by K. J. Howe
“Then you can play another movie on your own screen. Pick whatever you like. We’re very lucky—we can choose anything.”
Thea scanned the plane, cataloging the other passengers, an occupational reflex. A stunning middle-aged Asian woman dressed in black, an old man wearing a fedora, a fair-haired beanpole with wire-rimmed glasses and a bow tie who was clutching his computer bag, a slickster dressed in Versace, a strapping guy with a handlebar mustache, a dandy wearing seersucker pants and a panama hat. She couldn’t fight an unsettled mood that had nothing to do with the turbulence.
The plane shook again, rattling the overhead bins. An older, barrel-chested gentleman seated near the emergency exit turned and looked in her direction. Sweat drenched his forehead, and he kept crossing and uncrossing his legs. Maybe he felt nervous or nauseated from the turbulence but couldn’t use the lavatory because the seat-belt lights were on.
She could relate.
“Do they have many animals in London?” Jabari asked.
“You’ll see some dogs and cats and even horses, but the UK is quite different from Africa.” She guessed the London Zoo could either be their favorite outing or a thoroughly depressing spectacle. The boys would definitely experience culture shock in London, but they were smart and capable, and the family adopting them would provide opportunities they never would have had at the orphanage.
Another sudden drop.
“Wheee!” Ayan laughed and raised his slender arms in the air.
She swore under her breath, not wanting to challenge the boys’ opinion that this aeronautical roller-coaster ride was brilliant fun. Although it felt as if they’d plummeted three thousand feet in two seconds, the plane’s altitude had probably only dropped ten or twenty feet. But the turbulence caused the 737 to pitch and roll like a rowboat in a typhoon.
She’d learned everything she could about planes and safety, hoping the knowledge would ease her anxiety. It didn’t.
She checked her blood sugar levels again. A little low. She hoped the pummeling would stop soon, so the flight attendants could offer food and beverage service. She needed to eat, and the two boys would gobble any food the second it appeared—a habit learned during their captivity and, no doubt, reinforced at the orphanage.
A few minutes later, the turbulence settled a touch. Had they reached calmer skies, or was it like an earthquake, where aftershocks came rippling in just when you thought it was safe?
Movement at the front of the plane caught her attention. The cockpit door opened, and the copilot stepped out into the cabin. Didn’t the seat-belt sign apply to him? Two pilots on the flight deck were better than one, especially in these conditions.
After a quick word with a flight attendant, the copilot slipped into the forward bathroom. Was he in desperate need of relief, ill, or what?
Thea’s gaze locked on the lavatory door, waiting for him to reemerge.
One thousand, two thousand, three thousand . . .
A solid thump startled her. The heavyset older man who’d been sweating a couple of rows ahead had slumped over the edge of his seat and was hanging into the aisle. She waited a couple of seconds for him to move.
He didn’t.
She held out her little finger to Jabari and Ayan. “Stay here, buckled up. Pinky swear.” She’d taught them this ritual during one of her visits to the orphanage.
The plane jolted to the left and dipped.
The boys entwined their pinkies with hers.
“Thanks, guys.” She released her seat belt and stood. Bracing herself on the overhead compartments, she clambered forward to where the man had collapsed in his seat. One of the flight attendants met her there.
She placed two fingers on the stocky man’s neck. “No pulse.”
The plane started shaking again.
The attendant held his wrist. “I’m not getting anything either.”
Several passengers leaned forward, trying to get a better look. She snapped open the man’s seat belt, looped her arms underneath his shoulders, and pulled him out of the seat. The plane dropped abruptly, and she almost lost her hold on him. She stabilized her footing, yanked him into the aisle, and lowered him to the floor. Not easy. The man was built like a fully loaded washing machine.
The flight attendant knelt beside her, brushing his red hair off his forehead. His name tag read BERNARD.
“You a doctor?” he asked.
