by Arno Joubert
Lagan had positioned his men on both sides of the plane beside the runway. It was pitch black, but their eyes had adjusted to the dark. The Colonel and his men were wearing black, their faces painted black as well. Even the mobile passenger stairwells had been painted black. Lagan looked around, checked his watch, dropped his hand.
His men dashed, pushing the two stairwells to either side of the plane, two men standing on top, clinging to the hand railing.
"Let's go," Neil said and jumped up.
They ran towards the back of the plane and arrived as Lagan's men slammed the stairwells into the sides of the plane. Barak tossed a rope around the wing then hoisted himself up. He started unscrewing the bolts to the luggage compartment.
Neil looked up as Yael Lotner whispered, "oh shit."
"What?"
"Sergeant, you're not going to believe this."
Neil glanced to where Lotner was pointing. The men at the top of the staircase were struggling to open the door to the plane. The problem was that they were too high, and the staircase was half-a-meter above the door handle. The men below were winching furiously, trying to lower the staircase.
"Idiots. They practiced on an empty plane, they didn't change the staircase height to compensate for a fully loaded plane," Liberman whispered.
Neil shook his head.
"Should we help?" Lotner asked.
"No, let's get inside, no need to get distracted," Neil whispered.
The SWAT team managed to get the door opened partially, but it got stuck against the lower lip of the stairwell. Automatic gunfire stuttered and a man screamed. A second later, the two men at the top of the stairwell tumbled from the stairway and landed on the ground with a thud.
Neil glanced up at Barak. "How're you doing there?"
In answer to his question, Barak swung open the access door to the baggage compartment. Barak entered the compartment and Lotner and Liberman hoisted themselves up, scrambling inside. Neil untied the rope from the wing. He tossed it to Barak who caught it and lowered it back down to Neil. The three men pulled him up and inside.
Neil stuck his head out of the compartment as more shots were fired and men screamed. Neil could see the SWAT members running away, gunfire exploding around them as they ran.
"Retreat," he heard Lagan shout as Barak closed the door to the luggage compartment behind them.
Alexa groaned as she opened her eyes. She looked around. An eye-blindingly, bright fluorescent tube lit a small room with no windows. It was painted a sterile white and was ice cold inside, Alexa could see water vapor billow from her mouth as she breathed.
Laiveaux and Bruce were strapped into a weird machine that looked like a large metal gyroscope, the type they used to train fighter pilots.
"Alexa, you okay?" Laiveaux asked, squinting his eyes.
She nodded. "Headache."
"It's from the stun grenades," Bruce said.
They wore shiny silver suits, like hazmat uniforms.
"Where are we?" Alexa asked.
"The Castle, I think," Laiveaux answered. "We were brought here by plane. It headed South west from Paris for thirty minutes, and we were over the ocean for fifteen."
"The what?" She looked down. She was wearing a hazmat suit as well.
Laiveaux coughed. "I think we're on a remote Island off the western coast of France. They call it Point de Kife, or Knifepoint Island."
"Knifepoint Island?" Alexa asked.
"It used to be a prison," Bruce said, straining his neck to look at the couplings fastening his wrists to the gyroscope. He shook his arms, but gave up a couple of seconds later. "The prisoners sent here were petty thieves who robbed their victims at knifepoint."
"How far are we from France?" Alexa asked.
"Twenty miles," Bruce answered.
"How long have I been out?" she asked.
"Three hours, we were getting worried about you. Are you injured?" Bruce asked.
"I took a hit in my leg and my hip, but I don't feel anything. I guess someone must have patched me up," Alexa groaned.
A door to the side opened and a tall man with a grey ponytail walked in. He wore a white vest and brown army pants tucked into brown boots. He was chewing gum with his mouth open, a sarcastic smile on his lips. It was the guy who kidnapped them from Interpol HQ. "Ah, Captain Guerra, sleeping beauty is awake, hey?"
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Major Wayne Rowley, Interpol counter-intelligence," Laiveaux answered. "Former South African army special forces."
