Skyjack: A Kidnap-And-Ransom Thriller

by K. J. Howe

  “But I know what they look like. Most of them, anyway.”

  “Sorry, Johann.” Rif respected the kid’s bravery, but no way could they put him in harm’s way. “You are just as likely to be recognized by them. And anyway, keeping you safe will be one more distraction.”

  “I want to help. My father created this crisis.”

  “Watch the Facebook Live feed from here,” Thea said. “Let us know if you spot one of the Watchers. We need Brown with us, but someone’s got to monitor the live feed and keep us informed.”

  Johann seemed eager to keep arguing, but Fatima put a hand on his arm, and something passed between them, communicated silently. The lanky teenager nodded to Thea.

  Rif’s phone buzzed. Hakan.

  “On my way from Rize.” The familiar sound of rotor blades buzzed in the background.

  “Via copter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell the pilot to hang tight. Text me your exact location.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll fill you in on the ride over.” He ended the call.

  Brown grabbed his cell and punched in a few keys. “I set up the comms for everyone, including Hakan, and looped in Johann so we can all communicate. The tracking grid will be up on your phones shortly.”

  Rif double-checked that the two M110 SASS sniper rifles were in his duffel, one for him and the other for Jean-Luc. Thea handed him smoke grenades, extra ammunition, and a few other items from her new SINK bag. Only Rif and Jean-Luc could be armed for this mission, since they would be entering the building from the roof.

  Rif and Jean-Luc headed for the door. A group text chirped on everyone’s phone. Johansson, Neil, and Stewart were en route to the Hagia Sophia.

  At the door, Rif looked back at the team one last time. They would pretty much be improvising on this mission, in pursuit of six red blinking dots in a massive crowd, the comms center manned by a teenaged civilian, and fielding a skeleton crew with limited supplies. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter 90

  Johann plugged in an earbud so he could communicate with Thea and her team. Fatima joined him in watching the Facebook Live feed inside the Hagia Sophia. Memories of touring the iconic building with Uncle Karl made him sad. Karl had explained that when the Hagia Sophia had been a mosque, all the earlier decorations and mosaics depicting people had been covered over with plaster. This was because the Muslim faithful frowned on the depiction of human forms in places of worship. The idea was to not distract the devout from the contemplation of Allah. In the end, though, the plaster ended up helping preserve the precious Christian artwork.

  Fatima interrupted his musings. “It’s incredible. So many people from all over the world, here to promote women’s rights in Muslim nations.”

  “Have you ever attended an event like this before?”

  “No,” she said, “but I’ve always wanted to.”

  The live feed showcased two women beaming into the camera, holding up infants. Johann felt sick. “Kids . . .”

  “Do you recognize anyone?” Fatima had met his father, but she’d never seen any of the other Freiheitswächter.

  “It’s too soon—they’re not there yet.” He glanced at the screen and saw that the red dots were converging on the Hagia Sophia. The main entrance had to be clogged with crowds. He hoped that would buy Thea and her team enough time to reach the site before his father’s men could release the plague. Working against them was the fact that the Freiheitswächter could unleash it at any time without worrying about being infected themselves. Cowards. Hot anger bubbled inside him—anger at himself. He’d stolen the canisters to protect others, only to lose them again. If the plague was released, he’d hold himself responsible.

  The live feed showed a panoramic view of the Hagia Sofia’s main floor—a sea of people facing the mihrab showing the direction of Mecca. A flash of hunter green caught Johann’s eye, the same shade as the jacket he and Karl had given his father two years ago. He leaned closer for a better look. Yes, it was Vater. He stood out in the crowd with his height and blond hair.

  “Is that your father?” Fatima had seen him too.

  His body flushed with disgust. “I’m going.”

  “What? Where are you going?”

  “To the Hagia Sophia. Maybe I can talk sense into Vater. This isn’t who he is. I don’t understand what’s happened to him, but I have to stop this.” Johann kissed Fatima on the cheek.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No.”

  “You can’t stop me,” she said.

  “If they release the pathogen, you’ll die.”

