by Lynne King
The two women did what they were told, packing up sandwiches and flasks of coffee. Neither spoke much, always aware of the two sets of eyes upon them and what the men were capable of. The bruising and swelling on one side of Chantelle’s face was a warning. When it was finally time to leave and the car was loaded, her mother went to follow Chantelle to the car, only Jabir stepped into her path.
“You stay here. Contact anyone and your daughter dies.” Going over to her car, he took out a knife and slashed her tires. Her phones had already been destroyed, leaving her isolated and alone.
Her mother rushed forward, clutching at Jabir’s cotton jacket to stop him. “Please take me, not my daughter. I will be good, do anything and won’t tell.”
“Your mother would become a whore to save her daughter.” He laughed and pushed her from him, the force hard enough to send her reeling back onto the gravel.
Chantelle tried to go to her, but Jabir placed an arm around her waist and swung her back. Dragging her with him, he threw her into the rear seat of the car and slammed the door.
“Do not worry. Your daughter will come back unharmed if her lover keeps his word. If he does not, she will pay for his betrayal.” The bearded abductor raised his eyebrows and put on a forced look of sadness before climbing into the driver’s seat.
Her mother collapsed on the driveway, tears streaming down her face. It was the last glimpse Chantelle had of her before the car drove off toward the Pyrenees.
Chapter 10
The refueling was to last less than fifteen minutes, the truck with the fuel waiting in a small valley at the foot of the Pyrenees. The surrounding area was a black plateau, a scattering of sheep and goats the sole inhabitants. A rough dirt track leading up to an old stone farmhouse was the only sign that civilization had actually reached these parts, but the building was in need of major repair, so it was doubtful anyone lived there. The area had been chosen well for its isolation, the dirt track providing an adequate but bumpy landing.
Two massive, dark-skinned men stepped out from the building dressed in khaki army fatigues. Ammunition belts hung from their huge shoulders, along with high powered semiautomatics.
While one of the men connected the refueling pipe from the truck to the plane, David was taken inside the stone building and offered a thick black treacle substance they called coffee and some bread and cheese. He wasn’t hungry, but ate to keep his strength up, all the while carefully scrutinizing the enemy. These were not kids. Most likely, they were dissident ex-Algerian army who were now part of a terrorist outfit.
They were just as suspicious of him, watching his every move, which made his number one priority of checking out the cargo he was carrying impossible. Even when he made an excuse of checking the plane for an electrical fault responsible for causing one of the instrument dials to repeatedly light up, Bakir wouldn’t let him out of his sight.
David tried not to let the thought of Chantelle being held in the clutches of such men haunt him, but it did, especially knowing on his return trip she would be brought to such a place. It was up to him to get them both out alive and the odds were stacked against him. If he didn’t try, they were both dead. Witnesses could not be left alive to disclose the truth. David wasn’t the forgiving type and Hendersson knew it.
Once back in the air, there was another four hours flying time before they reached the coast of Algeria. It was a long, uneventful, tedious flight, especially for the passenger. Several times, Bakir’s head dropped forward. Then, he’d jerk himself upright, his fingers tightening around his gun, and cold, wary eyes on David, who’d reward him with a lift of his eyebrows and a darkly amused smile. As for David, adrenaline was his strength.
The flight had been planned to coincide with nightfall and in order to avoid detection, he had to fly in low. Finally, the well-lit port of Algiers could be seen and David made sure to keep it far to his right as he followed the coastline in. The exact location in which to land was a rough coordination worked out from the crudely drawn map shown to him by Bakir. Luckily, he knew a little of the terrain, but it didn’t help in finding a landing platform in the middle of an olive grove in the dead of night. He had to fly really low as they left the coastline and headed inland where the olive groves stretched on for miles. Circling the area several times, he scanned the ground below.
“You better find this blasted landing strip. Otherwise, we’ll be up here until our bloody fuel runs out,” he shouted to Bakir.
