by K. J. Howe
You weren’t the only one. “It’ll be okay. I’ll help you.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Her openness about her fears surprised him. Vater always told him never to show weakness of any kind. It wasn’t tolerated in the Dietrich family.
“That’d be nice. Maybe one more time down the mountain. I need to find a quiet place to say my afternoon prayers.”
“To Allah?”
She smiled broadly. “You’re familiar with Islam?”
“A little.” His skin reddened. He respected Vater but did not share his views on Islam; it was something he couldn’t discuss openly at home.
The chair rattled as it neared the top of the mountain. She jumped a little. He lifted up the bar and offered his arm. “Don’t worry, just hold on to me.”
She turned to him and smiled, accepting his help.
It made him feel strange, in a good way.
Not such a bad birthday, after all.
Chapter 5
Thea ducked through the hole blasted into the cockpit, Laverdeen on her heels. The ground loomed just five hundred feet below. Through the windscreen, a bumpy dirt road was rushing up at them.
Rivers gave them a quick glance. “Get out of here. I’m landing this plane.” He was yelling, deafened by the explosion in the small space.
“Take over,” she shouted at Laverdeen.
A triangular piece of debris had lodged in Captain Rivers’s shoulder, but he still held the plane steady. Blood dripped down his arm.
Laverdeen belted himself in, scanned the flight deck, and adjusted a few controls.
The plane had leveled off, confirming that Rivers had truly planned on landing rather than crashing. Still, Thea wasn’t taking any chances. “Laverdeen, make sure he doesn’t pull any more stunts.”
“I need to land at these coordinates. They’ll kill my daughters if I don’t.” Rivers’s voice shook.
“Wait, someone has your kids?” Thea demanded, belting herself into the jump seat.
The pilot gave her a glance, then turned back to the windscreen and shook his head. “Take that damn thing out of my shoulder.”
“Sorry, it needs to stay in until we land. Don’t want you bleeding out.” Ironically, the embedded shrapnel was sometimes the only thing preventing a massive hemorrhage from a wound.
The earth surged up at them, the 737’s wheels touching down, one at a time, then both at once, on the uneven ground. Laverdeen lifted the thrust-reverser handles and yanked them aft, standing on the brakes. The aircraft bounced and swerved, engines howling in full reverse thrust.
A smooth enough landing, given the circumstances. Seconds later, they slowed to a crawl, making their way down the dirt runway.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Thea demanded.
The captain reached into his shirt pocket and shoved his cell phone at her. A picture of two young girls showed on the screen, their mouths covered with red bandanas, eyes wide.
Her pulse accelerated. They hadn’t given the pilot much choice.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Laverdeen’s face flushed.
“Because you would have tried to intervene.”
Thea scanned the immediate area. There was a large hangar ahead, the broad doors open, men with AK-47s standing nearby.
She turned to Rivers. “Where are we?”
The captain wiped his face with the back of one hand. “In the middle of the Libyan Desert.”
That made sense—in the political vacuum left by the civil war and the killing of Muammar Gaddafi in 2011, Libya had once again become a hotbed of intertribal warfare and one of the likeliest places on the planet to be kidnapped. “Tell me about the people who approached you.”
“The plane needs to go into that hangar. That’s what they told me to do.”
Thea turned to Laverdeen. “Leave it out here in the open. Can’t take off, or they’ll blow out the tires, but we won’t make it easy on them. Fire up the APU. We need to repressurize the plane.”
She focused on Rivers while Laverdeen powered down the main engines and started up the auxiliary power unit, or APU, an extra engine used purely for powering the aircraft’s pneumatic, electric, and hydraulic systems. “What did these people tell you?”
“They told me to spike Laverdeen’s coffee with a diuretic.” Rivers held up a vial with white powder inside. “Then lock him out of the cockpit and fly directly here, contacting no one.”
“How many of them were there? What nationality were they?”
“Two guys, maybe three. No accents. They threw a hood over my head in the airport parking lot and pulled me into the back of a van. Told me that if I didn’t follow their instructions exactly, they would kill my daughters.”
