Wild Riviera

by Tripp Ellis

  In the blink of an eye, he had his arm around her throat, and he pulled a small bottle that looked like nasal spray from his pocket. He held it in the air and shouted something about a toxin and how we’d all die if we didn't comply with his demands.

  The cabin was dim. The sky outside the windows was black. Most of the passengers were in a stupor—groggy from half-assed slumber, wrapped in thin blankets with tiny pillows that were barely larger than a marshmallow wedged under their heads. It took them a moment to realize we were being hijacked with a bottle of nasal spray.

  Fucking nasal spray!

  Bree’s eyes widened, and she gripped my forearm tight.

  "Just stay calm," I whispered. "Everything's going to be all right."

  I had no idea what was in the spray bottle, but like everyone else on board, my imagination was running wild.

  Anthrax?

  A viral pathogen?

  Perhaps a nerve agent?

  It was a crude delivery system, but a few pumps would surely put enough into the air to affect a number of passengers in First Class. The air recirculation system could quickly disperse it through the fuselage.

  The general public had seen enough movies, and watched enough media coverage, of anthrax and chemical attacks to buy into the plausibility of the scenario. Hell, in the back of my mind I thought, it could just be nasal spray and nothing more. Saline? An antihistamine?

  But nobody wanted to take any chances.

  The terrorist pulled the flight attendant toward the front of the cabin. His eyes locked on Bree as he passed by. He knew he had a high-value hostage. It gave him considerable bargaining power.

  I scanned the cabin looking for accomplices. Surely this man wasn’t acting alone?

  3

  A man sitting toward the back of the plane climbed out of his seat and marched down the aisle. He pulled a gun from a concealed holster and aimed it at the terrorist. "US Air Marshal. Let the flight attendant go, and put the weapon down!”

  Adrenaline coursed through my veins. I had a bad feeling about the scenario.

  I glanced around, looking for another Air Marshal, but no one revealed themself. I knew the Air Marshals were stretched pretty thin, and they usually traveled in pairs, but it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility to have a single marshal on an international flight.

  As the Air Marshal advanced down the aisle, nearing the First Class cabin, another terrorist sprang from a seat behind him and attacked. This man was a trained professional. He moved with precision. He kicked the back of the Air Marshal’s knees, bringing him down to the deck. In a continuous fluid motion, the terrorist grabbed the man's arm, and slid his hand up to the barrel of the weapon, twisting it 180°, snapping the Air Marshal’s finger in the trigger guard. An elbow to the back of the neck flattened the Air Marshal on the deck, and the terrorist had the weapon clean.

  He aimed the barrel of the Sig P250 at the Air Marshal’s back, and his finger squeezed the trigger. Muzzle flash flickered from the barrel, and a loud bang echoed throughout the fuselage.

  The bullet impacted the Air Marshal, spraying a geyser of blood. The projectile probably snapped his spine. The marshal was dead, instantly.

  We didn’t lose cabin pressure, so I could only assume the bullet didn't penetrate the deck on exiting the body.

  The terrified screeches of the passengers filled the cabin.

  This was no joke, and the terrorists wanted everyone to know they weren’t fucking around. It was a display of force. An attempt to discourage anyone else from getting any ideas about being a hero.

  By this time, sweat was beading on the forehead of the nasal spray terrorist. He had moved with the flight attendant toward the front of the cabin and was in the galley near the cockpit. His eyes were wide, and he seemed a little frazzled.

  The man who disarmed the Air Marshal seemed calm, cool, and collected. He advanced down the aisle and shouted, “Stay in your seats and no one else will get hurt. Comply with our demands and there will be no more bloodshed. I will not hesitate to kill anyone on this flight who causes trouble."

  The man with the gun moved down the aisle toward me. I had a few seconds to come up with a plan. There was no doubt that the pilot was aware of the situation and had squawked a 7500 to air traffic control, letting them know that a hijacking was in progress.