“Down there.” Bakir pointed.
Sure enough, David could just make out the scattering of lights. As he flew in closer, he spotted a large patch of ground that had been flattened of olive groves. Headlights from several Land Rovers lit up the area and it was here he was expected to land.
David cursed. “You’re bloody crazy! We’ll both end up dead. There isn’t enough runway.”
Bakir raised his gun. “Do it.”
Banking the plane, David took several dummy runs before finally deciding to go for it. He mouthed a silent prayer as the plane hit the sun baked and uneven ground, the force throwing them violently forward. The seatbelt whipped across David’s chest, bringing him back. There was no time to worry about the discomfort as his hands wrestled with the control column, the airbrakes fully applied to try and slow down before they ran out of runway. The air exhaled out of him at the same time as the plane finally ground to a halt.
He had made it. Leaning back, he released another deep sigh, his muscles finally relaxing. For the first time, he noticed the silence beside him and his eyes widened as they fell on the slumped form of Bakir. His head was jammed up against the metal frame of the cockpit canopy and a splattering of blood marred the Perspex where his head must have first made contact.
David reached out and touched his neck, his fingers feeling for a pulse. There was none.
The fool had forgotten to re-clip his seatbelt. David wasn’t sure whether it was a blessing or a curse. It depended whether Bakir’s comrades believed he had not played a part in it. His gaze fixed on the gun lying at Bakir’s feet. Reaching down, he was stopped from clasping the weapon when the cockpit door swung open. He looked up and around to find himself once again staring down a barrel of a machine pistol.
“Your friend had an unfortunate accident. I was simply relieving him of his gun since it won’t be of much use to him now.” David gave a small shrug of his shoulders, showing only cold indifference. Compassion over the death of another would not be expected of him and could be viewed with suspicion.
A large bald-headed man used his forearm to push David back in the seat and leaned into the cockpit to take a closer look at Bakir. Going around to the other side, he opened the door and Bakir’s body fell out.
David stepped down from the plane under the watchful eye of another who was as ugly and dangerous looking, his gun pointed in David’s direction. He walked around to where the bald one was leaning over Bakir’s body, checking for a pulse. It was obvious it had only just happened. The body was still warm, the forehead stained with fresh blood.
Standing up, he cast quite a daunting figure, just a leather waistcoat hung from the black gleaming chest. A tongue passed over thickly set lips before a broad grin appeared. “Shame you do not make better landings.” He let out a rumble of a laugh.
David smiled back out of sheer relief.
“Come let us see what you have brought us. If I’m pleased, you fly back to your associates, all of you much rewarded.”
Communication between fractions in terrorist groups wasn’t always that up to date. With Bakir’s demise, David started feeling hopeful his cover hadn’t been blown with this lot. They still seemed to see him as merely another mercenary out to get rich quick.
He watched as the wooden crates were removed and pried open. The eight men who now surrounded him took out the weapons and held them up for inspection. There was a frightening assortment of weapons ranging from AK47s, M16 rifles with 40mm grenade launchers, C4 plastic explosives and detonators. All in all,
there was enough to equip a small army and cause untold destruction.
His hands started clenching, his heart pounding, and he felt bile rise in his stomach again. As much as he wanted Chantelle and him to get out of this alive, he couldn’t allow such weapons to remain in the hands of these killers. Whether they called themselves freedom fighters or terrorists, the end result was always the same, innocent people murdered and maimed.
He joined in their enthusiasm, holding up weapons to demonstrate their qualities, his gaze on the C4, waiting for the right opportunity. Finally, it came when the terrorists’ attention were all on the bald-headed one to whom he had handed an MP5. Having pointed out its capabilities, the guy was now murdering several olive trees by peppering them with lead.
Leaning over, David removed a small amount of plastic explosive and placed it in his inside trouser pocket. He was wearing loose-fitting khaki combat trousers so hopefully, the bulkiness wasn’t noticeable. He would have preferred to get his hands on a grenade launcher, but it wasn’t something he could simply tuck under his arm and walk back to the plane with.
