Lee chuckled, but quickly he got the feeling something was wrong. “That’s not an airport vehicle. And he’s moving fast.”

The Fox photog knew a good shot when he saw one, so he shouldered his camera and began recording. The vehicle stopped just feet from the nose of the helicopter, and the driver’s door opened. To the astonishment of both men, a man climbed out with a pistol in his hand, pointed it at the pilot, and walked around to the right side door of the helicopter.

The gunman was head to toe in black and, at first, Robles thought the man was African American. But as the man came closer it was clear his face was covered in greasepaint.

He tapped on the Plexiglas door of the right seat.

“Get us out of here!” Robles shouted to his pilot, but Lee wasn’t going to take off with a gun to his head.

He opened the door and put his hands up. Robles did the same.

The man leaned in and spoke to Lee, because with the noise of the engine above them, Robles couldn’t hear. “Get out, go to the truck, and get the gear bag from the bed. Bring it back here.”

“What are you going to do?”

The man with the greasepaint turned to the side, used the barrel of his pistol to tap the parachute rig strapped on his back. “I just need a quick ride. Your partner there will win himself a Pulitzer for what he’s about to film.”

Lee kept his hands up, but he said, “What about me?”

“You just keep us out of restricted airspace so we don’t get shot down. That should be enough motivation for you.”

“Oh . . . Okay.”

—

Court watched the pilot move the forty-pound gear bag from the truck to the spinning helo, then Court climbed in the backseat with it. The pilot got back in and strapped himself into the right seat again.

The videographer was too scared to turn around and look at Court, but Court put on a headset and spoke to him. “Cameraman, throw your phone out the door. Pilot, you, too.” Both men did as instructed. Court read off a series of GPS coordinates to the pilot, then said, “Take me there exactly. Get us to an altitude of six thousand feet.”

Angus Lee punched the coordinates in his computer. “Yes, sir. What do I tell air traffic control?”

“Tell them you are flying to Baltimore. That will get you close enough to where we’re going. After that tell them there was a gun to your head. That will get you out of trouble.”

“I’ll do what you ask. Please don’t hold your gun to my head.”

“It’s a figure of speech, dude. Do what I say and we’ll all stay friends. Cool?”

“Yes, sir.”