Ripples of the Past

by Damian Knight

  Crouching, George rolled him off. Hinds appeared to be unconscious. There was a deep cut on her forehead where it had connected with the tarmac, but it was impossible to tell how much of the blood pouring down her face was her own and how much belonged to the dead man beside her.

  As the first of the police cars sped through the gate to the airfield, Sebastian grabbed George by the sleeve, one of Humboldt’s suitcases in his other hand. ‘Hurry!’ he urged. ‘Leave them, we don’t have time!’

  George stood and shrugged the small man away. Sebastian blinked at him for a moment and then scurried off.

  Two police cars had by now come to a stop fifty yards down the runway, forming a rudimentary blockade. The doors flew open in the same instant and the officers of an armed response unit poured out.

  George glanced to Hinds again and saw her staring straight back at him, her eyes burning with fiery hatred.

  10

  George stood over Hinds, wondering how on Earth she had ever found him.

  ‘You bastard!’ she said, glancing at her friend’s lifeless body. ‘He had a family, you know. A wife, kids.’

  ‘Rest assured, the bullet was meant for you,’ George told her.

  She glared up at him, her teeth bared. Blood from the cut to her head was running into her eyes but she didn’t so much as blink. ‘So you were working for Humboldt all along then?’

  ‘Not all along, just since you arrested Rayner.’

  ‘And you and me? The fancy restaurants, the nights at the opera…’

  ‘An act, I’m afraid. I needed you to fulfil a task.’

  ‘You’ve sold your soul, George. And for what? Look around, you’re surrounded.’

  George glanced up. He could make out an officer with a sniper rifle crouched behind the car on the right side of the blockade.

  ‘How did you find me?’ he asked, looking back down.

  ‘Haufner’s body was discovered late last night,’ she told him. ‘I had my suspicions after seeing what you’d done to his leg, but then your cufflink turned up at the scene. I was waiting outside your flat when you left this morning and followed you here.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, and shook his head.

  ‘Put the gun down, George. The game’s up.’

  She was right, of course. He should never have returned to his flat, but overconfidence and sentimentality had been his downfall.

  Hinds was now smiling beneath her mask of blood. ‘You’re going to spend the rest of your life behind bars,’ she said.

  ‘No, I think not.’ George raised his pistol again and pointed it at her head. He would rather die than turn himself in, but at least he would have the satisfaction of killing her first. This was their destiny, he realised. Had been since the moment he’d first walked back into her life.

  ‘Put the weapon down!’ a voice over a loudspeaker boomed. ‘I won’t ask again!’

  ‘Goodbye, Frances,’ George said.

  As he placed his finger over the trigger, a loud crack rang out and a white-hot searing sensation materialised in the centre of his chest. The gun slipped from his hand as he staggered back, his prosthetic leg giving way beneath him. Slowly his view flickered upwards, shifting from Hinds to the shattered window of her car to a bank of cloud to an unbroken segment of the clear blue sky. Darkness began to encroach on all sides, and the last thing George saw was a dirty seagull hanging in the air above him.

  11

  Sam’s head swam, his vision filled by stars. He blinked and discovered that he was lying face-down on the runway. The skin from his right cheek to his shoulder blade felt like one long graze, and one of his back teeth was loose.

  Spitting flecks of gravel from his mouth, he rolled over and propped himself up on his elbow. Suddenly another gunshot sounded, somehow louder and sharper than before, as if amplified. He looked up to see the Agent Steele standing over Sergeant Hinds and the body of Detective Campbell. The man who had killed Chrissie in an alternate timeline dropped his pistol and keeled over backwards, a dark red circle spreading out from the middle of his shirt.

  Sam scrambled to his feet. While he had been knocked out, several police cars had arrived on the scene, forming a line across the runway. An officer with a long-barrelled sniper rifle was crouched behind the car on the right.

  In spite of the murder charges still hanging over his head, it was a sight to fill Sam with joy. Wincing at a dull ache in his ribs, he raised his tied hands over his head and took a step forward.

