Skyjack: A Kidnap-And-Ransom Thriller

by K. J. Howe

  Chapter 32

  It was clear to Thea that Prospero wanted her to leave for Budapest with the guards he had left behind, but she had no intention of following anyone else’s script. There still might be time to track the BBJ. If they had forced their way onto the plane, Prospero and his men wouldn’t get far—the plane’s seals were now compromised, and they had burned a lot of fuel during the landing and while on the tarmac. She slung the two AKs that she’d taken from the kitchen guards over her shoulder and grabbed a few extra magazines and grenades from the dead men.

  Outside, Prospero’s remaining men fired a few shots into the air and pounded on the hangar doors, but she had locked them from inside. It was only a matter of time before they forced their way in. Thea needed a plan. An old Cessna perched in one corner beside a pile of tires. Spare parts cluttered another corner. She searched the debris, finding a wrench and an old frayed rope. She stretched it in her hands to test its resilience. Not mountain-ready, but it would do.

  She tied the wrench to one end of the rope, then tossed it over one of the hangar’s transverse rafters. The wrench end dropped down near her. A quick slipknot, and in no time she had cinched the rope to the beam. She tied the rifles to the bottom of the rope so she wouldn’t have to carry them as she climbed, then shimmied up, using her feet to hold her weight as she pulled her body upward with her hands. The ragged nylon cut into her fingers, but she ignored the pain.

  Grabbing the rafter with both hands, she swung herself over to another, higher steel beam that extended across the width of the hangar. Grabbing the rope, she pulled up the AKs and secured them around her shoulder, then coiled the rope on top of the rafter. She crawled forward to reach the relative comfort of the six-foot catwalk running around the perimeter of the hangar.

  The noise of the BBJ taking off had long since faded, leaving just the pinging sound of rain on the hangar’s steel roof, the hiss of the soldiers’ radios in the desert night air—and the pounding on the door below. She sprinted across the catwalk toward the window above the hangar’s entrance. Kneeling, she cracked the window open and could see three of the soldiers pounding the entrance with a makeshift battering ram. It wouldn’t hold for much longer.

  Thea clicked one of the AKs to semiauto. She sighted down the barrel at one of the men and fired. He fell. The other two men glanced up, startled. Before they could react, she squeezed off two more shots, but the angle was bad. Just the same, the two men dropped the ram and scattered for cover.

  Four down, counting the men in the kitchen, but she’d only made a dent. There had to be at least twelve more soldiers. Her only hope was to hang on to the tactical advantage provided by controlling the building. She had to be patient, keep them at bay, and pick them off one at a time as they came for her.

  Thea tilted her head at the sound of pounding footsteps and voices yelling in Arabic outside the rear of the hangar.

  She grabbed the AK and ran along the platform. Two men were climbing a ladder they’d leaned against the outer steel wall. She smashed the window they were trying to reach and fired off two rounds. The first man screamed and dropped to the ground. Behind him, the second one sprayed a burst of bullets her way. She ducked for cover, waited for the barrage to end, then popped her head back out and fired another two rounds. The soldier fell backward off a middle rung, landing in the mud below. She tried to push the ladder away from the hangar to deter any more intruders, but the damned thing was jammed, immovable.

  Noise from the opposite direction caught her attention. She ran back to see two of the Libyan soldiers cutting a hole in the steel wall with a blowtorch. She shoved in a fresh magazine and fired several shots through the window above the door, but the angle didn’t work—the men were directly below her. She flicked the switch to full auto, eased her entire arm out the window, pointed the AK downward, and squeezed the trigger. The assault rifle shook in her hand and rattled against the wall, her shoulder absorbing the full brunt of the recoil.

  Enemy bullets slammed into the steel around her extended arm. She felt a sharp stab of pain. Unable to hold on, she dropped the rifle and pulled her arm back inside. Blood soaked her shirtsleeve just below the elbow. A quick look under the sleeve revealed a flesh wound. She tore off her sleeve and used it as a makeshift bandage.

