Skyjack: A Kidnap-And-Ransom Thriller

by K. J. Howe

  “Information.” He stood. “Please excuse us for a moment.”

  Prospero headed for the kitchen door, Luciano at his heels like an obedient guard dog. She attempted to follow, but the three Libyan guards outside blocked her way, AKs raised.

  “You wait here,” Prospero said over his shoulder.

  “I won’t do this unless you release the boys,” she called out over the guards.

  “Their future is in your hands.” He gave her a parting grin as he strode toward the exit.

  The door slammed in her face. Frustration bubbling inside her, she ripped open the envelope Prospero had left behind and scanned the contents.

  MY MEN WILL TAKE YOU TO BUDAPEST. GET A TEAM TOGETHER AND CALL ME AT EXACTLY 15:00 EVERY DAY. DO NOT BE LATE.

  A phone number followed.

  What the hell? She headed straight for the window overlooking the runway. A familiar, high-pitched whine set her teeth on edge—the blades of the BBJ’s engines were starting to spin.

  The Libyans must have accessed the 737 during her discussion with Prospero. She recognized two silhouettes climbing the set of mobile stairs now up against the aircraft: Prospero’s muscular frame moved with a faint limp, and Luciano’s wiry build was distinctive.

  Dammit to hell.

  She pounded on the windows, but they were made of glass reinforced with chicken wire.

  The plane was leaving without her, the boys and the hijackers on board.

  Chapter 28

  Prospero climbed the steps of the Boeing Business Jet with Luciano, the engines already running. He wished he’d had the luxury of more time with Thea. If he were kidnapped, he’d want Liberata on the case. Or maybe not; after tonight, she’d likely pay the kidnappers to finish the job.

  While he’d been talking to Thea, his Libyan associates had wheeled a flight cart to the 737, opening the door without deploying the emergency chute. Exactly as he’d planned. With Thea out of the way, the copilot had no choice but to welcome the heavily armed men on board.

  Prospero stepped inside the plane and found Bassam guarding the cockpit, as instructed.

  “Get ready to take off,” he advised the pilots. Bassam had untied Rivers, allowing the captain to reclaim the helm.

  “We can’t leave without a full inspection. The cockpit has been blown open. The plane might have structural issues after what it’s gone through,” Laverdeen said.

  “Make it work,” Prospero said.

  “We can fly low and slow,” Rivers said. Sweat poured down the pilot’s face, and he had a bloody bandage on his shoulder. The copilot had removed the shrapnel at the captain’s insistence and administered first aid.

  Prospero left Bassam to oversee the preparations for an immediate takeoff, including rolling away the stairs. He entered the cabin, where Luciano and two of Bassam’s men pointed AK-47s at the wide-eyed passengers. After a quick survey of the plane, he found his inside man sitting near the rear, tied up like a trussed turkey. He half smiled. The man seated beside him had a bluish tinge to his face—obviously dead. Quite an eventful flight so far.

  “Where’s Thea?” the younger child asked.

  “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Ayan. What’s yours?”

  “Prospero.”

  “I want Thea.”

  “She’s doing a favor for me.”

  “Then we’re going to help her. Come on, Jabari.” Ayan grabbed his brother’s hand and headed down the aisle toward him and Luciano.

  “She asked me to keep you safe here.” Prospero blocked the aisle so they couldn’t leave. The kids were his best leverage.

  “You’re lying.” The older one, Jabari, glared at him.

  He admired the boy’s bravado. “Sit down. You can join her soon enough.”

  “We want to see her now,” Ayan said.

  “Sorry, but that is not happening.”

  The boys assessed him with knowing eyes. Could they dodge by him and make a run for it? Before he could talk them out of it, Luciano pushed past him, grabbed both boys by the backs of their collars, and hauled them down the aisle. Ayan kicked Luciano; Jabari punched him. Ignoring their protests, Prospero’s nephew tossed the boys like sacks of potatoes into their seats.

  “B-buckle up,” Luciano said.

  “Enough.” Prospero didn’t want to discipline his nephew in front of the passengers, but what was he thinking, manhandling kids like that?

