Skyjack: A Kidnap-And-Ransom Thriller

by K. J. Howe

  “He spoke out against the government—a brave and stupid thing to do.”

  Derailed as it was by anxiety, Johann’s mind was only half on the conversation. They had but one hope now.

  Thea Paris.

  Chapter 84

  After crossing the humpbacked stone arch bridge over the river Neretva, Prospero directed Bassam’s drivers to Vedad’s home in the Bosnian countryside. While Prospero supervised the shepherding of the hostages into their new quarters, Luciano and two guards headed to the local market to purchase groceries and other supplies.

  Bassam’s team had immediately fallen in line after hearing about their leader’s death, barely a whisper of sorrow among them. After all, Prospero Salvatore was funding this operation, and they fully intended to get paid for it. And it was well known he made it a policy to pay well. His father had instilled that practice in him, explaining that elbow grease and overtime should always be richly rewarded. Especially in their business.

  Returning to the villa brought up vivid memories of his last visit. The Glock he now carried had been part of the deal he’d negotiated that night with the gunrunner Mirsad.

  Hungry and tired but also afraid, nearly all the passengers were both more irritable and more pliable. They’d been promised food and rest once everyone was safely ensconced in the new location, so they trudged into the mansion in an orderly line, shoulders slumped and scowls on their faces. Ayan and Jabari were the only hostages seemingly unaffected by their ordeal. They poked each other as they climbed out of the van, laughing and joking.

  As motivated as he was to get back to Violetta’s cucina, he had avoided Thea’s call, stalling the exchange and delaying his return home. Chances were, Liberata was homing in on their Turkish hideout, and he couldn’t risk the kidnap negotiator learning anything she could use to track them here. He needed that nuclear material, or his deal with Enzo Spruilli would fall apart—and he wanted Ocean returned to him. Still, Thea could downplay the situation all she liked, but she desperately wanted those boys back. It was impossible to be too tough when the lives of your loved ones were at stake.

  He turned to face the massive home. The Bosnian had spared no expense creating this hideaway. An elegant stone wall protected the mansion from prying eyes. Towering oak trees lined the long driveway, like soldiers standing guard. A sculpted lion’s head decorated the large fountain, which was framed by latticework and inlaid gold leaf.

  Vedad was in the middle of a deal in Singapore, so Prospero wouldn’t have a chance to catch up with his acquaintance this time around. But he owed his absent host a night out for lending him the mansion.

  The kitchen staff had been instructed to prepare a meal large enough for two dozen people, and he hoped it would be ready soon—like the prisoners, he was hungry. Bassam’s men marched the hostages into the great room, an enormous area with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the gardens. Vaulted ceilings, a large fireplace, and three separate seating areas welcomed them—including the many animal heads he remembered from his last visit. The taxidermist had created trophies so lifelike that he felt as if the beady eyes were always watching, no matter where in the room he stood.

  A massive rectangular area, the great room offered ample space for all the hostages. It was definitely a step up from the outbuilding in Turkey. To avoid any further escape attempts, Prospero stationed a guard at each of the two entrances to the room. No more live feed—he wanted to keep a close eye on everyone. Across the hall, an enormous bathroom allowed the guards to accompany hostages on restroom breaks.

  He leaned against the carved wooden bar, seven leather stools perched in front. Once the passengers were settled for the night, he’d savor a single malt. The Bosnian’s liquor cabinet was enviable, stocked with rare spirits from around the world, and the journey had left Prospero with a distinct thirst. He removed his cell from his pocket and placed it on the counter. In a couple of hours, he’d call Thea, explain when and where the exchange would take place.

  Laverdeen indicated he’d like to speak with Prospero, who waved him over. In a low voice, the pilot said his piece. “Karlsson isn’t doing well, constantly talking to himself now in an angry tone. I’m worried he might try to harm himself or someone else. Can you transport him back to London or isolate him? Or maybe have a doctor prescribe a sedative?”

