A mischievous smile suddenly plays across Darius’s face. “Bet you’re wishing you woulda’ put that phone down last night, too. Talking ’til 1. Didn’t do you much good with your girl anyway.” Darius leans over in front of Chris’s screen and squints his eyes. A thin sprout of a mustache stands out above his awkward expression. “Well, that’s just bad time management on your part, young Christopher,” he says in an authoritative tone, over-enunciating every word.
Chris finally smiles. He shakes his head at the crappy Nixon impersonation. “Asshole.”
“That was completely unnecessary, young Christopher,” Darius continues. He scowls back like all the teachers he’s disappointed over the years. “You really should work on expanding your vocabulary. Your command of the English language is quite appalling.”
Still watching from two tables away, Devin smiles. He’s faintly reminded of some of his own friendships over the years — masculinity and affection always seeming at odds.
Devin’s green eyes drift across the rich mixture of microbrew handles on display behind the bar to his left. Each stands ready for the parched vacationer or nervous businessman’s enjoyment. As the familiar urge swells, his mouth is suddenly very dry.
He swallows hard.
Devin forces his eyes away, glancing back up to the morning’s news on the television set. Masked Middle Eastern gunmen wave machine guns brightly back from the corner-mounted LCD screen above him. The flickering video strobes throughout the cafe, momentarily pushing back shadows before giving ground again.
“Several I.E.D. attacks in the Middle East early this morning killed 11 Americans,” a news anchor says calmly. The imagery of ash and charred remains is anything but. “The violence against U.S. citizens and military personnel continues to mount in the region amid new instability concerns.”
More masked Arabs fire into the air over a downed helicopter. They dissolve into burnt husks that once were tanks along the road. The U.S. flag decal on one of the doors is blistered and peeling.
“Six soldiers died when their Blackhawk helicopter was shot down Sunday morning,” a British reporter with a flak jacket and helmet barks into his mic just in front of what used to be a chopper. “Their bodies were later found mutilated. The attack came on the heels of a call for peace by leaders of several Islamic groups.”
Video from a destroyed mosque fades to pictures of bodies inside an Arab hospital. Their beds create long rows of pain down the dirty hallways.
Armed riots soon erupt on screen. American troops fire into the air above the clustering people as the reporter’s voiceover continues. “Sectarian violence had de-stabilized much of the region, but renewed calls for the U.S.’s complete departure have seemed to encourage more unified violence against both civilian and military targets. Estimates for total troop withdrawal have been pushed back several years.”
Clouds of tear gas hide thousands of protesters teeming along Middle Eastern streets. Several shadows emerge quickly from the billowing gas. They cover their mouths with bandannas, throwing fire bombs back into the troops.
Devin shakes his head. Such hate, he thinks. Flames shoot through the clustered bodies. How the hell did we let it get to this?
Mankind’s cycle of violence spreads into the ranks, its retribution feeding. Consuming. It attacks bodies and minds with an equal passion.
Flickering colors from an explosion catch Chris’s deep brown eyes. His fingers pause. Just above his name on the computer screen, the essay title reads: GLOBAL THREAT.
The paging system sounds loudly above them. Its cold female voice sounds almost robotic, trying to impose order on the morning’s frenzy. “Flight 661 to Seattle now boarding passengers in groups one and two.”
* * *
Passengers board the slender Embraer E75 aircraft through an oval door behind the cockpit. Some lift luggage into compartments too small to fit much more than a backpack or handbag. Others push past in search of cramped seats and strange company for the next hour.
Devin looks familiarly over at Chris and Darius as he walks toward 12A, four rows behind.
“No damn leg room,” Darius mutters. “These planes are made for midgets! Knees all up in my chest. I mean, come on!”
“Sometimes, D, you’re worse than a woman,” Chris grumbles back. “You give me all the bitchin’, but none of the benefits.”
Darius squints suggestively. “Didn’t know you swung that way, big boy. Give me some sugar.” The tattooed hoops star leans over and throws his arms around Chris.