Casually and unnoticed, he climbed back into the Islander. The cabin area was now completely cleared out of the wooden crates which had spilled out from the cargo hold. In the corner, hanging on one of the hooks for the parachute lines, was his canvas knapsack. They had allowed him to keep it with the belief they had found and removed any weapons he had hidden.
Ripping through to the lining, he removed the packet of cigars, each cigar containing a homemade charge. Working fast with one eye on the open portside door, he primed the charges to detonate in thirty minutes with the desperate prayer that once they had refueled and loaded up the weaponry, they wouldn’t want to hang around. He had to judge it right. Too much time could allow them to reach a populated area before the charges went off, too little time and he would end up part of the explosion.
Without warning, a dark shadow blocked the moonlight streaming into the cabin. Having secured the charges into the C4, David placed it carefully and in easy reach near the top of his knapsack, his body blocking the act. In almost the same movement, he picked up half of a cigar from the ones he had used to disguise the charges if the packet was opened. Placing it between his lips, he straightened, slung the knapsack over his shoulder and turned to the door. Acting undisturbed by the other’s presence, he asked in French for a light. The terrorist smiled, suspicion fading from his features as both stepped out from the plane.
With the weapons now fully inspected, orders were given for them to be loaded onto one of the trucks. Another truck pulled up and with all the men assisting, the plane was turned around on its makeshift runway and a feeder line from the barrels of fuel on the truck was then fed to the refueling point in the upper surface of each wing. The whole process took fifteen minutes.
When a small padlocked metal box was finally handed to him, David couldn’t hide his surprise. He had expected a suitcase full of money, not this.
“You look concerned, my friend. We had a deal, no? These little rocks far more valuable, you will be plenty rich now,” he said in broken English. The heavy frown was a suspicious one.
David smiled broadly. “No problem, as you said, plenty rich. But I think I’d like to see for myself.”
“You do not trust me?” His hands were on his hips, his chest puffed out.
“I don’t trust anyone.”
That belly laugh sounded again and he brought out a key from his waistcoat. Unlocking the box in David’s hands, the lid lifted.
Now David knew why Hendersson had sent Bakir along as extra security. A couple of these beauties could have him flying to a tropical paradise a very rich man and to hell with everyone and everything.
Except, Chantelle. Hendersson had done his homework well. No amount of diamonds or money could tempt him away from what had become his main objective: to keep Chantelle safe.
David glanced at his watch. He had less than ten minutes to get airborne and out of here. He shut the lid, clicking the padlock shut to keep the lid secure and placed the box in the knapsack hanging from his shoulder.
“I’ll be on my way then, after…” He motioned that he wanted to relieve himself by unzipping his jeans and moving around the side of the weapons truck. Placing one hand up against the framework, he pretended to support his body when instead he was obscuring the view. With his other hand, he quickly unscrewed the petrol cap. Then, with a furtive glance to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he removed his hand from the framework and retrieved the small explosive package from his knapsack and pushed it into the petrol tank. Replacing the cap, he continued what he had started, zipped up his fly and moved back toward his plane.
“Wait!”
The voice made him freeze. Another fear surfaced; they might have decided it was more profitable to kill him here and now. After all, terrorists were not known for their trust and honor when money and weapons were involved.
Slowly, he turned around, knowing he had six minutes left. The seconds competed with his heart galloping forward while he tried to act calm, his movements leisurely.
“You tell your associate we like what he sends. We will do business again.”
David could feel the blood flow through his veins again. He was getting too old for these life and death games; his heart was likely to give out on him if he carried on like this. “Yeah, sure,” he called back over his shoulder, knowing that by the time he’d finished with Hendersson, the only business he’d be doing would be six feet under.
