Tobin wasn’t convinced.
Laynie sighed and tried again. “Seriously, Marshal. I’d never seen these guys before they boarded this plane. Scout’s honor. I’ll even pinky swear, okay?”
Shooting the stink eye her way, Tobin acquiesced. “Okay, I’ll take you at your word—but only because you threw in a pinky swear.”
He got back to business. “We have as good a plan as we can conjure, given the time we have. You put that popgun back where the sun don’ shine and leave first. I’ma follow you in a minute.”
Getting the door open was, again, problematic. She was amused when Tobin’s massive hands spanned her waist and lifted her like a feather. He pulled her tight to his chest, swiveled, sat on the toilet, and plopped her down in front of the door.
Then he really threw her for a loop.
“God go with you, Marta.”
She met his gaze. He meant it.
“Thank you . . . Quince. Same to you.”
“He’s always with me,” Tobin answered, tapping his chest with a finger the size of a ball-peen hammer. “Right here.”
Laynie jerked her chin once, acknowledging him, pulled the door toward her, and slid out.
No one was waiting in line for the lavatories, and not much had changed in the cabin. Passengers still slept or conversed with their seatmates. Bryan and Todd to the left of her seat tapped on their laptops. The honeymooners snuggled, giggled, and made goo-goo eyes at each other.
Beyond the honeymooners, the dark-haired man pivoted in his seat—as though he’d been waiting for Laynie to exit the restroom. He nodded and smirked, his eyes filled with salacious intent.
Laynie’s lips curved up, and she made a little pistol with her hand and aimed it at him. Smiled larger and kept smiling. It’s a joke, Abdul, her expression told him. A joke, get it? Just a silly, bold-eyed, not even remotely demure, uppity American woman joke.
Until it isn’t.
He laughed and “shot” her back.
Cold and cruel. He was no novice, either. He was calculating and dangerous. Marshal Tobin would have his hands full.
I can’t think about Tobin’s problems. We won’t succeed in stopping them if I worry about him instead of taking care of my own business.
Laynie sank into her seat, considering the three men she was tasked to subdue. Would they be as experienced as she believed Abdul was? How would they be armed? Guns were difficult to get aboard a plane, but not impossible.
I know that for a fact.
Her first action was to bend over like she was tying a shoe, remove the HK from her bra, and tuck it between her right hip and the seat cushion where it would be at the ready. She collected her gun’s second magazine from her purse and slipped it into her left pocket. She left the nail file in her blouse where she could easily get to it.
Then she began her mental preparations, putting herself in the hijackers’ minds, running various scenarios they might use, determining where she should position herself to ambush the three in economy class when they charged forward—planning her offensive the way Marstead had taught her years ago.
The greatest unknown was the timing. She couldn’t move into position before Abdul and his companion commenced their assault. She had to watch them and time her play to beat theirs by seconds.
A couple of minutes passed. Tobin left the restroom and sauntered up the left aisle toward his seat. Laynie peeked right to see if Abdul had noticed Tobin coming out of the lavatory she’d just exited.
He hadn’t. As far as Laynie could tell, he and his companion had their heads together, whispering.
It was going to be dicey, no matter how it played out. Two against five. Defense rather than offense.
Still, Laynie was filled with an odd sense of relief . . . of purpose and “rightness”—something she had lost along the way. She wasn’t afraid. She had a job to do, a real job, one that would save lives, not betray confidences. She could die doing this one thing and be grateful that Fate had placed her here, at this unique moment, for this very reason.
Fate? Or God?
All of God’s promises are true, Laynie . . . One way or another, he will work those promises into reality. He is God, and he will have his way.
Laynie put her head down and whispered into her hands. “Oh, Kari! You have such faith in your God, but the way it looks now? I probably won’t ever make it to your little homestead out on the prairie—and your God won’t have his way. Not with me, anyway.”
She clamped her teeth together and forced herself to put those thoughts aside. She needed to focus on the skirmish ahead, but as she tried to gather her thoughts, Abdul’s cold, cruel expression intervened. She clenched her jaw so hard that it hurt.
