Flying the Storm

by Arnot, C. S.

  “The hell did you do that for?” cried Aiden, aghast.

  “He could have identified us,” replied Tovmas. Nardos nodded. Aiden shook his head. He couldn’t quite believe it was happening again. A wave of nausea tightened his throat. Cold-blooded killing. More cold-blooded killing.

  The three men slipped back out into the corridor. Aiden locked the door behind them. They were heading for the fire exit when the door back at the other end of the corridor opened, and a suited man came through from the auction floor. He spotted the three men and shouted a challenge. He was just reaching inside his jacket when Tovmas shot him twice, the shots ear-splittingly loud and echoing in the narrow corridor. The man slumped against the wall, his pistol falling from his lifeless fingers. His blood left a crimson smear on the whitewashed breezeblocks.

  Nardos, before Aiden had fully realised what had happened, was sprinting down to the body. He grabbed the dead man’s pistol, and then heaved the corpse against the door. He came running back up the corridor.

  “That might slow them down, but not much! Go!” He pushed the other two towards the fire exit which, thankfully, opened. It led out into an alley between the warehouses, and much to Aiden’s surprise, some of Tovmas’ men were waiting there.

  “Good, they have all the exits covered, like I asked,” said Tovmas, before giving them new orders in Armenian. The men ran off in pairs, all in different directions.

  Aiden wished he still had the pistol Tovmas had given him. He felt vulnerable and useless. He’d brought a jacket to a gunfight. It wasn’t even a good jacket.

  Tovmas had started running as well, with Nardos and Aiden in tow. “I’ve sent them back to the aircraft, by different routes,” he said, tucking his pistol into a pocket. “We need to get back there too, before the place gets locked down with security. Nobody will know it was us.” Aiden didn’t feel all that reassured. He wished he was back at the Iolaire already. He ditched the jacket at the first opportunity.

  Tovmas was leading them by a winding route, weaving around warehouses and down seldom-used alleyways. He had a lot of stamina for an old man, Aiden thought. He just did not slow down. Eventually, they re-joined the crowds, about half a kilometre from the air docks. It had been too easy to get away. Aiden was wary.

  He hoped the size of the market and the sheer number of people in it would help them stay unrecognised. They had five hundred metres to go, and nothing but a sea of people to cross.

  Blending in with a crowd was something that Aiden normally did well. This time though, he felt very pale. His skin prickled with fear as he manoeuvred through the crowd. Tovmas and Nardos on the other hand were perfectly calm. Panic just wasn’t their thing. The three men spread out, each working their own way towards the air docks.

  Through the crowd ahead marched one of the heavily-armed bruisers. The big enforcer was cutting a path straight towards Aiden. Aiden kept his eyes on his feet. They passed within centimetres of each other, and he swore he could feel the security man’s gaze on his turned head.

  Nothing was said, and the enforcer marched off through the crowd. Aiden risked a quick look over his shoulder and saw the big man’s head with a finger pressed to an earpiece. He had stopped moving. Aiden’s pace quickened, still looking over his shoulder. The big man looked around himself, finger still pressed to the earpiece. He turned round to face Aiden.

  Shit.

  Aiden snapped his head back to face the air docks.

  Black hair, just like everybody else.

  How on earth could they know who to look for? His stomach dropped. The guards at the auction. They had left their guns behind, and disappeared from the auction floor. Pretty obvious, really, even to a meat-headed warehouse guard. And what about cameras? There were probably cameras everywhere.

  What was he thinking? Why the hell did he listen to Tovmas? The man was obviously unstable! Now it was likely Aiden would be caught or killed or worse, all because of that damned fool. It bloody well might have been better if they’d just gone in guns blazing and shot the damned place up. It seemed to work at Kakavaberd and Zovashen, but even then Tovmas had managed to get six of his men killed.

  Six militia, two dozen slavers, two auction workers and the skinny man in Zovashen; all dead; all to rescue three women. Sure, some folk got killed trying to find them, but hey, they’d be the heroes of Armenia now! Slaver-slayers, riches and glory.