With less than three minutes to go, the plane left the ground, clipping the top of the olive groves as he pulled the plane into rapid ascent. The explosion lit up the sky behind him.
****
The hired car carrying Chantelle and her two abductors bumped and swerved on the unmade dirt track. Chantelle shivered on the back seat. Dust particles flying through the open windows covered her face and arms and were matted into her tied back hair. She couldn’t have felt more exhausted, filthy and frightened. For four hours, they had sped along deserted country roads that wound their way through small villages, the inhabitants asleep in their beds.
Only once had the car stopped, her dignity not spared for even this as Jabir stood guard. At least he hadn’t made any more attempts to touch her, preferring instead to sleep while his friend drove. She had already promised herself she would die before suffering the degradation of rape. She had no way of knowing if she could keep the promise or whether her self-preservation knew no bounds. The coffee and sandwiches she refused, preferring to remain parched rather than sharing anything with these monsters.
Everything happening to her she blamed David for, hating him with a vengeance for putting her through hell while he was doing deals with these murderous brutes. They had misjudged him if they thought by kidnapping her, they could control him. If Danny’s words were true, he was a mercenary with no heart. And she had been fool enough to fall in love with him. She closed her eyes, praying for the nightmare to end.
Dawn was beginning to break as the derelict stone farmhouse came into view. Another place, another time and the sight of the sun rising up against the background of the Pyrenees would have been breathtaking. Chantelle barely noticed. Half-dragged, she was marched up to the farmhouse, the door opening as they approached it.
Two heavyset men dressed in army fatigues greeted her abductors in a familiar way, laughing and eyeing Chantelle in the same way Jabir had. She felt sickness rise, but with nothing in her stomach, the moment passed and she found herself pushed towards the corner of the room and told to sit.
The corner was filthy with dust and grime, the smell foul. The four men seated themselves around a table. Wine, cigarettes and bread were handed out among them. A crust was thrown in her direction.
An hour or more passed and the sun came fully up, shining through the window and directly on her, making it unbearably hot in the stench-filled corner. With lips and mouth parched, Chantelle asked for some water. Jabir turned around and loo
ked at her, a menacing smile taking hold. Up to now, her presence had been almost forgotten as the men played cards and drank heavily. Leaning forward, Jabir went to grab her arm, only Chantelle cowered further in the corner.
He reached down and gripped her forearm tightly. Pulling her up, he yanked her over to the table, and then sat down, forcing her to come down heavily on his lap. With fingers digging into her scalp, he forced her head back and with the other hand, took a bottle of wine, tipping it into her mouth.
Chantelle spluttered and choked as the men laughed and threw ugly, crude remarks. One reached over, huge hands grabbing the material of her denim shirt and ripping it down the middle. The buttons flew off, her partly clad body exposed to four pairs of lecherous, greedy eyes.
A scream pierced the air as she grabbed the strands of her torn shirt together and struggled in a frenzy to get away. Big, powerful hands pinned her arms to her sides and in the next instant, she was thrown back along the table among the debris of wine bottles and cigarette butts. Her hands were pulled up above her head. More hands gripped her ankles, spreading her legs apart while others pulled at her jeans.
The one trying to keep a grip on her hands was having trouble as Chantelle thrashed her body around like a wild cat. Finally, one hand broke loose and frantically searched for a weapon, her fingers closing round the neck of a bottle. With an inhuman scream, Chantelle brought the bottle up and around, smashing it into Jabir’s temple just as he was leaning over her, his trousers already around his ankles. She stared up into his shocked, glazed eyes and then lifelessness took hold, blood pouring from his forehead as he fell sideways off her and onto the floor.
His three friends stood rooted to the ground as if in shock. Gradually, two of them stepped back from her, leaving the bearded one who had traveled with Jabir to remove a knife from the sheath in his waistband. Chantelle closed her eyes, fully expecting to die. Every emotion had been drained from her, even fear. She curled up in a fetal position and waited.