  A large man with a handlebar mustache stood up and moved toward the brothers. Prospero recognized the man from his passport picture. Michael Dillman.

  “Settle down, boys. Thea would want you to stay safe.” The Texan gave Luciano a hard look and scooped up one kid in each of his gigantic arms. Ayan and Jabari calmed down, clearly comfortable with the man.

  “Stick to the plan,” Prospero said to his nephew.

  Luciano glared for a second, then headed to the rear of the plane, where Prospero’s man sat handcuffed. His nephew undid the man’s seat belt, then hooked him by the collar and marched him to the front of the plane. The man’s eyes pleaded for mercy as he passed by, dragging his expensively clad feet.

  Prospero shook his head once. No sense giving him false hope.

  Luciano forced the thug to the open door, raised his Glock, and fired two bullets into the back of the traitor’s head. His body fell onto the runway below.

  “Get rid of the dead guy, too. I don’t want the plane smelling like a meat locker,” Prospero instructed his nephew.

  Luciano returned to the rear, wrestled the heart attack victim’s body onto the floor, dragged him to the opening, and pushed him through. The team below cleared the runway.

  Prospero stopped in front of a man wearing a fedora. “Come with me.”

  The older man blanched but unbuckled his seat belt and followed Prospero up the aisle. They entered the cockpit, where Bassam was supervising the pilots.

  “Give me the Glock,” Prospero told Laverdeen.

  “What are you talking about?” The copilot shrugged as he said it. He wasn’t a half-bad actor.

  “Now.”

  “I don’t have a weapon.”

  Prospero nodded to Bassam. The Libyan pointed his AK at Fedora’s head. “You have three seconds.”

  The old man’s body trembled. “No, please.”

  Prospero’s gaze locked with Laverdeen’s. The copilot needed to know he was serious. “One, two . . .”

  “Wait!” Laverdeen opened a cubby and retrieved the gun, handing it over.

  “Go take a seat,” he told Hammond.

  The man wearing the fedora rushed out of the cockpit, stumbling in his haste.

  Rivers pressed several buttons on the console, which was followed by the whir of the second engine.

  “Wheels up, gentlemen.”

  Chapter 29

  Thea didn’t have much time before the 737 took off. She rummaged through the hangar’s kitchen, ripping open cabinets until she found items she could use to escape: a lighter and a can of aerosol cooking spray. She tipped some of the hot oil from the pot onto one of the burners, then moved the pot, the cigarette lighter, and the cooking spray onto the counter beside the door.

  Thunder rumbled outside. A storm must be closing in—odd in this part of the world. A couple of seconds later she heard something else. Not weather this time: the plane’s second engine had whirred to life, spurring her on.

  Standing as far back as she could, she turned on the gas burner covered in oil. A soft clicking noise and whoosh, the oil spun into a flaming ball. A burning stench filled the kitchen. Smoke plumed from the burner.

  She banged on the door. “Fire, help!”

  Seconds later, two of the guards rushed in, focused on the smoldering stove. She launched the pot of oil toward them, dousing them with the scalding liquid. While the men batted frantically at the oil on their faces, she grabbed the lighter and the cooking spray. She flicked on the lighter and pressed the spray nozzle, sending a bright arc of flame leaping across the kitchen an
d turning the men into human infernos.

  Primal screams shattered the air.

  The third guard rushed in, rifle raised. She attacked him from the side, a sharp kick into his kidney, forcing him against the wall. He turned. She grabbed his AK-47 and twisted it to the right. His index finger crunched, stuck in the trigger guard. He fired off two shots, hitting one of the guards who was on fire. She jumped onto the man’s back, snaking her arm around his neck in a sleeper hold. He smashed her back into the wall and tried to shake her off, but she just increased the pressure.

  Seconds passed, and he finally slumped to the ground. She checked to make sure he was out cold. The guard who’d been shot was dead, and the other was groaning, curled into a ball with his face in his hands. After grabbing two of the AKs and extra magazines and grenades, she sprinted down the length of the hangar, closing and locking its huge doors.