“You best back off me, D,” Chris growls. He pushes Darius off and glances around. Color rises to his cheeks. “And don’t let me catch you grabbin’ my leg again,” he says in a lowered voice. “Or we’ll have some words.”
“Hey, man,” Darius says. He puts his hands up innocently. “That turbulence don’t mess around. You know I get claustrophobic in these things.”
“Claustrophobic,” Chris scoffs. “Gonna turn me homophobic if you grab my leg again.”
* * *
Devin looks out his window from just in front of the left wing. Rain streaks down. It blurs the rhythmic motions of the ground crew as they make their final checks. Lights pulsing from the wings and equipment burn a fiery orange, bathing the side of Devin’s face in flame.
His thick shoulders and fireman’s build spill over into the next seat. Devin tries to scoot closer to the glass as a 300+ pound, balding man in a dark gray business suit squeezes down next to him. Jesus, friend. Have a little respect for the rest of us. His own seat rocks as the obese man works his body between the slender arm rails.
Devin smiles and forces a welcoming nod. A small part of him is glad to have some company. At least that may quiet his racing mind. But the round businessman doesn’t even acknowledge him. He immediately pulls out his PDA and seeks the comfort of emails instead.
Two rows behind Devin, a young mother holds her 9-month-old baby against her shoulder. She gently pats her child’s back. The baby’s attention is captured by a bearded face sitting next to them.
You’ve got to be kidding me, Abd Al-Aziiz cries behind sunken eyes. Shaking his head, the brooding Arab leans as far away from the mother and child as he possibly can. The armrest begins to dig painfully into his right side. But even that is a welcome exchange for the few extra inches of space it gives.
Terra Yun enters the cabin next, soon followed by her mother. A rolling silence moves with them, walking past first class and into coach. Terra’s sky-blue eyes look longingly at the plush leather seats of the elite. Reclining footrests. iPhone docks.
“Not this time,” Debbie says, gently encouraging her daughter on.
Terra scowls in protest. She glances over at a tall, black teenager in 8B. Even sitting, the attractive high schooler is almost as tall as she is. Her gaze drifts up his decorated letterman jacket and stops on eyes the color of rich espresso.
Lights around the cabin suddenly flutter and pulse during an on-board systems test. Their faces flash in and out of the shadows.
His mouth still open in mid-conversation to Darius, Chris’s words suddenly fade away. Flickering, sapphire eyes and snowy skin seem to light up the cabin in front of him.
Please, Terra thinks, shaking off the initial surprise of his piercing brown eyes. Like you have a shot.
“I just don’t think I can handle moving in with Dad,” Terra blurts out. She breaks away from Chris’s gaze and looks back at the pink carry-on rolling daintily behind her. The exotic teen continues into the plane, refusing to look back at the handsome stranger even though she still feels his eyes upon her.
“He’s such a bachelor, Mom,” the 18-year-old model continues over her shoulder. “He cleans his condo like once a year. It’s seriously nasty.”
“Give it a chance, Terra,” Debbie sighs. She’s had the same conversation with her daughter at least a dozen times before. “Spokane is beautiful. Summers on the river. Close to the college you want. You’ll be in the dorm in less than a year.”
<
br /> “Dorm life. Right,” Terra says blankly. She rolls her eyes. “Less room than at Dad’s.” The teen turns around and pleads with her inescapable charm. Her eyes widen, searching for that predictable sympathy she’s so good at finding. “You know people catch diseases in those bathrooms, right? Why can’t I just have my own place? You know, penthouse with a view…” Terra smiles dreamily as she envisions her perfect new home of glass. Tall windows. Modern furniture. Stainless steel appliances.
“You win the lottery, girl?” Debbie chides. “I can cover tuition. That’s it. You’ll just have to make some sacrifices.”
Her dream turns into a tiny studio filled with crap from Wal-Mart.
Terra’s eyes stop on an elderly couple sitting on the opposite side of the plane. They hold each other’s weathered hands with the love of many decades. Laughing quietly, the couple talks of times long past. The struggles they’ve overcome through a lifetime spent together all fall away, replaced by a joy of timeless content.