  Before he could take another, he felt the touch of a cold blade against his neck.

  12

  Sam turned to see Humboldt standing by his shoulder. The old man had separated the dragon’s-head handle from the shaft of his walking stick, revealing the ten-inch blade of the dagger which was now pressed to Sam’s Adam’s apple.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ Humboldt whispered, his lips millimetres from Sam’s ear.

  Sam gulped and glanced longingly towards the line of police cars blocking the runway. A helmeted officer in a bulletproof vest straightened up behind the middle car and raised a loudspeaker to her lips.

  ‘Put the weapon down!’ she said. ‘I repeat, put the weapon down!’

  The sniper lifted his rifle again and took aim through the telescopic sights.

  ‘Take the shot!’ Sam yelled. ‘Go on, do it!’

  ‘He won’t,’ Humboldt said, dragging him back like a human shield. ‘Not if there’s a chance he might hit you. That’s the problem with cops, too afraid of civilian casualties to do what’s necessary. Not something I’ve ever suffered from, as luck would have it.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sam glimpsed the pilot leaning out of the hatch in the side of the plane again.

  ‘Captain Litchfield,’ Humboldt called out, ‘are we ready for take off yet?’

  Litchfield blinked and drew a shaking hand down his face as he took in the scene of carnage before him. ‘Yes, but…but…’

  ‘Excellent! Donna, remind me to double the captain’s fee in the light of his outstanding contribution this afternoon.’

  ‘This wasn’t part of the deal!'‘ Litchfield said.

  ‘On second thoughts, treble it. Now, Captain, if you’d kindly take your seat in the cockpit, we’ll be joining you shortly.’

  Litchfield blinked again, then nodded and disappeared back inside the plane.

  Humboldt had continued edging back the whole while, keeping Sam positioned in front of his body with the blade of the dagger. They were now almost level with Donna, who was clutching a plaid holdall bag to her chest as she rocked on her heels and gaped down at the blood-spattered runway where Hinds sat hunched between the bodies of Campbell and Steele.

  ‘Put down the knife!’ the police officer with the loudspeaker demanded. ‘Release the hostage and nobody else need get hurt.’

  ‘No chance! Try anything and I’ll slit his goddam throat!’ Humboldt yelled back. Turning to Sebastian, he tilted his head towards Hinds and lowered his voice. ‘The woman, might as well bring her along too.’

  ‘But—’ Sebastian began.

  ‘You know, you’re beginning to sound a lot like Captain Litchfield. We need the kid alive, remember? The cop on the other hand…well, she might prove useful.’

  Sebastian’s face dropped, but he scooped up the pistol lying next to Steele’s limp, outstretched hand. Hinds was bleeding heavily from a cut to her head and looked like she might pass out at any moment. He lifted her to her feet and, gripping the pistol as though it were contaminated, shepherded her over to the foot of the steps leading up to the plane.

  As Humboldt manoeuvred Sam alongside them, Hinds glanced over with wide, pleading eyes. Sam met her gaze for a moment and then looked away, knowing there was nothing he could do for her.

  There appeared to be some uncertainty over at the line of police cars, where the single sniper now had two targets to cover. The officer with the loudspeaker turned away and began gesticulating as she frantically dished out instructions. A few seconds pass
ed and then two armed officers broke out from cover and started skirting around the plane.

  ‘Trying to flank us,’ Humboldt muttered, digging the blade a little deeper into the soft skin of Sam’s neck. ‘Fat lot of good it will do them.’

  He began mounting the steps, towing Sam along with him. Donna followed, still clutching the bag like it was an abandoned baby, and then Sebastian and the semi-conscious Hinds. Sam glanced behind him and caught a glimpse of the cream-leather and polished-wood interior of the jet.

  Suddenly two more police cars tore through the gates of the airfield. One stopped, blocking the path to the road, while the other joined the line of cars on the runway. A second sniper jumped out and took up a position behind the bonnet.