  Not that Aiden disagreed with the cause; just it really wasn’t his fight. If there’d been a solid chance of good money at the end of it all, he’d have been all for a bit of guts-and-glory, but as it stood Aiden was struggling to see why he was involved at all.

  The enforcer either didn’t see him, or wasn’t looking for him: Aiden had made it to the air docks. He was doing all he could not to run across the concrete to the Iolaire as he weaved between the hundreds of aircraft: heavy transports, light transports, lifters, two-seaters, single-seaters, ex-SABA escorts. He listed off their classes as he passed, out of nervous habit. The Iolaire appeared at the end of the row. Aiden reached it, and punched in the code to lower the ramp. It couldn’t open quickly enough.

  Inside, he went straight for the cockpit, past the two militiamen Tovmas had left as guards. Aiden was first back. “Fred!” he shouted. There was no reply. The cockpit was empty; Fredrick was nowhere to be found.

  Fred, you useless bastard.

  10.

  Ownership

  Vika had never seen an aircraft so huge. Its hold yawned widely like some gigantic mouth beneath the cockpit, which looked stupidly small compared to the rest of the aircraft. It just looked wrong. How could something that huge fly?

  It kept growing as they walked along the row of aircraft towards it.

  She was grateful there were no chains this time. There were armed guards, though, escorting them across the plaza. More than there were with the Azeri slavers. It seemed her new owner’s crew was as large as the aircraft. Russian, some of them, from the way they talked. Those men terrified her to the bone, but she knew that they wouldn’t touch her. Not unless her owner told them to.

  The pale man with the silver shoulders had outbid almost everybody for the Armenians. Only a few were bought by other bidders; for a brothel, and maybe one for the Arabs? She couldn’t remember. It was all a terrifying blur, though at the time it had passed so slowly as she waited for her turn to come.

  The other two Ashtarak girls were amongst those the pale man bought, and they walked behind Vika now, staring at the massive aircraft just like she was. None of them had spoken since before the auction. There was nothing to say. She wondered if they felt the same dread as she did as they watched the cargo ramp open to swallow them up. Beyond it, she knew, there would be no chance of coming back. No chance of ever going home.

  Instinctively her hand went to her linen bodice. She could feel the hard lump of the blade sitting hidden beneath her breast. That was her one hope: that and Dadash with his green-nosed aircraft. Without it, she was lost. She was teetering on the brink, leaning as if to fall. Only her own action could save her, could pull her back. But she needed an opening. They had to slip up, somehow.

  Soon they were in the hold, its dark metal walls all around them. Her pace faltered only a little, but it was enough that Naira noticed. Naira, who knew Vika so well. Vika felt a soft pressure on the small of her back. It was Naira’s hand, gently urging her on.

  Vika reached behind her and grasped the hand tightly. Naira’s grip was firm and steady. Keep going, it told her. You must keep going. She drew some courage from it, and once more picked up the pace.

  The Russians led them deeper into the aircraft, beyond the cargo hold. Somehow it was even bigger on the inside, like a church, and they walked for further than she thought the aircraft could possibly let them. Finally, when the narrowing of the corridor suggested they were reaching the tail, the girls were taken up a ladder to another deck. They were put in a cabin just off the upper corridor, and the door was closed behind them. Through the little w
indow in the door, she could see the single guard that had been placed to watch them. He stood facing away from the door, a pistol in his hand.

  Vika turned to the cabin then. A long, cushioned couch ran around the walls. Hesitantly, the women sat down. Vika sat too, but her heart was racing. She knew that she had to act soon. Who could tell how long she had before the pale man decided to leave Baku?

  She sat with her elbows on her thighs, her hands clasped in front of her. The women around her looked exhausted. They had all been through an ordeal, but she doubted any of their hearts was beating as fast as hers.