That explained why Captain Rivers had shut them out so completely, but not much else. Thea studied the plane’s GPS coordinates and gazed out at the dry, bleak desert horizon. Libya. She grabbed the pilot’s rectangular canvas pubs bag and started unfolding the sky charts from inside it to cover up the windscreen and block the view from outside. She tried her satphone again, but it had been jammed.
“Did they say what they wanted?”
He shook his head. “I’m supposed to pull into the hangar, then open the plane’s doors.” Lines of worry were etched deeply into Rivers’s forehead. He moved forward in the seat, as if he were about to stand. Thea grabbed a headset cord, leaned over, and in a flash wound it around his seat and across his upper body.
“What the hell?” Rivers squirmed in the chair as she tied off the cord, ensuring he couldn’t escape, then bound his hands behind him with duct tape from her SINK.
“Sorry, you’re the one they have leverage on.”
“But my kids . . .”
“They have nothing to gain from harming the children now.” Noticing the blood that still oozed from his wound, Thea grabbed a couple of Tylenols, popped them into Rivers’s mouth, and helped him sip some water. “These will dull the pain until we can get the shrapnel out. Tell me everything you can remember.”
He slumped in the chair. “They kept repeating what I told you. It sounded scripted. Hell, they had my girls. I wasn’t about to provoke them.”
Thea paused for a moment, then turned to Laverdeen. “You have a Magic Marker?”
“In there.” The copilot pointed to a cubbyhole.
Her ears popped from the APU repressurizing the plane. She found a black Sharpie, grabbed one of the large maps, unfolded it, and wrote in large letters:
AIRPLANE PRESSURIZED. DO NOT TRY TO ACCESS THE DOORS OR SHOOT. CONTACT ON VHF 121.24.
Thea repeated the message in Arabic, writing from right to left. They were in Libya, after all, and she didn’t want any communication breakdowns.
She placed the map on the windscreen with the writing facing outward. “Block off the rest of those windows with these maps, and keep the plane’s air conditioning on. If they contact you on the radio, come get me,” she told Laverdeen.
Returning to the cabin, she found passengers staring out the windows. There were bags, blankets, and pillows littering the floor. She flicked the polarization switch to darken the windows and grabbed the interphone.
The passengers turned to face her. “I’m sure you’re all concerned about the unexpected and rough landing.” An understatement, for sure. “Could everyone join me up front? Watch your step.”
For now, the plane was secure. The hijackers wouldn’t risk hurting whomever or whatever they were after by blowing open the doors without trying to talk them down first—at least, she hoped not.
As the passengers scurried to collect their strewn luggage, she made her way to the boys. They looked shell-shocked, but their faces lit up when they saw her. Poor Ayan had thrown up all over his shirt and looked green. She grabbed a napkin, wiped his face, and lifted him into her arms. “It’ll be okay, buddy. How are you feeling?”
“My belly aches.”
“That was quite a ride for your first airplane trip.”
He lo
oked down at his shirt and shrugged.
“Don’t worry, I’ve been sick on many flights. Happens to everyone.” She wanted to strangle whoever was behind the hijacking for putting the boys through this hell.
She slung Ayan’s knapsack over her right shoulder, then navigated the remaining debris to take the little guy to the lavatory. At the rear of the plane, she set him down so she could find the clean shirt she had stored in his knapsack. “Give me a touchdown signal, so we can get this shirt off.” She had introduced the boys to American football, and they loved watching the game.
Ayan’s sticklike arms rose straight into the air, and he wriggled as she helped him remove the soiled shirt. “Let’s get you washed up.” The lock mechanism on the lavatory door was set on VACANT. She slid the knob aside and pushed the door open.
But the lavatory wasn’t empty. The guy dressed in Versace was in there, a Glock in his right hand. Their eyes locked across the threshold. He raised the gun.
“Run, Ayan.” She slammed the front of the muzzle with her right palm, forcing the slide back.
