blasted it out with her last round, then dropped the empty weapon. She put her hands to the middle of the giant box and shoved.
The crate started forward. Chloe jammed her feet into the ribbing of the wall and used her whole weight to push it faster.
The box crashed forward. Chloe caught just a glimpse of Braddock and Hugo scrambling out of its way, and then dove through the Gullwing’s shattered window.
Her face landed on the driver’s seat, boots still sticking out into the hold. Chloe forced the shift into first and hit the starter. She jammed her hand onto the gas pedal, and the tiny car’s magnificent engine bellowed. The coupe surged against its straps, wheels squealing.
More shots were fired, screeching holes opening across the door above her head, the smell of hot metal filling the car’s small interior. Chloe pushed down with both hands, to the mat, and felt the nylon straps finally give, left then right, the car jumping to either side before setting between rails and hurtling forward.
The Gullwing smashed into boxes, pushing them into the cargo still waiting to be freed. The bumper crimped and the crates rolled forward, picking up speed as they headed for the ramp.
Chloe yanked one foot in, the move causing the coupe to hop its rails. It landed in a new set, veering around the charging cargo, aimed for the right side of the exit. She kept one hand on the gas and used the other to push herself up, to see over the jerking wheel—
“Nate?”
Nathan Drake stood at the lip of the ramp on her side, wind snapping his sweaty clothes. She registered the fact of him and took her hand off the accelerator, but it was way too late. Nate crashed across the bonnet and then they were soaring out into the wide blue sky.