  She took a deep breath to clear her head. She had to have a plan. Looking around herself, she knew she’d never be able to get them all out, but she had to try. It wouldn’t be right not to. She remembered something her father told her, once when she was young. If you have the means, you must help those who cannot help themselves. It was the right thing to do. It was the human thing to do.

  Without even realising what she was doing, she had crossed the cabin to the door and knocked gently on it. Her hand reached under her bodice and drew out the tiny blade, unwrapping it from the cloth. She clenched it carefully in her fist, hidden.

  The guard’s face appeared at the window, annoyed.

  “Chto?” he demanded.

  Vika looked at him. He was a plain-looking man, but not ugly. His beard was the colour of sand, and his eyes were grey. They were confused, those eyes, but as they took Vika in, she saw the desire beneath. Carefully choosing her expression, she bit her lip.

  The door opened. “Chto?” he said again, quieter this time. Vika noticed the pistol in his hand, held by his waist. He looked around her into the cabin briefly, before he returned to her eyes. She held his gaze for a moment, and then quickly pressed herself against him. Her lips found his. She kissed him hard, her tongue lightly brushing his lips until she felt them respond, moving with hers. His beard tickled her face. With her free hand, she grasped his crotch and felt something stir there.

  Lips still locked, she backed him into the wall of the corridor. He didn’t resist. One of his hands clasped the small of her back, sliding down to her buttocks. The hand with the pistol fumbled clumsily at her side. His mouth was warm, alive, repaying her advances eagerly.

  He is yours, she thought. How easy.

  And then she stabbed him in the throat.

  The little blade cut deep. She sawed it round from the side of his neck, twisting it free with a jerk. Hot blood hissed from the ragged gash, covering her hands and spraying the front of her gown. Her other hand had grasped the wrist that held the pistol. He made no sound, his mouth gaping, opening and closing like a fish pulled from the river. She felt his arm working, trying to bring the pistol to bear. She held it firmly down and away from herself, pushing him back against the wall with her body. He was weakening, she could feel, and she found she could hold his arm easily. His legs were buckling and he began to slide down the wall, his grey eyes not leaving hers. He still made no sound, his vocal cords cut off from his lungs. Then, as his eyes fluttered closed and his body finally collapsed to the floor, she felt his arm spasm.

  The pistol barked and jumped, the shot ringing and echoing in the tight metal corridor. Through half-deafened ears she heard a girl squeal with fright in the cabin behind her. The bullet had punched through the floor of the corridor.

  That was it. The guards were coming. She dropped the blade.

  She sprang away from the dying guard, easily stripping the pistol from his limp fingers. Her heart thumped, but not with nerves. She felt so powerful, so alive! The man had died so easily, once she made him hers.

  She turned to the cabin then, seeing the terrified huddle of women.

  “I am going,” she said. The others just stared at her and the blood on her hands. “Come quick!”

  It was Naira who spoke. “No Vika,” she said, holding an arm around the others. “One will make it, six will not.”

  She stared at them, uncomprehending.

  “Go now, Vika!” ordered Naira, her arm around the others.

  Vika backed out of the room. She heard voices shouting now, coming from along the corridor, still out of sight. With a last look at the other women, she ran for the ladder.

  There were no voices in the bottom corridor, but the echoing thump of running feet reverberated through the whole aircraft. She looked around herself for a way out. There was nothing obvious. All the old signs were written in Chinese: warnings and instructions. She took a few cautious steps along the corridor. There, low down by the walkway, was a levered hatch. She put the pistol down and wrenched the handle as hard as she could, but her blood-slick hands slipped.

  The footsteps were getting closer, almost right overhead. She wiped her hands on her gown and tried the handle again.

  It gave way, and the hatch fell outwards, revealing the tarmac of the air dock below. Carefully, she lowered herself through it and dropped the two metres to the surface.

  She landed in a crouch, the pistol raised like her father had shown her. There was nobody in sight. She looked down at the flimsy little plimsolls on her feet. They weren’t running shoes, but they would have to do.