  With a strength that belied his tumour-ridden body, Humboldt shoved Sam through the hatch, sending him skidding across the carpeted floor of the cabin. Donna, Sebastian and Hinds bundled through, and then Humboldt slammed the door shut, cutting off Sam’s last remaining chance of escape.

  13

  Sam rolled onto his back and heaved himself up into a seated position. There was now a carpet burn down his left cheek to match the gravel-specked graze on the right one. During the face-off on the runway and their retreat to the plane, the cable tie had cinched so tight that trickles of blood ran from his wrists to the tips of his fingers. He wiped his hands on the cabin floor, leaving streaks of red over the previously spotless carpet.

  They were in the aisle that ran down the length of the plane between two rows of rotating leather armchairs. At the front of the cabin was a door onto the cockpit, and at the rear, beyond a section with a sofa and TV screen, a door to what looked like a kitchen area. Sebastian eased Detective Hinds into one of the armchairs. She looked in a state of shock, her eyes wide and vacant in her blood-streaked face as her body swayed gently from side to side.

  Captain Litchfield emerged from the cockpit, his face dripping with sweat beneath the peak of his up-tilted hat.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Humboldt screeched. ‘Get back in there and prepare for take-off this instant!’

  Litchfield rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Sir, there’s a police negotiator on the radio. They want you to release the hostages.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? Tell them they’ve got sixty seconds to move their blockade, otherwise one of their precious hostages gets it.’

  ‘But—’

  Humboldt flung the empty shaft of his walking stick onto a chair and strode down the aisle. He stopped just before Litchfield and raised the blade of his dagger under the pilot’s chin. ‘Say “but” again, I double dare you.’

  A bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of the Litchfield’s nose and dangled from the tip. He shook his head, dislodging it.

  ‘That’s better,’ Humboldt said, and lowered the dagger. ‘Listen, Captain, I appreciate your concern but the whole thing’s a bluff. A collision would endanger everyone on board, including the hostages. They won’t risk harming them, you’ll see. They’ll move the blockade as soon as you start taxiing. Now, pretty please with a cherry on top, go tell the negotiator they’ve got sixty seconds to get out of the way, then prepare for take-off, okay?’

  Litchfield opened his mouth as if he was about to object, then glanced nervously at the dagger in Humboldt’s hand and backed into the cockpit. After a moment the pitch of the engines cranked up a notch.

  Humboldt turned back with a satisfied smile. ‘Donna, Sebastian, get the kid up off the floor, would you? He’s making a mess of the carpet. And find something to secure the woman’s hands with while you’re at it.’

  Donna nodded, finally releasing her grip on the holdall bag and setting it on the floor. After helping Sam to his feet, she steered him into the chair across from Hinds and fastened the seatbelt around his waist, while Sebastian surveyed the cabin with a blank look on his face, Steele’s pistol gripped loosely by his side.

  ‘Like what, sir?’ he asked eventually.

  Humboldt sighed, glanced about and then hacked the seatbelt from another chair before handing it over and reattaching the shaft of his walking stick.

  ‘Good idea,’ Sebastian said.

  He passed the pistol to Donna, who deposited in the pocket of her cardigan, and then set about binding Hinds’s wrists with the length of seatbelt.

  All of a sudden there was a lurch. Sam had a direct line of sight through the cockpit’s open door and out through the windscreen. The ground outside started to move, slowly at first but gradually picking up speed. Just as Humboldt had predicted, the police blockade scattered as they approached, leaving only clear runway ahead.

  The airfield shot past, the acceleration pushing Sam back like a shove to the chest. The cabin tilted as the front wheel lifted. He experienced the brief sensation of weightlessness and then the runway and police cars were shrinking away through the circular window next to his chair.

  His mind flitted back to the moment Flight 0368 had taken off at Newark Airport. It was the last time he had seen his father alive, a day that would set in motion the events that would ultimately lead him to this point. Out of nowhere he felt his chest spasm, his breathing reduced to shallow, rasping gasps as he mentally replayed the events of that fateful morning last September. Black spots appeared before his eyes, swimming and swirling. He blinked, trying to clear them, and then everything went dark.