“More like a combat medic.” Gunshots, puncture wounds, and other side effects of extreme violence were her specialty. Given the man’s age, pallor, and physical condition, her first thought was that he’d suffered a heart attack. He needed oxygen. Four to five minutes without it, and he’d be brain dead. “Defibrillator,” Thea said.
Bernard hurried off to get it.
She placed the heel of her left hand on the center of his chest, resting her right hand directly on top. Linking her fingers together, she kept her elbows straight and pushed down hard. Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” ran through her head. During training, they’d played the familiar tune over and over, as it had one hundred beats per minute, the ideal rhythm for compressions. She delivered a quick thirty thrusts to keep his circulation going.
She reached under his neck to ease open his airway and listened for any sign of breathing. He smelled strongly of onions, but there was no hint of air movement from his lungs. Another bout of turbulence thrust her against the nearby seats. She steadied herself, pinched his nostrils shut while pulling his head slightly back, and puffed a breath into the man’s mouth, initiating artificial respiration. His chest rose. Okay, no obstruction. She gave him another big lungful, then completed thirty more compressions.
Bernard returned with the defibrillator, the copilot at his heels. “Keep going while I get it ready.”
“Not looking good?” the copilot asked, concern in his eyes.
“I’d recommend an emergency landing.”
“Roger.” He sped toward the cockpit.
After she’d finished five rounds of thirty compressions and two breaths, sweat dripped down her back. In the distance, someone was banging at the front of the cabin, but she couldn’t worry about that now. She shot a quick glance at the boys. They were in their seats, as promised, but, like the rest of the passengers, they were craning their necks so they could see what she was doing. She gave Ayan and Jabari a reassuring smile. They certainly wouldn’t forget their first flight.
Bernard had started the automated external defibrillator. He ripped the man’s shirt open and applied the electrode pads to the upper right and lower left chest.
“Analyzing rhythm, clear,” Bernard warned.
She moved aside, letting the AED complete its analysis.
“Shock advised. Remain clear.”
“Got it.”
Bernard pressed the shock button.
Waited.
The AED advised him to shock again.
And again.
Dammit. The man’s heart wasn’t responding. She started the compressions again, replaying the throbbing beats of “Another One Bites the Dust” in her mind.
Come on, Freddie, help me out here.
Bernard felt for a pulse. He shook his head.
She wouldn’t give up.
Thea completed another round of compressions and looked up to see the copilot, who had returned from the front of the plane. “Are we landing somewhere soon?” she asked. “This man needs immediate medical intervention.”
The copilot lowered his voice. “Bit of an issue. The pilot has locked the door and won’t let me back in.”
Chapter 2
Sicily, Italy
The pungent scent of chlorine clung to Prospero Salvatore’s skin even though it had been two hours since he’d completed his 150 laps. Swimming wasn’t his first choice to stay in fighting shape, just his only one right now. He ambled up the church steps, trying not to wince. His left hip ached with every step these days. So much so that he’d booked a flight to New York in ten days so he could visit an o
rthopedic specialist without his contacts in Sicily being any the wiser.
Prospero would never show vulnerability around the sharks who worked for him. Fifty-four wasn’t old, but he’d been hard on his body, and the hip had finally blasted a hearty fuck you at him. Even a handful of pain meds and a couple of acrobatic mistresses couldn’t fix it. Every morning, the agony of his first steps brought back memories of his father’s slow and excruciating demise from bone cancer. Stefano Salvatore had fought like a son of a bitch to eke out every single minute he had left, and Prospero took inspiration from the old man’s grit and determination.
Still, a quick stab of envy shot through him as his twenty-three-year-old nephew, Luciano Baggio, leapt up the steps and opened the door for him.
“H-h-here you go, signore.”
Prospero cringed inside every time he heard that stutter, but family was family, so he’d taken Luciano under his wing. The kid was a good earner—better than expected, actually, given his handicap. But his nephew also had a dark side. Prospero had witnessed Luciano’s barely contained zeal when making forcible collections. Not acceptable. Violence should be judiciously meted out, not enjoyed.