"That's right, hey," the man said. "Looks like many of us Interpol okes are on Sonti's payroll, bru. Funny you three aren't."
"What do you want with us?" Alexa asked.
"Nothing. It's what Sonti wants that matters, my china."
"And what is that?" Bruce asked.
"I need to deliver you okes to him, all fucked up, like, hey."
"What do you mean?" Alexa asked.
"I need to fuck you up a bit, like we did to the terries in the SA Army, you know, rattle your brains around a bit. Sonti's words were that I need to deliver you to him as damaged goods."
"Sonti wants you to torture us?" Laiveaux asked.
"Why?" Alexa asked.
He shrugged, chewing his gum loudly. "Because you've caused the poor oke so much grief through the years, hey. It's payback time." He turned to a CCTV camera mounted on the wall. "Okay, let the show begin, my cousins."
He jerked his thumb down. "Lights."
A strobe light started, flickering on and off. Alexa closed her eyes, but the light was so bright that she could still see the flashes.
"Cameras," he shouted.
"Action."
The gyroscope that they were strapped into started moving and turning and twisting, spinning Alexa upside down and to the side and backward and forward, first slowly, then faster and faster. She felt the nausea rise in her throat, her head spinning and her insides being wrenched from side to side.
She heard Rowley laugh, but tried to block out the sound. She felt her stomach heave and she threw up, the bile splashing over her face and chest.
"Bye-bye my cousins, enjoy the ride," Rowley said and Alexa heard the door slam shut.
Neil followed Barak through the baggage compartment. They had to crawl over and around boxes and luggage. There was a large cage with two colorful parrots and a fluffy poodle who yapped at them.
Barak stopped at the far end of the plane, started unscrewing a latch on the roof. He pushed it aside, pushed the carpet out of the way and popped his head out of the opening. "Okay, all clear," he whispered.
He pulled himself through the hole and Neil followed. Neil's earpiece crackled. "Sergeant, are you aboard that plane?"
"Yes, I am," Neil whispered into his wrist. "I need the airwaves clear while we sanitize the vessel."
"Look, Sergeant, I thought I told you to stay the hell--"
"I need the airwaves cleared, now," Neil hissed.
He turned and pointed at his men, indicating that they should wait while he scoped the area. They nodded. He glanced through the window of the prep area as he opened the door softly. He stalked two meters forward and came to a curtain that separated the passenger cabin from the place where they kept the serving trolleys, saw a hostess serving drinks. She looked up and her eyes widened when they met Neil's. Neil put his finger to his lips. She nodded subtly and continued to push the trolley, pointing to the sides of the cabin with her eyes.
There were two more.
Neil nodded and she continued gathering the empty cans and juice boxes as she went.
She pushed the trolley into the storage area and looked at Neil with a worried frown. "I'm Sergeant Neil Allen, Interpol. How many are there?"
"Six, I think," she said nervously, looking around.
"Where?"
"M row on the right, two in the cockpit." She glanced back, chewing her lip. "Two here, patrolling the back of the plane."
"The captain opened the damn door?"
; She nodded, biting her lip. "They were shooting hostages, what else was he supposed to do?"
"Shit. Why aren't we in the air then?"
She shook her head. "I don't know."
"Okay, look. I need you to go back in there, act normal."
"Normal? How?" she said and held up her hands. They were shaking.
"Everyone's stressed. They won't suspect a thing."
"What are you going to do?"
"Get you out of here."
CHAPTER FIVE
"Alexa, I need you to listen to me," Laiveaux shouted.
She moaned, it felt like she was about to puke her guts out, she couldn't stop throwing up and had trouble breathing.
"Listen to me," he shouted again.
"I'll try," she mumbled, swallowing back the bile.
"Breath in through your nose and out through your mouth, don't form a rhythm, in twice, out twice, in once, out once, in three times, out three times, break the pattern every time."
"Okay," she mumbled.
"Don't think about what is happening to you, clear your mind of that, concentrate on your breathing, do it."