  14

  Sam opened his eyes and realised he must have fainted during takeoff. The plane had levelled out and, through the window to his side, he could see the setting sun filling a blanket of cloud on the western horizon with orange light. A pair of sleek, grey fighter jets hung in the sky a few hundred metres away, but as he looked on they both dipped their wings and peeled off before dropping out of sight.

  A ball of dread materialised in his chest like a dead weight: in a few hours’ time they would reach Swordfish Island, where he would spend the next six months pumped full of Humboldt’s antiserum while they waited for his consciousness from the night before to enter his body. He was defeated, but would resist to the bitter end, doing everything in his power to derail Humboldt’s plans.

  Looking about the cabin, he saw that the door to the cockpit was now closed. Humboldt was dozing in one of the seats a few rows ahead with his walking stick across his lap, while Donna and Sebastian were talking in hushed voices by the door to the kitchen.

  Sam glanced over to Hinds and found her staring straight back, her face and hair crusted with dried blood. She arched her eyebrows and angled her head in the direction of the gently snoring Humboldt. Sam frowned and shrugged his shoulders to show that he didn’t know what she was getting at, but Hinds wriggled her right arm and slowly withdrew her hand from the knotted length of seatbelt Sebastian had used to bind her wrists together. She nodded towards Humboldt again, this time silently mouthing the words, ‘His walking stick.’

  The penny dropped: if Hinds could reach Humboldt without waking him, she might then be able to lift the weapon from his lap. Of course, that still left Donna, Sebastian and Captain Litchfield to contend with, but if Sam and Hinds could take Humboldt hostage then it was conceivable they might be able to turn the tables and force the others to land the plane. It was insanely dangerous and probably wouldn’t work, but it wasn’t as if they had much to lose. And if they were as good as dead anyway, they might as well go down fighting.

  Sam raised his hands, gave Hinds the thumbs up and made a snipping action with his fingers to indicate that she should slice the cable tie around his wrists once she had the dagger. She hesitated for a moment and then nodded. After a final glance towards the rear of the cabin, she removed her hand from the knot and noiselessly unclipped her seatbelt. Then, with painstaking care, she began inching herself up from her seat.

  ‘We’ve just left British airspace, sir.’

  Sam jerked his head around to see Litchfield standing by the cockpit door.

  Humboldt stirred in his chair and sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘We have? Who’s steering the plane
then?’

  ‘The autopilot.’

  ‘Ah, okay. And what about our escort?’

  ‘They left a minute ago. They can’t follow us from here.’

  ‘See?’ Humboldt said, and chuckled. ‘Told you they wouldn’t try anything with hostages on board. Donna? Sebastian? Where have you gotten to?’

  As Litchfield closed the cockpit door behind him, Sam risked another glance at Hinds. She was back in her seat with her hand through the knot again and her eyes closed as if passed out, but the strap of her unbuckled seatbelt now dangled conspicuously by the side of her chair.

  ‘Are you hungry, sir?’ Donna asked. ‘I was just checking the food situation. There are several servings of duck a l’orange and vegetable moussaka—’

  ‘Sure, whatever,’ Humboldt said, waving her away. ‘Sebastian, how long since the kid had his last dose of antiserum?’

  ‘He should be good for several hours yet,’ Sebastian replied.

  Humboldt shook his head. ‘No, I’m not taking any chances, not when we’re almost there. Prepare another dose, would you?’

  ‘Right away,’ Sebastian said. He fetched the holdall bag Donna had carried onboard and followed her into the kitchen.

  Sam turned back to Hinds, desperate to somehow alert her to the unfastened seatbelt hanging by her side, but her eyes remained closed as she faked unconsciousness.

  Humboldt stood and stretched, then sauntered down the aisle towards them. He stopped by Hinds’s chair without seeming to notice her unbuckled seatbelt. Then, gripping the shaft of his stick with his artificial hand, he twisted the handle and unsheathed the dagger once more.

  ‘Wakey wakey, sweetheart,’ he said, waving the blade an inch from the tip of her nose.