Versace’s right finger pressed the trigger, but nothing happened. She’d knocked the slide back half an inch, far enough to make the weapon useless. With her left hand, she encircled his wrist and rotated it, forcing him against the back wall.
He dropped the gun to avoid a broken wrist.
Thea shoved her way into the lavatory, the door closing behind her. The small space was oppressive, airless, and now very crowded. She brought her right forearm up to crush his throat. His breath felt hot against her cheek.
Neither of them had room to maneuver.
His left hand slammed into the side of her ribs, but he didn’t have enough space to wind up for the blow, so the pain was tolerable. She lifted her knee, then crunched her boot down on his dress shoe. A snapping sound. A grunt. Versace snaked his left arm around her neck, turning her around. He wasn’t a big man, but he was whipcord strong. Her head was now pressed against the side of the mirror. She let go of his right hand and tried to free herself but couldn’t. He tightened his hold.
She elbowed him in the gut. Hard. His grip faltered, and she was able to twist away. Turning her head, she butted him in the nose. Blood spurted onto his shirt.
Slipping her right hand beneath his left arm and grabbing his neck, she pressed her thumb hard against his carotid artery, cutting off the blood supply to his brain. He squirmed, trying to get a purchase on her hand, but time worked against him.
Seconds later, he slumped onto her.
The door opened, the sudden light causing her to blink. She craned her neck.
Ayan stood outside, a big umbrella in his hands, eyes wild. He whacked Versace hard on the back. He lifted the umbrella again, then smacked Versace again.
“It’s okay, you can stop, Ayan.”
The boy made as if to hit the man again.
“Stop, buddy. We’re good, we’re good.”
Thea shoved Versace out of the lavatory. He slumped in a heap, half inside, half outside the door. Thank goodness he wasn’t a big guy, or she could have been in serious trouble. She stepped on him as she exited the bathroom, securing his Glock in the back of her pants.
“Where’d you find that?” She indicated the umbrella.
“There.” Ayan pointed to the floor behind him.
“Thanks for your help.” Fearless and battle ready. She’d hoped that part of his life was over.
Footsteps sounded. Bernard must have heard the commotion.
“Help me tie this guy up, would you?” she asked him.
“What the hell happened here?” The flight attendant’s eyebrows arched.
“I’m guessing he’s an inside man.”
Bernard gave her a look, then reached into one of the cabinets and retrieved two zip ties from the security kit. “Here you go. What now?”
“Let’s belt him into a seat.”
Bernard grabbed the guy’s upper body while she secured his legs. They strapped him into a seat in the last row, belt snug, zip ties on his wrists and ankles. His head lolled to one side.
She removed the umbrella from Ayan’s clenched fingers and handed it to Bernard. “Can you give this back to its rightful owner?”
Reaching down, she scooped Ayan into her arms and carried him up front, her heart overcome with affection for this little boy. She snatched a couple of blankets along the way and wrapped one around Ayan. Both boys were in shock, but as much as she wanted to reassure them, she had to focus on finding a way out of this mess.
“Please take care of your brother, okay?” she asked Jabari, giving him the other blanket.
The older boy draped both arms around Ayan.
Several other passengers had moved to the first few rows. Only two people were left in the rear of the plane—the unconscious man and the dead man. As she walked to the front to address the passengers, they all started talking at once.
“What the hell’s going on?” the Texan with the impressive mustache grumbled. “Where are we? I saw men with guns out there.”
“My phone won’t work. Did you call for help?” the man in the seersucker suit asked, clearly agitated.
“Please, one question at a time, and I’ll do my best to help. I’m Thea Paris. I work for a company called Quantum International Security handling risk management and kidnap negotiations.”
“My name’s Mike Dillman. Is this a hijacking?” The Texan stroked his mustache.
“Good question. The pilot was forced by unknown persons to land at these GPS coordinates in the Libyan Desert, but we know little beyond that. Does anyone here have a security background?”