  A car engine cranked to life. She looked up. Four soldiers had climbed into an open-air Land Cruiser and were lining it up with the large garage doors. The tough, all-terrain vehicle had a reinforced front end protected by a massive grill. They were going to ram their way inside.

  Removing two grenades from her pocket, she pulled the pins and tossed the first, then the second, toward the approaching vehicle. She sprinted down the catwalk and ducked in a corner, covering her ears with her hands.

  Two explosions resounded harshly around the metal walls, followed by a third. The vehicle’s gas tank. The window at the front of the hangar briefly glowed orange as the flames from the burning gasoline shot through the air, the concussive force rattling the entire structure. Screams pierced the night air. She inched her way toward the front to assess the damage. A large hole now appeared in the steel wall near the hangar doors, a corner of which was bent inward.

  Shimmying forward, she climbed onto her knees and snuck a quick look outside. Several men were yelling, heading toward the gaping hole in the hangar wall below her. She aimed the remaining AK-47 through the window and fired, dropping a couple of them before they reached the hangar, scattering the rest. She reached into her pocket for another magazine. Last one. She’d have to use these thirty rounds sparingly.

  Two soldiers fired a stream of bullets at her from behind the smoking wreckage of the Land Cruiser. She flattened herself against the catwalk as a hail of metal pounded into walls and blew out the remaining glass of the window. Another sound, coming from behind her. She turned. One of the men had climbed the ladder resting against the hangar and was entering through the rear window.

  He hadn’t spotted her yet, but it was only a matter of time. She’d have to fire from her position lying on the catwalk, waiting until he was closer. Risky, but she had no choice.

  Three, two, one . . .

  She raised the AK to her shoulder and lined up the sights.

  Framed by the broken window, the soldier met her gaze, his eyes drawn by her sudden movement. He lifted his rifle, but before he could fire, the soldier staggered forward and face-planted onto the platform. She scanned the hangar to identify what had brought him down. Had he been hit by friendly fire?

  She waited a beat to see if anyone else would come up the ladder, then peeked out the window just in time to witness two more men collapse outside the hangar. Another sprinted toward the building, but before he could take ten steps, his body spasmed in a barrage of bullets from an unseen assailant. She drew in a deep breath, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. More gunfire, then an eerie silence pervaded the night.

  She waited, listening for any sound of movement.

  Nothing.

  “Friendlies! Is the interior clear?”

  The familiar voice buoyed her spirits. Rif.

  “All clear! Welcome to Jufra.”

  “Bit of a hellhole, wouldn’t you say?” Rif crouched and entered through the ragged hole in the hangar wall with three Quantum soldiers, all of them in flight gear. Her team had arrived.

  “I was planning my next vacation here, but the accommodations leave a little something to be desired.”

  “I can see that. Where’d the plane go?” Rif asked.

  “AWOL. We’re in for a long night,” she said.

  Chapter 33

  Prospero brushed by Bassam and entered the cockpit, plunking down on the jump seat. Both pilots studied the radar map, the tension palpable. Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the clouds in blinding lavender flashes. Waves of thunder followed, rattling the 737. Rain splatted against the windscreen in heavy, fat drops. Even Prospero’s nerves felt raw.

  “Can we go around it?” Pr
ospero asked.

  “Not enough fuel.” Rivers looked up from the gauge.

  “I’d do a one-eighty and turn back. It’s not worth the risk,” Laverdeen said.

  Sudden turbulence kicked in, jerking the plane back and forth. Prospero steadied himself, one hand gripping the jump seat. “Rivers?”

  “We should try going between the two cloud banks.” The captain thrust the controls forward, increasing their speed.

  Laverdeen’s face reddened. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Isn’t faster better, so we get out of the storm quicker?” Prospero asked.

  Blood soaked Rivers’s right shoulder. “TPS—thunderstorm penetration speed. We need to do two-seventy to three hundred knots to keep things as smooth as possible.”