He stepped into the church, the coolness wicking sweat from his brow. The musty air brought back long-forgotten memories of being an altar boy—before the lure of the famiglia had changed his path.
His footsteps echoed in the cavernous space, the hitch in his left hip making for a slightly longer reverberation with every other step. An old woman lit a candle at a side altar. The cathedral ceilings, soft luminescence, and intricate tapestries soothed him. Stained-glass windows depicting the saints offered a promise of solace. The space was the perfect intersection of history, religion, and culture—all crucial pillars in his life.
“Wait here,” he told Luciano.
His nephew slipped into the last pew and knelt in prayer. Prospero shrugged. At least his sister had taught the kid the importance of faith.
He strode down the aisle toward the front. The plane dominated every thought. Did they have it? Time was of the essence. He rubbed his five o’clock shadow and joined the three-person line waiting for the confessional. Plenty of sinning going on in this corner of Sicily, if the perpetual backlog at St. Ignacio’s was any indication.
A withered woman wearing a head scarf exited the booth. Prospero nodded a greeting—she was a friend’s great-aunt. He paused to let the octogenarian next in line enter the confessional, but the man tipped his hat to Prospero and stepped aside. Two elderly ladies behind the old man gave gentle waves, encouraging him to enter first.
Respect. Sadly lacking in today’s youth but robust among his hometown’s elders.
“Grazie.” He stepped up to the booth. The green light was on, indicating that the priest was ready for the next parishioner. He pulled aside the drape, moved inside, and gently lowered himself onto the kneeler.
Positioning most of his weight on his right knee, he traced the cross that was mounted on the lattice separating him from the priest. The Act of Contrition was posted off to one side.
“Saluti, sacerdote,” Prospero said. “Sono io.”
A sharp intake of breath told him that Father Anthony realized it wasn’t the usual henchman making contact via the confessional. No, the capo was here today.
“An honor, sir,” the priest whispered. “Thank you for coming.”
The catch in Father Anthony’s voice showed Prospero that the priest was nervous. Good.
Since he was already here, he might as well get a few things off his chest. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession. I accuse myself of the following sins. I have committed adultery seven times since my last confession.” His remorse was genuine. But given that his wife, Violetta, had less than zero interest in sex these days, what was a man like him to do? He still had an appetite, even if she had excused herself from the dining table long ago. Besides, he never got emotionally involved with his paramours—he loved his wife too much for that.
“I had to teach one of my men a lesson for stealing.” The young man in question was currently in the hospital, but he’d live, and that was better than he deserved. “I’m sorry for these sins and for the sins of my whole life, especially the mortal sin of killing others.” He wasn’t all that remorseful about certain hits, but discretion was necessary in church.
Father Anthony’s throaty voice wafted through the lattice. “Remember Isaiah 1:18: ‘Come now, let us settle the matter, says the Lord. Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are as red as crimson, they shall be like wool.’” A long pause. “You must absolve yourself of these sins.”
Red as crimson, that’s for sure. He stared at his hands, almost expecting to see blood on them. He shook off the image. “Yes, Father.” He recited the Act of Contrition. “Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You . . .” He hoped Dio was in a forgiving mood today, because he’d need every advantage for his plans to succeed.
Prospero finished the prayer.
“Anything else, my son?” Father Anthony asked.
He hadn’t made the trip just to unload his conscience. “Three million euros for your charity.”
Father Anthony cleared his throat. “But the last donation was only a week ago.”
“Expediency has proven expensive.” His words were tight, clipped. Laundered money was critical to the plan.
“Of course. A delivery will arrive soon.”
“Think of the future, Father, how you’re protecting your flock.” And consider your own health.
“It would be difficult to ponder our future if this mission fails.”