  “No one leaves, and we won’t be here long enough to pick up a prescription.” Prospero thought for a moment, then grabbed a bottle of the least expensive scotch he could find and thrust it into Laverdeen’s hands. “A few belts will cheer him up.”

  “I’m not sure alcohol is the best solution.” Laverdeen remained rooted in front of him.

  “Then drink it yourself. If Karlsson needs restraining, let one of the guards know. They’ll be happy to tie him up.”

  “Don’t you have any compassion? The man is mentally ill.”

  Prospero gave Laverdeen a hard stare. “You’re not his keeper.”

  “No, just an empathetic person. Haven’t you ever craved comfort in your suffering?”

  Before Prospero could respond, three loud bangs sounded from the front hall. He reached for his Glock, but it was too late. Four men in black balaclavas armed with AK-47s burst into the great room.

  Che diavolo! The men he had posted outside must have been neutralized, and they hadn’t heard a thing.

  One of the black-clad intruders—a short, stocky guy—held a SIG Sauer against one of the guard’s heads. Prospero’s men raised their weapons. Several hostages screamed; others huddled behind the couches. Karlsson dropped to the ground and hugged himself, rolling back and forth.

  “Call them off, or your man dies,” the stocky intruder said.

  Prospero indicated for his men to lower their weapons. A firefight in close quarters would result in massive bloodshed. The hostages’ lives, especially the boys’, had to come first.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” Prospero asked, using the term loosely. Tattoos—mostly stars—crawled up the necks of the Bosnian hoods. One star per kill. His organization would never tolerate such a public display. A killer had no business advertising.

  The short guy removed his balaclava.

  Prospero recognized the man’s face—and the dent in his head. Fucking Mirsad.

  “We meet again,” the Bosnian said.

  “Yes.” Prospero studied the relative positions of his men and Mirsad’s, hostages scattered around the room. His men couldn’t engage the intruders without risking lives. “And here I thought we were friends.”

  “We are. Turn over the hostages, and you and your men can go.”

  Someone’s mouth had been running. Not Vedad; he was far too cautious a businessman to betray Prospero, especially for money he didn’t need. More likely someone in his organization had shared the news about the unexpected stay at Vedad’s villa.

  “Let’s have a drink, talk this out,” Prospero said.

  “There’s nothing to negotiate.” Mirsad closed the gap between them.

  No way could he surrender the hostages, not with this much at stake. He reached into his jacket and surreptitiously pressed a button on his cell.

  Chapter 85

  “My dear Mirsad, there’s always time for a drink.” Prospero reached for a unique bottle of vodka that was probably worth several cases of M4s. Vedad would be annoyed that he’d opened it, but Prospero wasn’t worried about that right now. He poured two healthy shots, motioning for the Bosnian to join him.

  “Have your men drop their weapons.” Mirsad edged closer.

  Prospero nodded. Reluctantly, his team placed their firearms on the floor and kicked them into the middle of the room.

  “All of you, over there.” Mirsad pointed to the far side of the room, with the largest seating area. The hostages and Prospero’s guards moved into a corner, wariness in their eyes. Ayan and Jabari stood behind an armchair, quiet and serious.

  Karlsson remained on the rug near Prospero, muttering to himself.

  “Do what you
’re told.” One of the Bosnians gave Karlsson a kick, but he just moaned louder, becoming more agitated. Laverdeen was right: the guy needed serious help.

  Mirsad looked irritated by the commotion. Prospero remembered how twitchy the Bosnian had been the last time they’d met.

  This could go sideways in a hurry.

  “Let me talk to him.” Prospero raised his hands, so the Bosnians knew he wasn’t making a play. He walked over to Karlsson, the man beyond distraught. Prospero leaned down and wrapped his right arm around the hostage’s head, right at the jawline. He tightened his hold and tucked his left arm behind Karlsson’s head, then jerked his arms in a quarter turn. After a loud snap, silence reigned.

  “Now, let’s have that drink,” Prospero said, standing back and ignoring the pain in his hip and the horrified stares from the other hostages. Fuck them. He had just saved all their lives by sacrificing Karlsson’s.

