Then there was a bone-jarring crash much harder than what Hawker was prepared for. “Fire!” The scream of the young pilot yanked the vigilante from the gauzy twilight world of near-unconsciousness. The entire back section of the helicopter was ablaze with withering white flames. Hawker found his seat-belt clasp, reached behind for his duffel, then threw himself out the door onto the fresh snow. “Help me! I can’t move!” The shriek was more like that of a terrified woman. But it wasn’t a woman. It was the pilot. For some reason he couldn’t get out of the blazing chopper. The vigilante leaped to his feet—and immediately fell. His left ankle felt as if it had been jammed up into his leg. On his hands and knees he crawled toward the portside door of the aircraft. Jake was pounding frantically against the window, trying to get out. “Don’t let me burn, for God’s sake!” The vigilante locked his hands on the door latch—and heard his flesh sizzle. He yanked off his down vest, wrapped it around the handle, and tried again.