“Yes, Father.” But Prospero lived by the same credo as Marcus Aurelius: Each of us only lives now, this brief instant. The rest has been lived already, or is impossible to see. Prospero shifted weight off his bad hip. “There is one more thing, a complication.” He relished a challenge, but this new development gave even him pause. Still, he couldn’t resist taking a little delight in toying with the high-strung priest.
“What is it?” Trepidation lent a quaver to Father Anthony’s voice. The holy man didn’t want to get more involved than he already was; laundering money through the Vatican bank was already jeopardizing his immortal soul, not to mention threatening his mortal self with substantial jail time—or worse—if he were ever caught.
“Liberata—she’s on the plane.” Prospero felt the temperature in the booth plummet.
“The kidnap negotiator?”
“Sì.”
A long hesitation. “We should pray.”
No kidding.
Chapter 3
Thea’s shoulders and arms were beginning to tire from performing CPR on the unresponsive passenger. Still no pulse. She felt slightly dizzy from her efforts, and the copilot’s words did nothing to settle her thoughts.
What the hell is happening in the cockpit?
Bernard returned from conferring with his fellow flight attendant and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Here, let me take over.”
She finished the cycle and moved aside, allowing him to continue the CPR. His colleague, Madeira, moved among the passengers, reassuring them and asking them to remain seated as they craned their necks in an effort to figure out what was going on at the front of the plane. They’d been working on the man for at least ten minutes. Even the AED hadn’t kick-started his heart. It wasn’t looking good.
She stood and extended a hand to the copilot. “Thea Paris. I’m a security professional. Can we speak up front?”
“William Laverdeen. Absolutely.”
She looked back at the boys, Jabari wrapping his larger hand around his brother’s. It made her miss Nikos. She strode up the aisle, aware of the passengers’ gazes glued to her back. Since the older man had collapsed, an intense silence had settled across the plane, everyone absorbed by the emergency. Only the Asian woman in black seemed unfazed by the chaos, casually flipping through a fashion magazine. Th
e woman looked up briefly as Thea passed, then went back to reading.
Thea hurried to the front of the plane. At least the turbulence seemed to have settled down.
She met Laverdeen outside the cockpit door. His face showed irritation and a pinch of panic.
“The pilot locked you out?”
“I’ve tried the interphone, banged on the door, but Captain Rivers hasn’t responded.”
“You entered the emergency code?” she asked.
“Let me try again.” He punched a code into the touch pad. If it worked, it would send an alarm to the cockpit warning that someone would be cleared to enter in thirty seconds.
The light turned yellow, then back to red. “Dammit. Rivers toggled the lock mode again. We won’t be able to try again for at least five minutes.”
“And the lock mode could last for as long as twenty, correct?”
“Actually, he can keep switching on the lock mode, keeping us out indefinitely.”
This safety feature prevented hijackers from storming the cockpit. But what protected passengers from an unstable captain? Thea’s thoughts immediately went to Germanwings Flight 9525, on which copilot Andreas Lubitz locked the captain out and crashed the commercial airliner straight into the French Alps, taking all 150 souls aboard with him into oblivion. She forced the thought out of her mind.
They needed to get inside. But after 9/11, cockpit doors had been reinforced with a solid steel bar that ran horizontally across the door into a strike plate on either side. These upgraded doors were supposed to be bulletproof, too—even able to withstand the force of a grenade. The cockpit did have a trapdoor, but it could only be opened from inside.
She checked her cell to see if the in-flight Wi-Fi was still working. Nope. Rivers had shut it down. “How was the captain’s mood?”
“Normal. Guy’s kind of an asshole.” Laverdeen punched the code on the keypad again. The red light flashed. Locked. “I urgently needed the toilet. Sounds crazy, I know, but I think he slipped something into my coffee.”
Maybe not so crazy. She picked up the interphone to test it herself, on the off chance that Laverdeen wasn’t telling the truth. The two pilots might have had words, or they could be embroiled in some personal drama. The phone rang and rang. No answer.