  Prospero returned to the bar and lifted his glass. “Živjeli,” he said, using the Bosnian toast.

  Mirsad slipped onto the stool beside him, placing his AK on the counter out of Prospero’s reach. “I’ll have that drink, but we have nothing to discuss. The hostages are mine.”

  Prospero slugged back his shot of vodka. “Don’t rush to judgment. Information can be useful.”

  “What information?”

  “The total worth of the hostages’ K&R policies.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “I’ve been planning this for a while.” Which was true, just not for the reason the Bosnian assumed. Prospero had no interest in ransoming anyone for cash. He had a much bigger prize in mind. “I know the net worth of all the passengers, which ones have liquid assets . . .”

  Mirsad wasn’t a gifted thinker, but he had the cunning of a fox. You didn’t survive in his business without it. Still, greed was often the weakness that brought even the savviest men down.

  “I could beat the information out of you.” The bald man tossed down the shot of vodka and slammed his glass onto the bar.

  “You could try.” Prospero poured him another round. “But how experienced are you at dealing with kidnap negotiators? I have history with the consultant on this case, Thea Paris. We can call her now. It’s just . . . I can’t imagine she’ll want to deal with someone new. We’ve built trust.”

  “I’ll sell the hostages for cash in the Ukraine.”

  “Your choice, of course, but you won’t make a tenth as much.” Prospero paused. “Consider: I have wire transfers set up to untraceable bank accounts in the Caymans. In ten minutes, my banker can create an account for you, making you a very rich man. We’ve done business before, you and I, and I would be happy to partner with you in this venture.”

  The wheels inside Mirsad’s head were grinding.

  Prospero lowered his voice. “Dump those goons over there, come in with me, and you won’t have to share your portion. You could be on a beach next week with ten of the best-looking hookers money can buy, waiting for all this to blow over.”

  Mirsad’s eyelids flickered. Predictable. Prospero wondered if it was the money or the prostitutes that were getting to the Bosnian.

  “How much, total?”

  “Thirty percent of the take. Upward of six million American dollars.”

  “I should get seventy percent.” The Bosnian grabbed a cigarette and lighter from his front pocket, lit it, and inhaled.

  “Without my information and connections, you wouldn’t see a fraction of that money. Let me finalize the details with the negotiator—you’ll make six million while sitting here drinking vodka.”

  “Fifty percent.” Mirsad blew out a lungful of smoke.

  “Sorry. I have a huge investment here . . .”

  A slight tightening of the man’s mouth. “Forty-five percent.”

  “Forty.” Prospero topped up Mirsad’s vodka. Nice as it was, he would much rather be drinking scotch.

  “How long?”

  “Less than twenty-four hours.”

  “You could cheat me.” Mirsad leaned closer, his hot breath emitting vodka fumes.

  “As soon as we create the account, you can transfer the money to your own bank.”

  Prospero waited, knowing when to stop selling. Mirsad had wanted a quick snatch and grab so he could sell the hostages to a local terrorist organization. But serious money beckoned.

  “Call this kidnap negotiator. Tell her you want the money now, or someone dies.”

  “Don’t be hasty. Hostages are only worth something if they’re alive.”

  “You just killed one.” Mirsad downed another shot of vodka. “Phone her. For all she knows, he’s still alive.”

  “You are absolutely right.” Sunlight glinting off something shiny caught Prospero’s eye through the expanse of windows facing the garden. About fucking time. “One more drink, and then I’ll call her. And why don’t we say forty-three percent for you.”

  The bald man smiled, revealing his crooked incisors. Prospero leaned back on his stool and patiently waited for Luciano to make his move.

  Chapter 86

  Prospero poured another round of vodka and raised his glass. “To our partnership.”

  “You’d better not be fucking with me.” Mirsad’s voice was gravelly.

  The passengers huddled in the far corner, the Bosnians’ AK-47s trained in their direction. Perfect.

  With Mirsad’s permission, Prospero pulled out his cell so he could share a screenshot with Mirsad before calling Thea. He actually did have an account in the Caymans, with a healthy bottom line. “This is what I made on the last hijacking.” A total fabrication, but the Bosnian had no way of knowing better. He typed some more on the phone, looking up when he was done. “My banker is creating an account for you.”