  I could feel the aircraft slow and drop altitude. We were far enough along that I wasn't sure if we would turn back and head to Miami, or keep going to Nice? If the terrorists got their way, who knows where we’d be headed?

  I had unbuckled my safety harness when this all began. As the man with the gun passed by, I elbowed him in the groin and launched to my feet, grabbing the pistol, aiming it toward the ceiling. I stripped the weapon from his hand, and elbowed him in the face, smashing his nose. Crimson blood splattered, and he tumbled back, crashing down. Two other passengers pounced on him as I spun around and took aim at the terrorist with the nasal spray.

  "Put the gun down, or we all die!" he shouted, his eyes full of fear.

  He used the flight attendant as a shield—his left arm around her throat, his right hand holding the nasal spray in front of her.

  I kept the weapon aimed at his right shoulder. It was the only fully exposed part of his body, along with the edge of his face. It was a tight shot, even on steady ground. But at 30,000 feet, hitting a small patch of turbulence could make for a bad day.

  The terrorist hesitated.

  I could see it in his eyes—he was petrified. He either didn't want to release the toxin, or there was no toxin at all?

  I was about to call his bluff when the flight attended elbowed him in his man-bits and spun from his grasp.

  I had a clear shot, and I took it.

  The deafening bang of the pistol filled the First Class cabin as I squeezed the trigger. Muzzle flash flickered from the barrel, and the bullet tore across the compartment and smacked into the terrorist’s shoulder. The force of impact knocked him against the bulkhead, and the nasal spray dropped to the deck, instantly—the brachial plexus (the nerves in the shoulder) shredded beyond repair. He’d never make a fist again—if the arm was even salvageable.

  Blood painted the bulkheads, and the terrorist writhed in agony on the ground.

  I moved forward and scooped the nasal spray from the deck. I kept my weapon aimed at the terrorist as the flight attendants found restraints they had on board just in case of a scenario like this. They bound the man about the wrists and ankles as he screamed in pain. I instructed the flight attendant to find a sealable container for the nasal spray.

  A Ziploc bag would have to do. It wasn't the ideal scenario. Now it was just a matter of time to see if anyone had been affected by the toxin.

  As far as I could tell, the terrorist had never actuated the pump spray.

  A flight attendant grabbed a pile of cloth napkins and applied pressure to the man's wounds. Another flight attendant asked if there was a doctor onboard, her voice crackling over the intercom. A First Class passenger made his way forward to the galley and attended to the man.

  Once the situation was under control, I returned to my seat and was greeted with a raucous round of applause.

  I think most of the passengers were still in shock.

  Bree stared at me with a look of relief on her face. "That was… impressive. What was it that you do for a living again?"

  I flashed her a cocksure grin.

  It wasn’t all sunshine and roses. An angry woman stormed to me with a scowl on her face. “You could have gotten us all killed! Did you stop to think for one second about the lives you put in jeopardy? Whatever that terrorist had in that spray bottle could be circulating through the cabin now. We might all be dead!”

  I just smiled at her.

  Somebody in the back shouted, “Shut up and sit down!”

  The cabin filled with boos.

  4

  The angry woman finally returned to her seat. To my surprise, we kept flying to Nice.


  We had already passed the halfway point by the time the terrorists attacked, and from a fuel standpoint, it made more sense to continue the journey.

  The plane was quarantined upon landing. We sat on the tarmac for hours while the authorities figured out how to handle the situation. The French version of the FBI, the DST, took over.

  The instant we landed, a flurry of texts dinged on my phone. They all flooded in now that I had cell-service again. The first message was from Aria:

  [Hey, I hope you haven't left yet.]

  It was time stamped 10 hours ago.

  I cringed.

  The second text read: [Don't kill me, but I have to go back to New York. I just got booked on a massive campaign with huge clients. So if you haven't left yet, don't. I'm flying back to New York in an hour. I am so sorry. I promise, I will make it up to you].