  The commotion in the kitchen and the guards’ screams had masked the noise of the jet accelerating along the runway. Through one of the small windows on the hangar doors, she watched the wheels of the BBJ lift off the ground.

  She slumped against the steel panel, her mind on Ayan, Jabari, and the other passengers on a potentially damaged plane, Salvatore in charge, all of them heading to points unknown.

  Chapter 30

  On board the C-130 above the Libyan Desert, Rif completed his final safety checks. The team was preparing for a HAHO—high altitude, high opening—insertion from thirty-five thousand feet. They’d discussed tactics during the flight: speed was key, but they also had to remain invisible and avoid injury. It was for moments like this that the Quantum team trained so tirelessly; while on a mission, even the smallest setback could balloon into disaster. And any jump was physically demanding, but on a high-altitude maneuver the ambient oxygen was low, so hypoxia was an added concern.

  Nodding to his mates, Rif adjusted his night vision goggles and moved toward the opening, oxygen mask on. With unexpected scattered thunderclouds in the area, they’d had to spend precious moments searching for a clear zone for the drop. He channeled his inner Charles “Nish” Bruce, the British SAS soldier who’d been pivotal in developing the HAHO method of conflict insertion, and triple-checked his equipment.

  “Five kilometers out.” The pilot’s voice sounded in his earpiece.

  Rif wore a square-type ram-air parachute, which he found more maneuverable than a standard round or elliptical chute. A backpack containing the weapons and supplies they’d need rested between his legs, secured by a lanyard. He signaled to his teammates: Johansson, Jean-Luc, Brown, and the two Scots, Neil and Stewart. He’d jump first, setting the course and acting as a point for the rest of the team.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  Close to Jufra in enemy skies, they didn’t want to be compromised by the sound of parachutes opening at low altitude. HAHO jumps also allowed them to cover more distance by deploying early and taking advantage of the increased canopy time.

  “Five seconds.”

  His thoughts flashed to Thea and the boys in the hijacked 737 below. He had no idea who had control of the BBJ, but whoever it was, he wasn’t expecting a warm welcome.

  “Go.”

  Rif dove from the plane into the black abyss of the sky, the bitter embrace of the icy air slicing through his flight suit. The temperature was minus fifty degrees Fahrenheit. His polypropylene knitted undergarments, face mask, and gloves would protect his body from frostbite. Despite the bitter cold, despite the danger, night jumps were magical, darkness blanketing the earth in tranquility, the scattered lights below like twinkling stars in the sky.

  Moments later, his teammates joined him, forming a stack in the air. Ten to fifteen seconds passed. When they’d reached twenty-seven thousand feet, he tugged on his ripcord, the rustle and flump of the parachute opening a comforting sound even as it jerked him in the harness. They’d started around fifteen miles upwind of the planned landing site and would glide in.

  Glancing at the GPS on his wrist, he guided the group in the correct direction. They aimed to land in the wadi north of the airstrip, an ideal location—far enough away from the plane to avoid detection but close enough that they could reach Thea and the other passengers quickly on foot.

  The team drifted toward the valley in the night breeze. Lightning zigzagged in the distance, a branching bolt lancing through the black sky. Dark, soundless—he relished this part of the jump, silent except for the wind rippling through his clothing. But it was about to get noisy once they hit the ground. He pulled on the right-hand cord on the chute, adjusting his trajectory.

  He checked his GPS again. He didn’t want anything going sideways on this mission. There were kids involved—and one of Quantum’s own.

  Rif and Thea had known each other since they were children, their fathers lifelong friends. During Christos’s kidnapping, they’d made headway in their sometimes-complicated relationship. But the loss of Nikos had made Thea shut down emotionally. Understandably so. Both her brother and her father had betrayed her trust. As a result, she’d become even more dedicated to the work of bringing hostages home. It made him worry about the lengths she’d go to for the hijacked passengers below.

  The rain started, and thunder sounded in the distance. Damn, just what they didn’t need.

  As the team aimed for the landing spot, the roar of jet engines caught his attention. He looked south to see the BBJ accelerating along the runway, wheels lifting into the air.