She concentrated on her breathing, the sound it made, the feeling of the cool air in her nostrils, the vile smell of her sickness.
After a minute, Laiveaux spoke again. "That's good, my girl. You're not going to feel any better, but at least this technique makes it bearable. Don't think, just breathe."
Rowley sauntered into the room. "This is no good, my china. Don't give her advice. Start the music," he shouted.
A loud booming noise started, vibrating through Alexa's body. A steady, rhythmical, ear-splitting boom, over and over and over again.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Neil pulled out the army fatigues that were tucked into his boots and rolled them down. He shrugged off his long-sleeved shirt and scrubbed around in his backpack, removing a black turtle neck. He pulled it on. "How do I look?" he asked Barak.
Barak shrugged. "It will buy you some time, I guess. You're definitely not passing for a civilian under close scrutiny. What's the plan?"
Neil pulled a knife from his belt. "First, we take out the two at the back. Liberman, you're up."
Librman pulled out his knife, a grim look on his face.
Neil looked at his men. "I'll take the right and take out two of them. Barak and Liberman, you take the left side of the plane. Don't do anything until I tell you to."
They nodded.
"Lotner, you're my wingman. Stay right here, but cover my back." He looked at them expectantly. "Ready?"
They nodded.
Here goes.
Neil positioned himself at the door to the right, checking that Liberman was ready on the left. They exchanged curt nods before Neil opened the door a crack and peered outside.
The guard was standing beside the door, his back to Neil, rifle held ready. Neil grabbed him from behind, clamping a hand over his mouth and stabbed him in the ribs as he pulled him into the cramped serving area. He finished him off by slitting his throat and then gently lowered him to the ground.
He checked Liberman's progress. The terrorist was still thrashing his legs, in the throes of death. Once the man lay still, Neil nodded at Liberman, crawled forward and crouched behind the door again, inching it open.
In front of the plane, a man with a rifle swung over his shoulder patrolled the area, his back to Neil.
Neil bolted down the aisle, checking the row numbers as he went. Six men didn't seem right to him, he would have thought at least eight were needed; two in front, one on either side of the plane, two in the back. Double that number to work in twelve hour shifts.
He noticed two Arabic men seated to the far right in row M, as the stewardess had said. The guy on the right, closest to the windows, looked like he was dozing, he wore Ray Bans and was resting his chin on his hand. The other man stared out of the window, his leg jerking up and down nervously. The middle seat was open. Blue duffle bags rested between their feet.
Neil felt a tug on his elbow and almost shot a balding man with intense blue eyes. The guy pulled him to a seat beside him and flashed him a badge. "NYPD Officer, Sergeant Leo Conrad. Sit.”
Neil slid into the seat beside the man.
"You military?"
Neil nodded. "Yes, why?"
"You look the part."
So much for the disguise.
"Look, there are two guys patrolling the front of the plane," he said, angling his eyes toward the front. "Their two backups are seated over there."
"Where?" Neil asked.
"Row C, both sides of the plane."
"I thought as much." Neil craned his neck, scanning the aisles. "There's two more seated in row M, that makes ten." He turned to face Conrad. "Are all of them armed?"
The older man shrugged. "Probably." He nodded at the terrorist patrolling the front of the plane. "AK-47's. They managed to smuggle the weapons onboard, disassembling them to pass through airport security. They re-assembled them onboard, so yes, let's assume all of them are armed."
Neil pursed his lips. "Where are the other two bastards?" He made up his mind and removed his Glock from the back of his pants and handed it to the Sergeant.
The man gave him a questioning look.
"Insurance. Stay seated and keep your head down. We have more than enough men aboard to handle the situation, but you never know."
Sergeant Conrad nodded. "Good luck."
Neil took his opportunity when the terrorist in front popped his head into the cockpit. He stood up and strode back to the food prep area, Lotner casting him a questioning glance.
"We have an NYPD officer on board." He pointed the man out. "I gave him my weapon," Neil said, holding out his hand.
Lotner nodded, slipped off his backpack and pulled out another Glock, handing it to Neil.