  A text, time-stamped a few moments, later read: [I haven't heard back from you. I hope you're not on the plane yet, :( ].

  The text after that read: [I guess you're already in the air. Don't hate me. Call me when you land. I'm so sorry. :( ].

  It was followed by several heart emojis.

  A frown tensed my face, and a range of emotions swirled within me. Anger and disappointment mixed, forming a cocktail of irritation.

  I took a deep breath and tried to let it go.

  Aria had an opportunity and she took it. I wasn’t going to begrudge her that. It was part of being a model. I assumed she was telling me the truth about the job, but anything was possible? Besides, I couldn’t be too mad… I would never have met Bree otherwise. I also wouldn’t have been involved in a hijacking situation, but considering the way things turned out, it was a small price to pay.

  "Bad news?" Bree asked.

  My frustration was apparent. "Change of plans. The person I was meeting in Monaco is no longer in Monaco."

  "I'm sorry," she said. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll have a good time no matter what. After a flight like this, things can only get better, right?"

  "I like your attitude."

  "No reason to dwell on the negative." She smiled.

  I was getting used to her smile.

  The authorities created a positive pressure airlock around the main entry door—a clear plastic bubble with a fan that pumped in air. It would theoretically keep pathogens from escaping.

  A guy in a hazmat suit boarded the plane. The bloated yellow suit covered him from head to toe, and he wore a helmet with a wide clear facemask. He looked like a space-man that would be at home traipsing around some alien world. He took possession of the nasal spray and put it into an airtight container that had clear side-walls and gloved portals.

  He ran a series of tests, and after 30 minutes determined that the solution inside the nasal spray was, in fact, saline.

  Harmless salt water.

  We all breathed a collective sigh of relief as word spread throughout the cabin.

  The passengers were more than ready to get off the plane. There were a lot of frazzled nerves that needed to be soothed. I imagined that the first stop for many travelers would be the airport bar.

  The flight attendant’s voice crackled over the intercom. "I'm told that we will be allowed to deplane shortly. Please remain calm and stay in your seats until that time."

  There were groans and complaints. The passengers were getting cranky and hungry.

  The flight attendants did their best to keep serving snacks and beverages, but the aircraft needed to be resupplied.

  Once the plane was officially declared safe, the DST agents removed the terrorists and took them into custody. The body of the Air Marshal was removed, and finally we were allowed to deplane. We had to go through customs and were debriefed by the DST. I ended up in an interrogation room for hours, going over every detail of the incident with the agents.

  I recounted the details several times. The tiny room was hot, and I was hungry and tired. I stared at the agents, bleary-eyed, as they asked me the same questions in multiple ways, looking to see if my answers ever changed.

  It seemed like they were never going to release me. "How many times do you want me to tell you the same thing?"

  "We are just trying to be thorough," the lead investigator said with a thick French accent.

  He wore a suit and tie and had dark hair, dark eyes, and a narrow face. He didn’t smile, or seem appreciative in any way. You’d have thought I was the bad guy. “What is your business in France?”

  I thought it would be a good idea to leave out the part about the assassination. “I’m traveling to Monaco.”

  “For what purpose?”

  I smiled. “Why does anyone go to Monaco?”

  He frowned at me. “Where will you be staying?”

  I shrugged. “How is any of this relevant?” I asked, my voice thick with frustration. “There were two terrorists on board the plane. I stopped them.”

  “How did you acquire the weapon?”

  "Like I told you, the weapon belonged to the Air Marshal. The terrorist took it. I took it from him. By the way, a thank you would be nice. That could have gone so many ways of wrong.”

  “Yes, it could have.”

  Another agent entered the room and whispered something into the lead investigator’s ear. His demeanor changed. "Why didn’t you tell me you were Bree Taylor’s bodyguard?”

  I tried to hide the confusion that crinkled on my face. I stammered, then lied, “I try to keep that information low profile.”