Silence greeted her.
She was on her own.
Chapter 6
Johann adjusted his knapsack as he hurried home, pleased about how his birthday was turning out. He’d sat beside Fatima on the bus coming home from their ski day in Innsbruck. She’d entertained him with stories about her crazy sisters and what life was like in the United Arab Emirates—fascinating tales that had shown him an alternative universe, a world away from his European lifestyle.
When he’d told her it was his birthday, she’d penciled a quick sketch of him on skis as a gift. A talented artist, Fatima had somehow captured that feeling of freedom he experienced on the slopes in just a few strokes of her pencil. In return, he’d shared his Toblerone bar with her. Used to people making fun of him for looking like a string bean, he was relieved to just feel normal with someone.
As he walked at a brisk pace down the lane to his home, anticipation sparked up and down his body at the thought of asking her to the upcoming school dance. Just one major stumbling block: Fatima was Muslim. His father would never approve.
Well, Father didn’t have to know everything about his life.
A little spring quickened his step. Maybe Vater would take the evening off work and spend it celebrating his only child’s birthday. Father was a successful weapons manufacturer with clients around the world, so he was always on the phone or on his laptop. Johann knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up, even if it was his birthday. Vater had changed dramatically over the five years since Johann’s mother died in a car accident: the man who’d once taken him to countless sporting events, musicals, and museums had lately surrounded himself with cronies, spending less and less time with his son.
Johann knew his father loved him, and it wasn’t as if they didn’t spend any time together. Beginning nearly every morning at 06:00, they trained together in a challenging routine of physical fitness and firearms training. It was grueling, especially given his illness, but Johann treasured the routine just the same. It was the one time of day when all the electronic devices were shut off and it was just father and son, working toward a common goal.
Once, late at night, Johann had found his father sobbing at the bedroom shrine he’d created for his beloved wife. His grief was genuine, but over time it had morphed into anti-Islamic xenophobia. The man who’d been driving the car that killed Mutti was from Duba
i, and ever since then Vater’s views of foreigners had hardened into something ugly that Johann couldn’t understand.
Turning the corner, Johann studied the fortress he called home. An Austrian castle, the thirty-thousand-square-foot schloss had been in their family for seven generations. Flags featuring the Dietrich coat of arms flew proudly on each of the turrets. The ancient walls were covered in moss, like an old man’s scraggly beard.
As he stared at the array of vehicles in the large driveway, Johann’s enthusiasm drained away: Father had his “associates” over again, including his best friend, Leopold Mueller, a supposedly brilliant biochemist who gave Johann the creeps. Uncle Karl had told Johann that Leopold had been working on groundbreaking gene therapy techniques when the university that employed him discovered that key portions of his work had been plagiarized. He had been thrown out of academia and gone to work for a Dutch biopharmaceutical company with labs in Europe, India, and Africa.
Vater and his friends had probably barricaded themselves in the basement as usual to talk business. Johann wondered if his father even remembered it was his birthday. He missed the man who used to inhabit his father’s body.
Johann slipped his key into the side door, knowing a quiet dinner alone with Vater wasn’t likely. He’d wanted to ask his father’s advice about asking a girl out, but how could he do it without revealing who she was—or what she was? He felt a familiar sinking sensation in his stomach. Why did religion or culture matter so much? Wasn’t it more important what kind of person Fatima was?
He hung his knapsack on the antique coatrack and headed for the kitchen, praying that Chef Rudy might have made Salzburger Nockerl, his favorite dessert. The mounds of airy soufflé represented the surrounding mountains, and Rudy usually smothered the peaks in thick raspberry sauce. Delicious. Johann’s stomach growled. As he hurried to the rear of the house, familiar footsteps echoed on the marble floors.
He came face-to-face with his father, Gernot Dietrich, all six-foot-six of him. Unlike Johann, his father was thickly muscled with broad shoulders, an intimidating figure with deep-set blue eyes that radiated intelligence. “Ah, you’re home. Happy birthday, son.”