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The wheels of the DC-3 crushed the broken glass curtain wall, the jagged shards scraping against the rubber tires with an ear-piercing noise.
The vintage transport plane wobbled like a drunkard as it glided towards Independence Avenue on the south side of the museum, the wings nearly brushing the roadside bronze statue as it turned.
Inside the cockpit, Orno's face was tense, his eyes fixed on the instrument panel — the fuel warning light was on, the tire pressure gauge read zero, and some instruments were too old to be functional.
But none of this could stop his innate flying instincts.
"Turn another thirty degrees...," he gritted his teeth and adjusted the controls. As long as he could line up with Independence Avenue, he was confident he could get this old bird airborne — even if only for a few dozen kilometers.
But just then, Monica watched the slowly turning DC-3 and suddenly screamed, "Tusi! Shoot through that cockpit! No one escapes from under my nose."