  “Okay. You are free to go. Please keep us informed of your whereabouts, and do not leave the country without contacting us first. We may have additional questions."

  I pushed away from the table and stood up, shook the man's hand, and stepped into the hallway where another agent handed me my carry-on bag.

  I was totally shocked to see Bree waiting for me. "What are you still doing here?"

  She smiled. "I couldn’t leave without thanking you for what you did. You saved all of us." She whispered in my ear, "Plus, I told them you were my bodyguard, and they had to let you go because I needed to be someplace."

  “Bodyguard? I like the sound of that.” I would definitely guard her body well.

  "It's not technically a lie," she said. "I do feel safer with you around. And you did save my life." Her bright eyes glimmered at me. “Come on. You can ride with me. You’re traveling to Monaco, right?”

  5

  Before we could leave, we met with someone from the U.S. State Department and gave another account of the incident. This interview went smoother now that I was with Bree.

  Afterward, a private helicopter took us from Nice to Monaco.

  The rotor blades pattered overhead, and we lifted from the tarmac. We flew through the night sky, and I wasn’t able to see much of the French countryside. The lights of Monaco flickered on the horizon, and within 10 minutes we were landing on a helipad.

  "Where are you staying?" Bree asked.

  I shrugged. "I don't know. I was going to stay with a friend, but she bailed back to New York. I don't even know what I'm doing here."

  Bree smiled. "It's settled. You'll stay with me."

  Someone got the door, and we climbed out of the helicopter. We were shuffled into a limousine, and our baggage was tossed into the trunk. A moment later, the driver climbed behind the wheel and pulled the door shut. "Where to, Ma’am?”

  "The harbor,” Bree replied.

  The driver whisked us across the luxurious city to the marina. It was packed with luxury yachts and spectacular sailboats. There were a few smaller boats, and when I say small, I mean 25 footers. Most of the boats were between 65 and 200 feet—floating palaces of the mega-rich.

  I strolled with Bree down the dock while the driver attended to our bags. We passed several shipboard parties along the way.

  The whole city had a festive atmosphere.

  "The film festival," Bree said. “At Cannes. It's not far from here. There are a lot of parties this time of year, plus there is the Grand Prix in Monaco at the e
nd. We should go."

  "To the festival, or to the Grand Prix?"

  "Both. I've got a film screening in the festival. And I know Armond Lémieux. He drives for Ferrari. He always gets me free tickets.” She grabbed my arm and pulled herself close. Her steamy breath hit my ear as she whispered, "I think he's got a thing for me. But I'm not interested."

  Who wouldn't have a thing for her?

  "Who do you have a thing for?" I had to ask.

  She pretended to think about it for a moment. "I don't know," she said, coyly. "I just met this guy, he's pretty handy to have around in a pinch."

  "Is he good in hijacking situations?"

  "Exceptional," she said with a smile. Her hand slid down my forearm and took my hand as we strolled down the dock. We stopped in front of a spectacular boat where a party was in full swing.

  "This is it,” Bree said.

  "This is your boat?" I said, my eyes taking in the massive mega-yacht. "Impressive."

  "Now you know why my financial manager wants me to curtail my spending. This, along with some bad investments, has got me looking forward to my next payday." She put her finger to her full lips. "But don't tell anyone."

  "Silver Screams?" I asked, noting the name of the boat.

  "I got my start in B-movie horror films. Look where it took me,” she said, gesturing to the floating palace. “Never forget where you came from."

  We crossed the gangway to the large aft deck and joined the party. It was full of slick LA types. Guys in suits wearing sunglasses at night and models wearing skimpy dresses that sparkled in the light. Pop music pumped through speakers, and staff served cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.

  "I'll introduce you," she said.

  A flamboyant man in a Zangari suit, a Piere Léon cotton broadcloth shirt, and matching pocket square approached with his arms outstretched. He had dark hair and perfect features. There wasn’t a hair out of place on his head. “Bree, my darling! Thank God you're okay. I was worried sick about you!”