by K. J. Howe
She ripped the duct tape off his mouth.
“You’re going to regret this,” he said in English, his voice nasal.
“Yeah, yeah. Why don’t we skip to the part where you tell me everything.”
He sat there, silent.
“Okay . . .” She pulled out her cell and played the recording she had made of her conversation with Prospero. “He’s safer in there with you than he would be out here.”
His face blanched.
“I’d recommend cooperating with me if you want a chance to make it through this alive.”
He remained silent.
“Who’s the target?”
Nothing.
“You and I both know the capo doesn’t take kindly to men who fail him.”
Versace assessed her.
“One last time, then I tape your mouth back up. Who are they after?” she asked.
He sighed. “I don’t know. I just had to make sure the plane reached these coordinates.”
She studied his calculating gaze and decided he was telling the truth. He seemed to be exactly the kind of rat who would switch allegiances to save his own skin.
“Do better than that, or I’ll give you back to your boss.”
“Gladio,” he blurted. “We are Gladio.”
“What the hell is Gladio?”
The lights flickered off and on. One second she could see the man’s face; the next, the plane went completely dark. The comforting drone of the APU was gone, replaced by silence. A blue glow lit the aisle, the emergency lights providing soft illumination. A hush fell over the passengers.
It was too soon for the fuel to be gone. Prospero had made his first move.
Chapter 25
Prospero glanced at his watch. The intel he’d procured on the Freedom Guardians’ plans was time-sensitive. He couldn’t afford to outwait Thea Paris—especially not when she could be useful. Bassam had blocked cell and satphone service, but Liberata had stalled for time while undoubtedly calling for help through the plane’s Guard system.
He half smiled. It had been several years since he’d crossed paths with the kidnap negotiator, but he’d suspected they’d meet again. He had always preferred a donna forte, even though his father used to caution him that while men were simple creatures, easy to predict, women could always surprise you. Prospero couldn’t agree more.
Smart, wily, and fearless, Liberata had manipulated one of his associates into giving up a hostage without one cent of ransom money changing hands. He could have stepped in but decided not to, the end result suiting his needs. And now, here they were again, this time direct adversaries in a dangerous game.
He picked up the radio. “In case you’re interested, the outside temperature is thirty degrees.” His linen shirt was soaked through, matted against his chest.
“Excellent. It’s too cold in here. Had to put on a jacket.” Her voice was strong, energized.
Normally he wouldn’t want to play poker with her, but in this case he held the winning hand. With the APU off, the next thirty minutes would turn the plane into a Turkish bath, and by the time the sun came up, the temperature would become lethal. Long before then, passengers would be at risk of heat stroke, tempers would flare, and Thea would have a mutiny on her hands.
Raising an arm, he wiped sweat from his brow. “Airline coffee is terrible. Come out, and I’ll make you a proper espresso, ragazza.”
“Trying to reduce my caffeine intake, but thanks anyway, ragazzo.”
He smiled. “I’m not going to ask nicely again. Tell Captain Rivers that his youngest is about to lose a finger.”
On the other end, he heard sounds of someone struggling, a muffled yell. Then someone must have hit the mute button. As expected, she’d incapacitated the captain.
At least fifteen seconds of silence passed before she came back on. “Mutilating the girl won’t help anyone. Imagine having to confess that sin to Father Francisco. There aren’t enough Hail Marys in the universe to make up for harming a child in cold blood, Prospero.”
Her memory was spectacular, zeroing in on the name of the priest who had been involved in the kidnapping all those years ago. And she’d called his bluff. Women and children were good bargaining chips, but Thea knew he would never maim or kill one. “Sooner or later, you’re coming out. For every minute you make me wait, there will be a price.” This time he wasn’t bluffing.
“What does Gladio mean?” she asked.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” That inutile bastardo was spilling his guts. Good thing he didn’t know much. Even so, Prospero didn’t want to give Thea any more time to question him.
He gave an emphatic nod to the mechanic.
Chapter 26
One moment, Thea could see; the next, the plane was plunged into utter darkness. Even the blue emergency lights died this time, and nothing took their place. Prospero or one of his people must have accessed the “hellhole,” where the hydraulics and other guts of the plane were located, and disabled the batteries, killing all power.
The passengers gasped. A few cried out. With all the lights gone, the fear inside the plane was palpable.
“Stay seated and remain calm.” She fumbled in her pants pocket and found the 5.11 mini LED flashlight she always kept on her key chain. A quick flick of her finger, and a beam of light sliced through the darkness. She strode down the aisle to access her SINK and dug out two small LED beacons and a larger flashlight. She gave one beacon to Dillman, the other to Matthias. The soft glow of light dissipated the initial panic.
Ayan and Jabari sat quietly beside Ocean and Dillman, their playing cards resting on a fold-down tray table. When the flashlights came on, the boys did not look panicked; they looked vigilant, alert. Former child soldiers, they knew that nighttime was an ideal time to attack and that staying calm was a good strategy for staying alive.
“What’s going on?” Hammond asked.