  What the hell? They’d have to search the tarmac and surroundings to make sure Thea and the passengers were still on board.

  He pressed the radio button. “The eagle has flown the coop. Track it.” The pilot would relay the message to Hakan at headquarters. They’d mobilize every asset to follow the 737’s flight path. Wouldn’t be easy. They were in the middle of nowhere, and the plane’s transponders had been turned off.

  Had the hostages disembarked, or were they still on that plane?

  A couple of hundred feet above the wadi, the engines of the BBJ faded into the distance, replaced by another disturbing sound: gunfire.

  Guess there’s at least one passenger down there.

  Rif adjusted their trajectory once more, this time headed directly for the landing strip.

  Chapter 31

  Prospero sat in the jump seat behind the pilots, keeping a close eye on their movements as the plane flew through heavy rain that no one had counted on in this part of the world. Yet another complication in an already complicated situation. The glowing lights of the flight deck reminded him of sitting vigil in his father’s hospital room late at night, studying at the feet of a dying man. Stefano had taught him that self-respect trumped public opinion. Before making any decision, Prospero would cut away all extraneous opinions and confirm to himself that he was doing the right thing, instead of trying to appease others. Life wasn’t a popularity contest.

  Considering the two men at the controls, Prospero was concerned about Laverdeen. He seemed the heroic type, someone who might put the safety of others before his own, as demonstrated by his concealing that gun. Prospero would rely on Captain Rivers—the pilot wanted his kids back, so he’d do what he was told.

  Prospero had left Thea under guard so the 737 could take off without interruption. Now that he had the two boys and a plane full of hostages, she’d have to help him. He would radio back and tell his men to release her.

  A blaring alarm erupted on the flight deck.

  “What is it?” Prospero asked.

  “Master warning for cabin pressure. The jet has a slow leak, I bet. We pushed the pressurization system too hard on the ground,” Rivers said.

  “We have to stay at ten thousand feet or the oxygen masks will drop.” Laverdeen fiddled with the controls.

  “We’ll burn more fuel if we stay down there. How far are we going?” Rivers asked.

  “The transponder and sat comms systems are still off?” Prospero didn’t want any surprises.

  “I neutralized them both before we
landed, as instructed. But flying low means we can’t go very far at all.” Rivers studied the fuel gauge. “Only thirteen hundred pounds left in the tank. Even at our current altitude, our maximum range is around a hundred and forty miles.”

  “Head here.” He passed Rivers the coordinates of where his Gulfstream was parked. After dropping Prospero and Luciano off, the pilot had flown to a more secluded airfield about one hundred and thirty miles away, in anticipation of a rendezvous.

  They’d be cutting it close.

  Prospero turned to Bassam, who remained at the entrance to the cockpit, rifle in hand. “Keep an eye on them while I check on the passengers.”

  He headed for the cabin, where Luciano had moved everyone into the first few rows.

  Bernard and Madeira were giving water to the passengers, who seemed quite subdued, no doubt thanks to the execution they’d witnessed. Showing always worked better than telling when it came to these things.

  Matthias pointed to his computer. “Hey, I’m not sure what you’re after, but if it’ll help, I can wire money for my release. All I need is Wi-Fi.”

  “How much to get off this nightmare ride?” Karlsson asked.

  “I’ll give you whatever it takes to get me and these boys off,” Dillman said.

  The Asian woman remained silent, her intelligent gaze assessing the situation.

  “Sit down and shut up. No one is getting off this plane until I say so.” Prospero rested most of his weight on his good hip.

  Any hope of a quick escape evaporated from the passengers’ eyes. Hell, maybe I’m in the wrong business. It seemed easy enough to kidnap people—and as a bonus, the hostages were offering their own ransoms. Then again, this had been an expensive operation, so they’d have to pay a lot of money to make it worthwhile.

  But there was no time for distractions. He had what he needed: the target seemed fine, unaware of what lay ahead.

  White light flashed through the windows. Lightning, quickly followed by thunder. Very close. He headed back to the cockpit.