  “We’re sucking up too much fuel. We won’t have enough to make it through the storm front,” Laverdeen said as the plane lurched again, buffeted by crosswinds.

  Screams sounded from the cabin. The lights flickered.

  “It’ll be close, but we can do it.” Rivers studied the instruments. “Strap yourself in.”

  The fuselage shuddered.

  “The plane’s already damaged from before. Keep this up, and rivets will pop—the tail could shear off.” Laverdeen’s voice held an edge.

  Prospero turned to Bassam, who was having trouble maintaining his footing. “Go sit down.” He secured his own seat belt.

  Rat-a-tat-tat. Massive chunks of ice slammed into the windshield, one after the other, sounding like machine-gun fire. Spiderwebs of cracks erupted in the glass as the hail pounded it. Ice collided with the fuselage, sounding like an out-of-control steel band. Surely they’d be through the worst of it soon. He thought of Violetta. She’d always worried that he’d come home from work in a pine box, a bullet lodged in his heart. She’d never been concerned about his flying.

  Purple and green waves of electricity zapped across the windscreen, arcing like mini lightning bolts. The neon colors bursting across the night sky were terrifying. “What the hell is that?”

  “Static electricity from the penetrating moisture,” Rivers yelled over the din of the hailstorm.

  Fuck me! It took a lot to unsettle him, but this was a nightmare. The hail became larger, louder, overwhelming. He could barely think.

  More beeping from the instrument panel. A red light flashed, and the plane shook even more violently than before. “What now?”

  “We’ve lost the left engine,” Laverdeen said.

  Chapter 34

  Johann sat across from his father at the kitchen table. Chef Rudy always had one night off per week, and on these days father and son would cook together. Tonight they’d made a huge pot of spaetzle, roast chicken, and thick gravy. They devoured the rich comfort food in large bowls, eating the chicken with their hands. The ritual was comforting, even in these disturbing circumstances. Johann wished he could wind back time, erase all knowledge of the Freiheitswächter and the lab downstairs, so he could truly enjoy what until now had been one of the few moments of quality time he and Vater spent together lately.

  “How was school today?”

  Father always asked about his studies, but Johann knew that tonight he was inquiring about something else. His appetite began to fade.

  “I’ll stay away from Fatima; just promise you won’t hurt her or her family.”

  His father remained silent, studying him. “I’m trying to protect you. You’re a man now. Men have certain . . . weaknesses.”

  “Love isn’t a weakness.”

  “Love? What do you know about that? This is infatuation, at best. Anyway, love is a weakness if you waste it on the wrong person.”

  “But Fatima is warm and kind.”

  Father stared at him for a long moment. “Two years ago, I was in Afghanistan, selling arms to the Americans. I met a woman named Latifa at the hotel, the sister of the owner. During the weeks I was there, we spent a lot of time together.”

  “You loved her?”

  “I’ve never loved anyone other than your mother. But Latifa was beautiful, smart, sophisticated. She gently pumped me for information about the weapons I was selling. I was so lonely, so grateful for her attention, I didn’t notice what she was doing. Then, the day before the delivery of the merchandise was to take place, I received a call that you needed emergency surgery.”

  Johann remembered how ghastly ill he’d been. He’d been suffering from terrifying shortness of breath and debilitating exhaustion; when he wound up at the hospital, he was diagnosed with an aortic aneurysm, thanks to his Marfan syndrome. Uncle Karl had been the one who brought him to the emergency room.

  “I came home straightaway.” His father inhaled a deep breath. “You saved my life. The entire convoy delivering the weapons was decimated by IEDs on a remote stretch of highway. Your mother’s death was a clear sign, but this event made me fully realize just how dangerous these people can be.”

  “Are you sure it was Latifa?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And . . .”

  His mouth twisted. “I behaved like a fool in a moment of weakness.”

  “I’m sorry.” It hurt Johann to see Father in such obvious pain.

  “How do you fight people who stand in line to die for their cause? Their beliefs, their conviction—it’s an organized evil unsurpassed in history. And now Islam is the fastest-growing religion in the world.”

