“Isea, you’re up.” Burr spun her machine pistol the right way around, sighted in on the pursuing British truck, and laid down a barrage of covering fire.
“Jump when the lassie says go,” Iseabail told Masaracchia, “an’ we’ll haul ye up, aye?” Clambering up atop the cab, she followed di Giacomo up the rope.
“You, me, and the monk, skipper!” Burr shouted.
A British fighter screamed past the Albatross, pursued by a Kestrel as it rolled to show its graceful elliptical wings and pulled away out to sea. More tracers flashed by, accompanied by the chatter of machine guns, as another British pilot tried his luck.
“Get Masaracchia out as soon as the other two are in the plane, and you follow him,” Cannon replied. The gauges in front of him, needles shaking wildly at the edges of their travel, told a dire tale about the engine’s health. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Burr slammed another magazine into her machine gun, and sprayed it at the truck behind them, ducking as the British soldiers returned a ragged fusillade.
Emma and di Giacomo grabbed Iseabail’s arm and pulled her into the Albatross.
“What’s she saying?” di Giacomo said, squinting out the door.
Emma looked over his shoulder. In the truck’s bed, Burr pointed at the plane, then swung her arm at the elbow, then pointed again. A moment later, Masaracchia jumped over the slatted side of the bed, swinging away from the truck, then crashing into the slats, perilously near the back wheel.
Emma hauled on the rope. “Pull him in!”