Terra smiles again as she looks at them. A marriage that actually made it. Wow. Don’t see that much… She glances back up to the seating markers just below the luggage compartment latches. 18A 18B. The teenager rolls her heavy pink carry-on expectantly back to her mother. “Here.”
Debbie glares back at her. Her hand refuses to budge. She waits, desperately hoping for some show of respect. Some sign that all of her lessons and parenting efforts haven’t been in vain. But the teenager just stares innocently back, oblivious to the parental plea behind her mom’s eyes.
“What?” Terra asks. She puts her hands on the hips of her designer jeans and cocks her head.
Realizing it would take far more effort to fight her pampered daughter than to just give in, Debbie silently concedes. She grunts, and lifts the garish suitcase up into the storage compartment.
“God knows, I can’t support your expensive tastes anymore,” Debbie mutters. “Gucci this. Versace that. It’s ridiculous. Go marry some CEO, Terra. Because the rest of us can’t afford you.”
“Oh, you know I deserve it,” Terra says. She kisses her mom’s cheek in payment. The model puts a dainty handbag on her lap as they sit, pulling out a compact and immediately beginning to examine her flawless makeup.
* * *
Standing only 5’6” but with a poised upper body nearly as broad, Terrence Mann moves discretely into the plane just as the outer door closes. His light gray suit coat covers a black v-neck and faded jeans. The wooden-faced African-American walks with a slow and calculated pace, his tense muscles like rock at the ready. He knows his emotionless eyes and cage fighting build terrifies people. And he loves it. He enjoys knowing he could take out anyone, anytime, and completely get away with it.
The sky marshal’s gaze flickers around the narrow cabin. His fierce eyes are always moving. They cut into the faces of potential threats, almost pleading for a challenge. Grandmas and school kids, he sighs in disappointment. Just give me another Jihadist. Or some drunk suit pissed off at his life. I’ll shove that damn, designer pinstripe down his over-educated throat…
Terrence approaches a pregnant stewardess finishing her pre-flight rounds from behind. He lays a solid hand upon her shoulder, leaning close to her ear.
Laughing at one of her fellow stewardesses’ baby jokes, Isabel flinches in surprise from the touch. Her smile fades. The stocky black man’s torso feels like a block of ice against her back, his voice a gravelly whisper.
Isabel slowly turns. “Yes, sir,” she says just loud enough for those around her to hear. “Let’s find your seat.” She’s gripped by the violent resolve in the marshal’s pitch-black stare. The eagerness is intense, frightening even. Her chocolate eyes thankfully leave his and dart around the plane. Her stomach begins to churn. She doesn’t see him anywhere.
Almost on cue, the unmistakable color leans out farther down the cabin. “You’re right back there,” she says with a trembling voice. Isabel points aft toward a bright blue Seattle Mariners jersey and the fidgeting Arab sitting in 14B.
Terrence follows her eyes to Abd Al-Aziiz. He starts toward his prey without another word. As their eyes lock on one another, the instincts of hunter and hunted ignite, challenging each other across the withering distance. Discrimination, survival and hate all blur together. Terrence’s black eyes burn across the cabin, their ferocity crackling. Begging.
Abd lowers his eyes, distracted by the baby crying loudly beside him. When he looks back up the fierce black man is gone. Abd glances around, but he’s nowhere to be seen. The Arab settles back into his sweaty seat and closes his eyes, muttering a quiet prayer.
* * *
Bloody hell I hate this part!
Devin’s red hair is thrust back into the headrest. He grits his teeth as the roaring jet engines outside his window rapidly begin to accelerate. The bald businessman next to him shakes his head and smiles back condescendingly. The fat bastard just watches on, entertained by Devin’s deathlike grip on both armrests.
The fireman’s body shifts and sinks, nauseated by gravity’s euphoria. Devin opens his emerald eyes to look out the small oval of glass beside him. The wheels skip and shriek before finally leaving the rough tarmac.
Structures and suburbs quickly shrink under the plane. Clouds thicken around the wings. The rain’s fury continues onto the rising aircraft. Drops of moisture slam into the windows then roll off as the plane bounces in the crosswinds. The world soon disappears beneath the vapor, completely erasing humanity and all of its achievements just below.