  Without wasting another second, she ran.

  Four engines and a green nose.

  She ran as fast as her stupid little plimsolls could take her, the guard’s pistol in her hand. The dead guard. Even though she’d watched him die, it still felt strange to imagine that he was dead – that she’d killed him. It wasn’t upsetting… just unfamiliar.

  Near the dock facilities.

  The little additional scrap of information came back to her just as she spotted the single-storey flat-roofed building in a clearing amidst the aircraft, loose-booted airmen trudging from its showers with towels across shoulders. One turned his head towards her and said something to his friends. Now they were all looking at the running girl in the white gown with the gun in her hand. Naturally, they moved off quickly.

  Standing, panting, near the entrance to the building, she looked around for the aircraft. Her heart was beating like a drum against her ribs, and her pulse only quickened when she couldn’t see it. No green noses and no four-engine aircraft. Despair crept up her spine.

  She cast about; running a few paces along the row, just in case she’d missed it.

  And there it was. Green nose, four engines. Half-hidden behind another craft. Dadash was sitting on the ramp, looking away from her.

  Then she was running again, towards him.

  “Dadash!” she cried. The balding man turned to look then. His kindly face lit up when he saw her, and then fell when he saw the blood.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked as she reached the foot of the ramp.

  “What?” Vika looked down at her gown then. It was spattered and stained with crimson. “Oh, no I’m fine. This isn’t me.”

  “Good. Come! We have to go.” Dadash, while turning to climb the ramp, stopped. He squinted over Vika’s shoulder, looking back along the row of aircraft.

  “What?” Vika asked. She didn’t turn round.

  Then she heard it. Russian voices, shouting. She spun on her heels. Maybe a hundred metres away was a trio of Russians with a security enforcer. She didn’t know much Russian, but she did hear one word.

  “Thief!”

  The security man raised his gun. There was a deafening crack and Vika ducked, her arms shielding her head. They’d missed. She wasn’t hurt.

  She turned then to run, almost tripping over Dadash’s fallen form.

  From his feet to his nose he was fine. From his nose upwards was nothing. The top half of his head was gone. Awful, pink bits of it littered the tarmac and the foot of the cargo ramp.

  The pistol fell forgotten from her fingers as she dropped to his side, gripping his shirt.

  “Dadash!” she screamed. “Dadash!”

  11.

  Guns and Gowns

  “Fourteen silver,” said Fredrick, “and I’m doing you a favour.”

  The mer
chant turned and spat in the dust behind the stand. “Twenty,” he repeated stubbornly.

  “Pah,” dismissed Fredrick, turning to leave. He knew the game. He took a step away, careful not to move too slowly.

  “Ok, eighteen,” conceded the merchant. Eighteen still wasn’t fourteen, but it was in the right direction. Fredrick came back to the stall.

  “Fifteen,” he said. He had to give some ground. At this stage, every little concession he made would seem disproportionately generous to the seller.

  The man lifted his strange little hat and scratched the bald patch it had concealed. He sighed. “Seventeen is as low as I can go.”

  “All right,” said Fredrick. From thirty down to seventeen. His grandmother would be proud. “Deal.”

  The merchant couldn’t help but grimace as Fredrick handed over the paltry little pile of coins. Reluctantly he wrapped the little rug in paper and passed it to Fredrick.

  “Thank you,” said Fredrick, taking it under his shoulder and turning back out into the aisle between the stalls.

  He’d enjoyed that. It was much more pleasant than flogging their cargo to the Armenians had been. Those people were tight. They were so convincingly uninterested you’d have been forgiven for thinking they didn’t even want the thing they were haggling for. The only sure way to know they were attracted at all was the fact they’d come all the way out to the landing pad to look. Even then they’d taken their time about it.

  Anyway, his mother would like the rug he’d bought her. Or maybe she’d hate it. Something about its pattern appealed to Fredrick, though.