“The hijackers are trying to force us out. I’m trying to buy enough time for another plane or air traffic control to hear our distress signal and send help.” She didn’t want to share that she was beginning to think it unlikely that help would come in time; hope was a balm. “Time is our friend and their enemy.”
“But isn’t the plane depressurized now that we’ve lost power?” Hammond adjusted his fedora.
“Not exactly. It’s in the process of depressurizing, but we’re not down for the count yet. Hang tight.”
“Maybe we should let them in, start negotiating face-to-face,” Matthias said.
“These guys negotiate with AK-47s. We have no answer for that aboard the plane.” She nodded to the boys and headed for the cockpit.
Laverdeen had ripped the duct tape off Rivers’s face and was giving him a drink of water. She passed the large flashlight to the copilot. “Use this as needed.”
She pointed her light at the cockpit window and tried to open the crank. It didn’t budge. The plane was still pressurized. Soon enough, though, she’d be able to open the window.
“I need to take a piss,” Rivers said.
“Unzip him and give him a cup,” she told Laverdeen.
“This is fucking ridiculous. Let me go.” Rivers was sputtering, saliva flying.
“You do remember who hijacked the plane, right?”
“Because they have my kids—I had no choice.”
“We always have a choice.”
Rivers became shrill. “I want privacy.”
“Sorry, the cup is what you get. If you really want privacy that bad, you can piss in your pants.” No way would she risk cutting Rivers loose.
“Get me out of this seat now!”
She grabbed the duct tape and slapped it across Rivers’s mouth, muting his screams. Pilots were trained to remain calm at all times, but Rivers had officially lost it.
“I don’t want to hold the cup,” Laverdeen said.
“Just do it.” She pressed the radio button. As she feared: dead. Prospero’s men had disconnected the battery,
so they had no lights, no radio, and—the most critical development—no ventilation.
Smart bastard.
Even though it was pitch-black outside, it was still hot out on the tarmac, just as Prospero had said. She could already feel staleness in the air. Soon enough, it would feel like a sauna inside the plane, which would be especially dangerous for any passengers with health problems, including her. People with diabetes didn’t dissipate heat all that efficiently, and that could trigger a whole cascade of problems.
She calculated all the possible moves left to her and realized that none of them was very good.
Thea pulled back the map covering the cockpit windscreen and tried opening the small window again. This time the crank budged, indicating the plane had depressurized. She slid the window along the track, and hot air rushed into the cockpit. The entire plane would feel like the Sahara soon.
She spoke through the open window. “You there?”
Prospero’s baritone rumbled back from somewhere in the darkness. “Buona sera, Liberata!”
“Put the APU back on, and I’ll come out.”
“No pressurization.”
She hesitated, then realized she was out of options. “Agreed.”
“You have three minutes.”
The lights kicked back on. A blast of fresh air entered the cockpit.
“You’re leaving us?” Laverdeen asked.
“No choice.” She reached for the Glock tucked in her pants. “You know how to use this?”
“I’ve been to a shooting range a few times.”
“Keep it hidden and be cautious. If there’s a way to negotiate us out of this mess, I’ll find it.” She passed him the Glock. “Come with me.”
She hurried into the cabin, the copilot on her heels.
The passengers’ attention was focused on her as the lights and air came back on.
“What’s happening?” Matthias asked.
“I bought us as much time as I could, but the plane is depressurized now, so we have to switch tactics. I’m going out there to meet with the hijacker. Laverdeen will keep trying the radio.” She touched the copilot’s shoulder. “He’s the boss. Do what he says until I get back.”
Ayan ran toward her, then strangled her legs in a tight hug. “Don’t go.”
Jabari’s lips pinched together, but he remained silent.
The last thing in the world she wanted was to be separated from the boys.
She picked up Ayan and held him close. “Sorry, buddy. I have to do whatever it takes to make sure you and Jabari are safe. I’ll be back soon.”
Jabari’s eyes misted. The boys had experienced horrible things, but they were still kids at heart. She returned Ayan to the floor, squatted, and held up her right pinky. “Promise me you’ll be good.”
Jabari leaned over, and both boys entwined their little fingers with hers. “We promise.”
She stood and addressed the group. “Treat these two like your own.”
Dillman nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”
She trusted his promise. He’d come across as a blowhard at first, but he’d proven himself to be a solid guy, albeit with a unique sense of humor.
A quick glance at her watch told her she had less than a minute to get outside. She forced herself to turn and walk toward the cockpit. Laverdeen followed.
“Don’t try to be a hero. The guy we’re dealing with, he’s a pro,” she said.
“Got it. Be safe out there.”
Rivers glared at her, but she just ignored him. As Laverdeen settled back into the copilot’s chair, she checked her glucose levels, which were in the normal range. She’d be all right for a little while, and the peppermint candy she kept in her pocket for emergencies would keep her going a little longer, if necessary. She hated to leave behind all her gear, but it would just be confiscated anyway. Final preparations complete, she climbed over the controls and shimmied out the cockpit window.
Her fingers clutched the window’s ledge, her legs dangling below. Fully stretched out, she released her hands, dropping fifteen feet to the ground. Her knees absorbed the impact. She rolled over her right shoulder to soften the landing.