Chapter 8
8:59 a.m.
Dense fog hangs low over Seattle, blotting out the scarlet sun. Jonathon’s glasses streak with rain as he lumbers up to the KOMO 4 News building downtown. His long legs take the last few steps to the entrance in a single leap. Brilliant fluorescent lights pour through the television station’s stately glass entryway.
Jonathon ducks out of the weather beneath an overhang. He wipes several drops from his cherished Rolex with the corner of a pinstripe jacket, shaking the water off his charcoal suit collar. The creative director rummages into his pocket for a thin, magnetic security card.
The man’s legs look almost too tall for his body, pushing his broad torso closer to a third of his 6’4” height. He doesn’t mind his odd proportions though. At least not anymore. Now all of his suits are custom-tailored; he prefers them that way. The perfect fit. The flawless lines. He wipes the rain off his forehead and up through his salt-and-pepper hair.
“At this point, just give her what she wants,” he shouts into the cellphone at his divorce lawyer. His eyes darken. He’s had to repeat the same damn thing over and over all morning after talking to his estranged wife — first to the legal aid and now his attorney. It festers. Like a sore picked too many times.
Jonathon scrubs at his glasses with a pristine white silk cloth always kept in his inner left pocket. He folds and replaces it carefully, turning to look out at the blurring lights moving along 4th Avenue. He runs a hand down his graying goatee. “I don’t care. I need to be done with it.”
“She’s the one that left you, Jonathon,” the lawyer reminds. He can almost feel the victory slipping away. “We have some real leverage there.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Jonathon barks. His stomach twists. Am I really letting her do this to me? He closes his navy blue eyes, the memories of a broken marriage flashing through his mind. Rain thunders down off the blackened sidewalks. It roars like static in his ears. “All I want is custody of Chris. She can have everything else,” Jonathon whispers. He holds his security key and ID badge to KOMO’s exterior sensor, pinning the phone to his ear so he can grip the door handle.
Beep.
“Need help, Jon?” a silky voice asks from behind him.
Without turning, Jonathon opens the door and steps back. His eyes go wide as the familiar scent of Bulgari perfume wafts up to him.
Jean Barlow, an ambitiously attractive executive producer from the news department, strides past. Her cal
culated body grazes his ever so slightly, almost like the touch of a breeze. Jean’s violet eyes sparkle back.
A flicker of remembrance flashes in his own. He unconsciously straightens his crisp, red tie. “Oh, hey. Morning, Jean,” he stammers, nearly dropping his phone when he changes hands.
A light gray business suit clings to the 32-year-old’s fit body. Her graceful strides seem to float across the lobby. The creative director’s eyes dart away when he realizes they’re staring.
“You sure about that, Jonathon?” a voice presses.
“Hmm?” Jonathon says, forgetting for a second that he has a phone up to his ear. “Yes. Just make it go away.” He shakes the fluttering feeling in his head, and walks right past the stranger at the receptionist’s desk without even a glance of welcome.
“Alright,” the lawyer sighs. “Come by the office on your lunch, and we’ll finish it.”
“See you at noon.” Jonathon taps the “end” button on his touchscreen and stuffs the phone into his right pants pocket. He sighs, finally feeling a shred of peace.
The feeling ends quickly.
He beeps in through the interior security door, stepping past it into a tumultuous world. The bustling activity and ever-present deadlines of major market broadcast news are all around him. Bodies rush down hallways, their quickened pace and panicked looks routine. Stress hangs on their faces. Fear of ratings and fierce competition is etched into dozens of wild eyes. Spotting a familiar shape lodged in the conference room doorway, Jonathon stiffens.
KOMO’s news director, Mitch Davis, is just wrapping up an impromptu meeting with his senior leadership team. “Hold on,” Mitch interrupts, putting a finger of silence up to cut off his assignment editor. He scoots his chair back into the pulsing hallway and glances around. His uncanny radar sense always seems to trigger whenever someone he wants something from walks by. “Jonathon!” Mitch yells. His brash, high-pitched voice bounces down the corridor. “Wait up!”
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