He willed his aching head to think. He could neutralize the co-pilot now, put a gun to the pilot’s head, and order him to turn it back to Bangladesh. The fact that the Myanmar Air Force hadn’t shot them out of the sky meant that the pilot was probably in touch with someone on the ground. If the hostiles on the ground lost contact with the pilot, they might scramble and shoot the bird out of the sky.
If the pilot didn’t cooperate, Connor would have no choice but to get rid of him and try to fly this chopper himself.
The other option—waiting until they landed to make a break—wasn’t viable. He’d bet his ass they were headed to some kind of military facility. Then he’d be facing dozens if not hundreds more armed hostiles. It had taken one shot to knock him out. It would take one to kill him—or Shanti.
And if they got ahold of Shanti…
Women’s screams from those videos echoed through his mind.
He wouldn’t let them touch her.
How the hell had this happened?
That’s not your problem.
His problem was getting Shanti—and that damned phone—to safety.
There was only one survivable course of action. They were getting farther away from Bangladesh and safety with every passing second and closer to wherever that bastard Naing wanted Shanti to be.
He opened his eyes, slipped a hand inside his shirt, slowly withdrew the second Glock. He carried anti-personnel rounds in his handguns, rounds designed not to over-penetrate, so there was little chance of damaging the flight controls or having a round ricochet and hit Shanti.
She watched him, wide-eyed, as he pressed the pistol into the back of the co-pilot’s seat—and fired.
BAM!BAM!
Shanti flinched and covered her ears at the blast, saw the co-pilot slump forward.
In a heartbeat, Connor threw off his safety belt, pressed his gun against the side of the pilot’s face, and yanked something out of the control console—the interface cable to the pilot’s helmet. “Turn this bird around and fly us back to Bangladesh—now.”
The rage on his bloodied face made her pulse skip. This was the military part of him, the part that had fought and killed, the part that risked his life in war but had trouble coming home.
The pilot laughed and kept flying deeper into Myanmar.
“Turn it around, fucker, or I’ll blow your brains out!”
“Who will fly the helicopter if I’m dead? You? That girl?”
“I’ll fly it. I’m a former special forces operator and spent years flying these things. If you want me to blow your head off, fine. I was giving you a chance to live.”
This time the pilot did as Connor asked, turning the helicopter around.
Shanti exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“How did they flip you?” Connor sat back but kept the gun pointed at the pilot’s head. “Money? It’s always money.”
“Fuck you!”
“No, thanks. Traitors aren’t my type.” Connor sagged against the back of the co-pilot’s seat but kept the gun still pointed at the pilot’s head.
He must have been in pain or dizzy or both.
Had the pilot noticed?
Connor gritted his teeth, sat up straight again.
She needed to help him somehow. “Do you want some water? An Advil?”
He shook his head, his gaze fixed on the pilot. “How far to the river?”