Think you’ve got this hijacking sewn up, don’t you, Laynie told the dark-haired man silently. Think again. No. No, I won’t let you do this. We will stop you—whatever it takes.
Laynie checked her watch. She had set it ahead to EDT, and it read 9:05 a.m. They were scheduled to land at Kennedy in less than an hour. The pilots would begin their descent soon.
Across from her, Bryan told his associate, “I’d better check in with Grace—just in case the meeting’s been moved up or the venue changed.”
Bryan drew a pen and a pad of paper from his briefcase and lifted the Airfone from its receptacle in the seatback in front of him. He slid a credit card through the reader and punched in the number.
“Hey, Grace? Hi, Bryan here. Just checking in and—”
“Bryan! Oh, my God! Bry—”
Even from across the aisle, Laynie heard what was coming from the phone.
Screams. Shouts.
Fear.
“Grace? What the *blank* is happening? What? I can’t hear you!”
Bryan had raised his voice, gaining the attention of everyone in the cabin. Then he pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it.
Todd asked, “What’s up?”
“Dunno. The call cut out. *Bleeping* things aren’t all that reliable.”
“Better call her back.”
Laynie half-listened while Bryan went through the tedious process of running his credit card through the reader and dialing. She was experiencing a revelation of sorts.
What, precisely, had Petroff told her?
I have been summoned to a special assembly of the Security Council. Some emergency of state over rumors of an impending attack on high-value targets of unknown number, the information coming to us via a source I have little confidence in.
She reached her hand across the aisle and touched Bryan’s arm.
“Excuse me. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Where do you work?”
Bryan frowned. “I’m a little busy here, Marta.”
Laynie’s fingers dug into his flesh. “I asked you a question. Where do you work?”
Bryan flushed. “We’re full partners at Braun and Pfizer. Our offices are at the World Trade Center, North Tower. Now, Miss Nosy, if you don’t mind, *blank* off.”
Laynie let go. She had questioned Petroff, couching her inquisitiveness in concern, hoping to gain additional information. An attack? Will you be safe, my love?
Da, without a doubt. I surmised from the call that it was not a threat against the Motherland, and I am not certain how much credence I give the intelligence—coming via Afghanistan.
It had bothered her then, for multiple reasons. What imminent attack on a nation other than Russia would spin up the Russian Federation’s Security Council, forcing them into full session as it had? And why had the intelligence, coming through Afghanistan, made Petroff less than confident of the report? What did it all mean?
Laynie’s instincts raced ahead, her analysis moving faster than her thoughts, colliding with conclusions—horrifying conclusions that set her heart pumping so hard, she struggled to catch her breath.
She stuttered and murmured to herself, “Imminent attacks on-on-on more than one high-value target . . . intelligence from Afghanistan. Afghanistan . . . a pred
ominantly Muslim nation, governed by arcane and often savage tribal leaders who provide refuge to-to-to radical Islamic factions.”
She asked herself, And which nation on earth do Islamic fundamentalists despise above all others?
“America,” Laynie breathed. “America, the Great Satan.”
Her conclusion was a kick in the gut. The hijackers are going to weaponize this plane.
She reached across the aisle and grabbed Bryan’s pen and a pad of paper. “You’ll get this back.”
“Hey! You have some nerve,” Todd fumed.
She ignored both him and Bryan, who was having no luck reaching anyone in their New York offices.
She scribbled a note as rapidly as possible.
Overheard on Airfone
Prob. attack on W Trad Centr
surmise hjackers plan same/similar
WILL WEAPONIZE THIS PLANE
It was enough. Tobin would “figger” it out. She tore off the sheet and folded the note twice, drew her HK from the side of the seat, chambered a round, and patted the spare magazine in her left pocket to assure herself it was there.
Then she stood in the aisle beside Bryan and stretched her back and shoulders, her careless gaze roaming over the two dark-haired men to assure herself that they were seated.