  Prospero caught a flash of movement just outside the great room’s windows. Mirsad was so absorbed by the phone, he didn’t notice.

  A loud shot rang out, fired through the window overlooking the gardens. One of Mirsad’s men slumped onto the floor. Broken glass cascaded through the air as Luciano fired again from outside. The commotion, the angle, the glass—they weren’t clean shots. The Bosnians cracked off several rounds in response, the wall of windows dissolving into shards.

  Hostages dove behind furniture, seeking cover. Screams peppered the air. Prospero’s guards scrambled to retrieve their weapons.

  Luciano and the two men he had taken with him stormed inside. The Bosnians were hardened fighters, responding instinctively to the attack. Round after round was destroying the great room and its contents. One of Bassam’s men collapsed, followed by two of the Bosnians.

  When the attack began, Prospero had lunged for Mirsad’s gun, but the Bosnian was too fast—and closer to the AK-47. Mirsad grabbed the stock and raised the weapon. Prospero was able to catch the end of the rifle and tried to twist the gun away.

  The two men toppled together from the barstools onto the floor. Prospero landed on his bad hip, the pain lancing down to his marrow. He battled Mirsad for control of the weapon, the acrid smell of gunpowder flooding his sinuses. Prospero head-butted the Bosnian, but the blow barely registered. Enormously strong, his center of gravity low, Mirsad was slowly gaining the edge.

  Another Bosnian entered the fray from the front door, spraying bullets across the room. But Prospero kept his focus on Mirsad, wrestling for control of the gun. Pure grit kept him in the fight, but the Bosnian was gaining ground, the barrel of the AK inching closer to Prospero’s face. Sweat dripped from his brow, and he struggled for breath.

  A shot sounded, impossibly close. His ears rang from the explosion.

  Mirsad collapsed on top of him, releasing his hold on the AK-47. The bald man’s eyes were empty, lifeless. Prospero sucked in a deep breath, pushing the body off him.

  Jabari stood over him, one of the guards’ AK-47s in his hands. A look of determination shadowed his face.

  Prospero blinked, then shook his head. “Nice work, bambino. Glad you’re on our team.”

 
“You’ll bring us back to Thea. He wouldn’t.”

  His second-youngest hostage had just saved his life. One of the kids Luciano hated had stepped up and assumed a massive risk, calculating that the odds would be better for him and his younger brother if Prospero triumphed. He understood why Thea loved these boys. He suddenly felt like a bastard for what he’d put them through.

  But Jabari didn’t lower the rifle.

  Instead, he kept it pointed straight at him.

  Prospero scanned the great room. Mirsad’s men had all been neutralized. Two of Prospero’s guards secured the shell-shocked passengers in one corner while Luciano sent the others to search the property for any more invaders.

  Turning back to the kid, Prospero said, “You can put the gun down now.”

  Jabari shook his head. “Take us to Thea.”

  “I will, but it’ll take time for her to come. Why don’t we all have some dinner first.”

  “You never keep your promises.”

  The boy had a point. The whole operation had been one misfire after another. “Thea is bringing me something I want. When she does, you can go to London, and all the other passengers can go to their homes too.”

  Luciano walked over. “The guy moved before I could shoot—” Agitated, his nephew pointed his MP5 at Jabari.

  “Lower the gun, Luciano.” Prospero kept his eyes on the boy.

  “Shoot him, and you die.” Luciano kept his rifle trained on Jabari.

  Luciano. “Everyone calm down. We are friends here. Family.”

  Ayan hurried over to them and touched his brother on the arm. “No more war.”

  Jabari looked back and forth between Prospero and Ayan. Seconds passed. He placed the AK on the ground. “You’d better not be lying. And you are not our friend.”

  “I’ll call Thea now.” The sooner, the better, as far as Prospero was concerned. Kidnapping was not worth the trouble. Not at all.

  Chapter 87