Neil checked the magazine. "There are four more Johnny Jihad's in row C, both sides of the plane."
He slipped the Glock into his pants and folded the flimsy material of the shirt over the bulge. Separating the curtain an inch, he waited for the hijacker to turn his back again and darted to row M.
The terrorist in front of the plane was about to turn around when Neil shuffled into the seat between the two hijackers and stuck out a hand. "Pleased to meet you, I'm Sergeant Neil Allen, Interpol." Sometimes the direct approach worked best.
Neil aimed his Glock in front of his chest, pointing the weapon at the man wearing the Ray Ban's face. "Shut up or I blow your head off."
The man to his left tried to stand up, but Neil pulled him back down. Ray Ban's to his right removed his dark glasses and shook Neil's hand feebly. "Imrahn Lofti. Look man, we're with you, we're undercover."
Neil turned to the other man and stuck out a hand. "Sergeant Neil Allen."
The guy stuttered. "Joe...Joe Jackson."
Neil smiled. "Well, pleased to meet you, Joe. From which agency are you?"
Lofti swallowed. "Uhm, FBI," he said, making it sound like a question.
"Could I see some ID please?"
Joe Jackson nodded, leaned over and unzipped the bag. Stupid move. Neil grabbed his wrist and shoved his weight into Lofti, pinning him against the window. He pulled Joe's arm towards him, exposing his throat and slammed an elbow into it. He planted his Glock against the guy's temple. "How many?"
Joe Jackson held his throat, gagging, his tongue sticking out of his mouth. He couldn't speak, even if he wanted to.
Neil looked up as a young girl stood up in her chair and watched them with large eyes.
He smiled and put his finger to his lips. "Shhh."
She nodded but didn't sit down.
He turned in his seat and lifted his weight off Lofti, shoved the gun into his ribs. "How many?"
The guy lifted his hands defensively and shut his eyes. "Glory be to Allah, you will not stop us."
Neil slammed the muzzle against his cheek. "How many are you?"
The man shook his head.
Neil did it twice m
ore, this time on his kneecaps. The man doubled over, but Neil ripped him back by his hair. "How many?" he hissed.
The man sucked in ragged breaths through his teeth, his eyes squashed closed. "Twelve."
Neil nodded. "Where?"
"Four patrolling, the rest in front, rows C."
"I know about them, where else?"
"Row Q as well," Lofti whimpered.
Neil slammed a fist into Lofti's temple. His head slumped forward. Joe Jackson next to him was till gagging, his hands clutching his throat. Neil finished him off with a knee to the face.
Neil stood up and chopped his hand down three times, pointing to the front of the plane and forming a C with his hand. Take out the guards in front and head for row C.
The passengers shrieked as Barak appeared from behind a curtain and fired twice, Liberman took the shortest route, vaulting over the centre aisle, stepping in people's laps, M-4 ready. Liberman dashed to the front, heading for row C. Neil didn't look back as gunfire stuttered. "Stay down, stay down!" he shouted. "We're here to help."
The two men that had been patrolling the front of the plane had disappeared, probably laying dead in one of the aisles; Neil had never seen Barak miss his target.
Neil stopped beside row Q, scanning left and right before pointing his Glock at two Arabian men in the centre aisle. They looked up at him, wide-eyed, mouths gaping. "Show me your hands."
They slowly lifted their hands. Neil yanked the first guy out of his chair, keeping the gun pointed on his partner. Pushing the guy to the ground he rammed his knee into his back and pulled some zip ties from his pocket. "Put your hands behind your back," Neil said, jamming the terrorist's face into the ground.
The man struggled at first but was forced to cooperate when Neil slammed the Glock's butt down on his skull. Neil managed to tie his hands and manhandled him up the aisle, passengers standing up, watching the drama unfold with fearful expressions on their faces.
Neil's head jerked up as he heard the click from a safety being disengaged. Spinning around, he dropped to his knee. Two shots barked close by and he swung his weapon in the direction from where the shots had come from.