She transferred the HK to her left hand, and Bryan glimpsed the tip of its blue barrel against her thigh. He stopped what he was doing. His mouth hung ajar. Laynie stretched casually in his direction, speaking low and clear to both men.
“Yes, I have a gun. Hijackers are aboard this plane—don’t look around, you idiot! I’m working with the US Marshal on this flight. Keep your heads down. And do not—I repeat—do not leave your seats. Keep the aisle clear.”
Not waiting for their reaction, Laynie palmed the little gun in her left hand and sauntered forward. She tipped her neck side to side as though working out a kink and moved toward the front of the cabin. As she passed the second row, she lightly tapped the gun against her thigh. Tobin’s head moved incrementally. He did not react further than that.
She reached the front of the cabin, turned, started back to her seat. As she passed Tobin, she dropped the note in his lap. She reached the eighth row and sat down.
Bryan and his companion, terrified expressions on their faces, leaned her way to mouth something to her. Laynie shook her head and put her finger to her lips.
The events of the next moment set the hijacking in motion.
Chapter 10
THE CABIN SPEAKERS crackled to life, and the pilot came on the PA.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Sheffield speaking. We are presently just south of Nova Scotia on our descent to JFK. However, I have just received word that flight control has placed us in a holding pattern off the Atlantic seaboard, meaning we will be a little late to our gate. I apologize for any inconvenience. I know they are working hard to get us on the ground, so we appreciate your patience.”
A flight attendant at the front of the plane took over. “In preparation for landing, the captain has asked that all passengers return to their assigned seats and remain seated. Please fasten your seatbelts and raise your seatbacks and tray tables to their full, upright, and locked positions.”
Laynie peered down the right aisle. Instead of complying with the captain’s orders, Abdul and his companion stood up and moved up the aisle toward the forward bulkhead.
Laynie ducked her head toward the left aisle—Tobin was missing from his seat.
He’s waiting for them behind the partition, with his Glock .40 and his Beretta 9mm.
Time for me to act, she told herself. I have to trust that Tobin can get his job done, just as he’s trusting me to do the same.
She left her seat and, with a quick stride, crossed the right aisle. She crouched down behind the honeymooners, against the lavatory wall, with the HK in her right hand, nail file in her other, her left arm cocked and ready to swing—and waited for the hijackers to act.
Several things occurred simultaneously.
A flight attendant near the cockpit screamed.
Tobin shouted, “US Marshal! Stop where you are!”
Two shots boomed forward of business class. Chaos and screaming erupted from the passengers. Another shot, higher pitched. And a man pushed through the curtain separating economy class from business class.
Laynie, crouching in wait, her back against the lavatory wall, rose partway. She swung her left arm back—then forward, jamming the nail file into the man’s inner thigh. Before a scream could leave his mouth, she pushed up from her partial crouch and, using the strength of her legs to propel her left hand upward, forced the terrorist’s gun hand high into the air.
The weapon discharged—a machine pistol on full auto—spraying rounds into the cabin ceiling.
Laynie’s training kicked in. Her vision tunneled. Narrowed. Fixed on her sole objective. Stop the terrorists. Kill them.
She confronted her opponent face to face, her gun up, counting on his forward momentum to bring his belly into direct contact with the barrel of her HK. She fired twice. As he started to slump, Laynie body-slammed him to keep him erect and used his bulk to shield herself while she sought her next target.
The second attacker stood in the aisle on the other side of the curtain. He was facing the economy class passengers, trusting that his compatriot had his back. As soon as he realized something had gone awry, he whirled around, tearing the curtain from its hooks.
Stop the terrorists. Kill them.
Laynie aimed straight down the aisle—hoping no one stood in the aisle behind him. She fired twice. The terrorist jerked, the impact stumbling him backward. Two men in economy class jumped from their seats to wrest something from his hand and push him to the floor.