Crouched on the ground, she brushed her hair back from her eyes. Prospero Salvatore stood nearby in a sweat-soaked black linen shirt, looking like a rich gangster on vacation. He stretched his arms wide, a big smile on his lips.
“Liberata, bienvenuto a Jufra.”
Chapter 27
Thea climbed to her feet, then brushed off the red dirt covering her hands. Prospero moved toward her, a few more lines in his craggy face since their last meeting but otherwise unchanged. A slick-haired younger man decked out in a three-piece suit stood beside him. Interesting wardrobe choice for this heat. Behind them, three Libyans swathed in desert gear pointed AKs at her.
“I thought we were having a friendly coffee, just the two of us, Prospero.” Thea counted twenty men surrounding the plane. There could be more inside the hangar.
“Best to have a chaperone or two to make sure I behave.” A quick smile. “I don’t think you’ve met my nephew, Luciano,” he said, sweeping his hand to indicate the young man in the suit.
“B-b-bout time you got off.” The nephew’s malevolent glare left her unsettled, as if she was one comment away from a pistol-whipping.
“Forgive me, but I need to pat you down.” Prospero moved toward her.
She stood with her legs apart, fingers linked behind her head, while his hands brushed down her back, then front. Her face inches from his, she remained relaxed, a challenge in her eyes as he skirted the gap between her breasts. He was being reasonably thorough, but some outdated notion of gentlemanly behavior caused him to miss her insulin pump. Better that way.
“Okay, time for that coffee.” Prospero headed toward the hangar.
The Libyan guards escorted her along the runway, tracing the route Rivers was supposed to have used to park the plane. The steady hum of the 737’s APU gave her some comfort. At least the passengers would remain comfortable inside the jet until she could return.
For a middle-of-nowhere locale, the hangar was surprisingly large. That’s what oil money did for you. But the building looked neglected, abandoned. Gunmetal sheets of steel soared high above her, although time and sandstorms had corroded parts of the upper loft, leaving gaping holes. A catwalk ran around the interior high above the ground, but the ladder leading up to it was little more than a twisted wreck of broken side rails and missing rungs. Inside, the temperature was sweltering, the air stale and sour. She’d prefer a cold glass of water to an espresso.
She followed Prospero into the kitchen, which had definitely seen better days. The plastic chairs had black smudges on them, and the melamine counter was chipped and stained. But an old espresso machine rested on a shelf in a corner.
With the Libyans on guard outside, the three of them sat at the card table in the middle of the room. A pack of unfiltered cigarettes and a lighter rested on the table. She was surprised to see a pot of cooking oil perched on an electric stovetop beside a plate of sfinz, delicious Libyan doughnuts served with honey or other sweet toppings. Fresh snacks, even in a hangar in the middle of the desert. Her stomach growled.
Prospero nodded to Luciano, and the younger man started making the espresso.
“You have cinnamon?” she asked.
The capo raised his eyebrows. “You shouldn’t mess with perfection.”
“Try it before judging.”
He shrugged. “If we have it, add some to mine as well,” he told Luciano. The espresso machine gurgled, and a heavenly scent filled the kitchen.
Prospero’s voice dropped and he leaned forward. “Forgive me, Thea, but we don’t have much time. The thing is, I need you to do something for me. Once you complete the task, the passengers are all yours.”
“I’m not going to like this mission, am I?”
“A truck full of Syrian refugees is coming to Budapest. You and your team need to commandeer the truck—not the pas
sengers—and then take the M5 to Serbia, switch to the A1, pass through Novi Sad and Belgrade, then on to Sofia in Bulgaria, finally to the E80 inside Turkey to the town of Edirne, where my team will take over.”
She studied his face. “What, exactly, is on that truck?”
“That’s not important.”
Luciano plopped a plate of doughnuts and two espressos down on the table, a dash of cinnamon haphazardly sprinkled on each.
“Then what?” she asked.
“We do the exchange—the truck for the plane, minus the one passenger I want.”
“And who would that be?”
“Also unimportant.”
“For me to agree, the two boys need to be freed now.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Prospero said.
“Then I’m not doing it.”
He smiled, a look of regret creasing his forehead. “You’re in no position to bargain.”
She took a deep breath. No way was she leaving the boys behind. “Why can’t your men handle this themselves?”
“Your team has special . . . capabilities.” Prospero tapped his right index finger on the table.
“And you avoid putting your own men at risk.” Knowing the mafioso, he’d had a plan in place long before he discovered she was on the hijacked London-bound flight. He’d have other contingency plans too, but her presence on the plane was too good an opportunity to pass up.
He managed to look a bit hurt at her accusation. “I promise my men will keep a watchful eye on you.” He downed his espresso.
“And where is this truck coming from? How will we find it?”
“We’re not sure how it will arrive in Budapest, but we’ll tell you how to identify it when we know more.” He shrugged.
“What’s so important about this vehicle?”
“You know, the cinnamon’s not as bad as it sounds.” He put down the cup, took an envelope from an inside pocket, and slid it across the table.
“What’s that?” she asked.