  It was true that some Islamic terrorist groups had displayed a shocking disregard for human life, but it seemed that only a tiny minority of Muslims felt this way. Johann had read about countless imams, Islamic academics, and world leaders condemning violence committed in the name of Allah.

  “Fatima isn’t like that.” He held his breath, bracing himself for his father’s temper.

  But Father looked more deflated than anything. “Johann, you never know where someone’s loyalty lies until it’s tested.”

  “You and Mutti taught me to treat everyone with respect.”

  “And so you should—but evil exists. Millions of refugees from Arab countries are flooding into Europe. And violence follows them, brought in with their religion. Bloodshed and terror have been inflicted on Paris, Brussels, Nice, Berlin, Barcelona, now Vienna—the list goes on. When I took my oath as a Freiheitswächter, I had no idea of the lengths we’d have to go to protect our country, our people, but this is just the kind of threat we were created to handle.”

  Johann swallowed the lump in his throat. “Was Uncle Karl a threat, too?”

  Seconds ticked by. A look of understanding passed between them. Father knew that he knew. “He was a spy, leaking information about our plans to the Gladio.”

  “The Gladio?” He couldn’t believe that Karl was anything but a loving uncle figure, a friend, someone who’d always been there for him.

  “Groups like the Freiheitswächter were set up throughout Europe by the Americans and British after the Second World War, originally to stop the spread of communism. The Italian group is known as Gladio, but their organization is run by mobsters, greedy priests, and corrupt politicians.”

  Instead of arms dealers and mad scientists.

  “But Uncle Karl—”

  “Was a traitor and got what he deserved.”

  Johann played with his spoon, moving the spaetzle around the bowl. He’d completely lost his appetite.

  Chapter 35

  Prospero wondered if taking the damaged BBJ back into the air might have been the worst decision of his life. A hailstorm, minimal fuel, and now they were running on only one engine. Rivers and Laverdeen remained methodical and calm, but their white shirts were drenched in sweat. He swore with each jerky movement of the plane.

  “We’re only a few miles from the coordinates,” Laverdeen yelled.

  “Prepare for a hot landing,” Rivers called to Prospero.

  “What does that mean?” It didn’t sound good.

  “Too much speed when we hit the ground. It’s going to be bumpy.”

  Somehow this s
ounded like understatement.

  “Almost there. Brace yourself.”

  “Flaps are uneven,” Laverdeen said.

  “What?” Prospero asked.

  “Hard to control.” The altimeter spiraled as they dropped through the clouds.

  “We’ll need your help with the brakes. Just follow my lead,” Rivers said.

  Prospero murmured a few Hail Marys. Through the cracked windscreen, he could see the faint lights of the runway below. Lights that were coming at him way too fast. His hands clenched the bottom of the jump seat. It felt like they were on a spiraling roller coaster plunging into an abyss.

  The wheels hit the ground hard with a jolting bump. His torso whipped forward, then back, his neck straining to keep his head upright.

  “Reverses are useless. Maximum brakes. Do it!” Laverdeen pulled the brakes hard. Rivers and Prospero grabbed hold, dug their heels in, and yanked with all their strength.

  Prospero’s body slammed to the left, then right. His grip on the brakes tightened; his chest strained against his seat belt. The plane wavered back and forth.

  A loud blast and the plane jerked to one side.

  “Tire,” Laverdeen said.

  The screech of metal hitting ground. The plane careened down the runway, rotating until it finally jumped the tarmac and struck the rain-soaked verge. When the undercarriage met the earth, the plane lurched forward and down, slamming into the ground amid the sounds of the aircraft being torn apart from below.

  Prospero felt himself blacking out, his eyeballs straining to jump out of their sockets.

  Chapter 36

  As a pilot, Rif had been inside countless hangars, but none of them had ever featured a scorched, truck-sized hole as an entrance. He glanced up at the rafters as Thea rappelled down the frayed rope to join him. She moved with grace and fluidity, landing smoothly and striding to where he stood.