Laynie scanned the cabin. She had a third armed terrorist to take out. She dropped the hijacker’s body she’d used as a shield, pivoted back to business class, and leaped from the aisle’s alcove, gun extended, ready to fire again.
Her third target had pushed into business class from the other economy class aisle. When he spotted her across the cabin, he charged. Laynie stood her ground. She fired and kept firing, hitting her target three times, missing once. Her gun locked open. Out. As the man lurched sideways, slumping onto the hospitality station, Laynie dropped her empty mag, slapped in the spare, and chambered another round.
She did not have to use it. Her target slid to the floor, leaving a trail of blood across the hospitality station’s countertop. His weapon—a box cutter—fell beside him.
A box cutter?
She swiveled, both hands on the gun, arms and gun extended, scanning for further threat.
“Clear! Three down! Tobin?”
His voice bellowed back to her. “Clear! Two down.”
All Laynie could do was blink as she processed what had happened in bare seconds. She checked the pulse of her last target, sprawled in front of the aft hospitality station.
Nothing.
She collected the box cutter and pocketed it.
Still ready and wary, she retraced her steps to check her first target. She glanced past the torn curtain into economy class before turning her attention to the fallen hijacker.
He was still lying in the aisle where Laynie had dropped him. Just behind the honeymooners.
The honeymooners.
The young bride clung to her husband, sobbing. He stared into space.
“You all right?” Laynie asked him.
He nodded, an automatic response, unblinking, staring without sight. In shock.
Laynie bent over the hijacker’s body. He, too, was dead, his weapon beside him. Laynie looked at the ceiling of the business class cabin. It was peppered with pencil-thin holes that hissed and whistled as rivulets of air exited the cabin.
She pulled the gun from the hijacker’s dead hands. She had initially believed the weapon to be an Israeli Uzi but, after turning it over in her hands, recognized it as a Croatian AG Strojnica ERO, a knockoff of an Israeli Uzi.<
br />
How in the world did he smuggle this thing on board?
She looked closer. It was the man who’d been wearing a walking cast. Not any longer. Bits of plaster clung to his shortened pant leg.
Clever. He had pieces of the disassembled gun hidden within the plaster cast. They must have precut the cast so all they had to do was pull it off.
She checked the Strojnica’s settings. Full auto.
She ejected the machine pistol’s magazine. Empty.
When Laynie had shoved the hijacker’s arm into the air, he had emptied all thirty-two 9mm rounds into the cabin’s ceiling. Thirty-two rounds that could have, instead, shredded the lives of the newlyweds and others in business class, that could have blown out windows, with catastrophic results—but no. Every round had gone into the ceiling where thirty-two fine streams of air escaped the cabin.
Above the high-pitched hiss of air, Laynie heard her sister’s voice in her head.
“Be safe, little sister. I’ve only just found you.”
Laynie cringed. My answer was stiff. Snide, even. “I’ll do my best.”
She bit her lip. But when I caught sight of Marshal Tobin eyeing me, I did call on God . . . in a hopeless sort of way.
“Herre Gud, hjälp mig!” Oh, dear God, help me!
Would God answer such a panicked, frantic cry? An insincere cry of desperation?
“If you need him, the Lord will hear you call on him, Laynie.”
“Too many things went right when they could have gone so very, very wrong,” Laynie whispered. “I guess I can’t disagree with you this time, Kari.”
Sparing the peppered ceiling a last look, she cleared the Strojnica’s chamber and slung its strap over her shoulder, letting the gun ride down her back. Then she kicked aside the torn curtain and entered the economy class cabin to assess the second hijacker she’d shot. He, too, was dead. The two men who had rushed to subdue him stood over his body in the aisle. One of them had the hijacker’s weapon—another box cutter.
He held it awkwardly toward Laynie. “You’d better take this.”
The fog of battle was lifting, and Laynie’s hearing began sending signals to her brain that she had blocked out. She realized that throughout the plane, passengers were weeping and moaning, kids crying and wailing.
Laynie Portland, Retired Spy Page 15