  “Then we’d better get going.”

  “Please, Fatima. I’m begging you, don’t come.” He couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to this beautiful, kind girl. “Please stay here and monitor the live feed. Watch where my father goes.”

  She hesitated. “Okay, but I’ll be close by if you need me.”

  He’d always need her.

  Chapter 91

  Rif parked the rented Audi A3 outside the helipad and walked around to the back, where Hakan waited with the helicopter. Jean-Luc leaned out the door and gave him a wave. The chopper, a Hughes 500, was painted in an eye-poppingly bright color scheme. The good news was that the Hughes was a dependable aircraft, with a track record of excellent performance and safety. The bad news was that insane paint job, which featured the words TURKEY TOURS: ISTANBUL’S NUMBER ONE TOUR COMPANY splashed along the sides.

  His father saw him eying the chopper and shrugged. “It’s all I could get at a moment’s notice. The helicopter I chartered in Rize had to return.”

  “This one will be fine.” On second thought, maybe it can work to our advantage. The Freedom Guardians wouldn’t think twice if they saw this innocuous chopper in the sky.

  Seconds later, the pilot walked toward them, coffee in hand. He looked like the Turkish version of an American bush pilot, wearing a red baseball cap, ratty T-shirt, and beat-up jeans. Rif hoped the guy could fly.

  “You have a steady hand?” Rif asked him in Turkish.

  “I’m the best,” the pilot boasted, free hand over his heart.

  Confident worked for Rif. And it was probably justified: if the guy flew tourists around the city year-round, he must have thousands of hours under his belt.

  Rif and Jean-Luc worked quickly to attach descent ropes to the skids while the pilot fired up the Hughes. The Quantum team kept safety belts, harnesses, tethers, and L4 nylon rope in their duffel bags, always prepared for everything and anything. Improvisation in the field was part of their life.

  The blades spun with a thwapping sound. After a final check of the hookup, rappel seat, and other equipment, Rif pulled on the rope to test the anchor point connections, the rotor wash doing its best to flatten him against the asphalt. He and Jean-Luc adjusted their helmets, secured their eye protection, and slipped on leather gloves with double-reinforced palms and fingers, the extra padding to protect their hands from the friction when they descended the ropes.

  Jumping into the Hughes, Rif gave Hakan a quick wave, and the chopper leapt into the air, the smooth liftoff ratifying the pilot’s confidence in his own abilities.

  The views of Istanbul from above were breathtaking. Ships needled down the Bosporus Strait, their sleek lines cutting through the twinkling sapphire waters. The Golden Horn divided the new town from the old. Historical buildings with multicolored rooftops created a quiltlike effect. The slender, pencil-shaped minarets of the city’s many mosques jutted up to meet the crisp blue skies. The view was serene, the people of Istanbul unaware of the threat lurking below.

  He glanced at his phone. The red dots had arrived at the Hagia Sophia. He texted Thea, letting her know they were near the Blue Mosque and beginning their descent. They flew over Sultan Ahmet Square. Next up: the drop zone.

  Jean-Luc nodded to Rif, yelling to be heard above the engine. “After you, my friend.”

  The pilot maneuvered the
Hughes over the east side of the massive central dome of the Hagia Sophia, avoiding the four minarets that projected two hundred feet into the air. Dropping onto the lower rooftops from there would allow Rif and Jean-Luc access to the upper level of the museum. They would position themselves above the main space of the building, with a view of the crowd below.

  A quick signal to the pilot and Rif dropped his deployment bag, the weight of the duffel helping to hold the line steady. His guide hand ensured that the rope had clearance from the helicopter.

  When the untethered end of the rope reached the rooftop, Rif was already facing outward, legs hanging from the cabin. Pivoting 180 degrees on the skid, he turned to face the helicopter, bent at the waist, feet shoulder-width apart, knees locked, the balls of his feet touching the skid. His brake hand rested in the small of his back.

  Jean-Luc gave him the thumbs-up. Rif flexed his knees and thrust himself away from the skid gear, allowing the rope to pass through his hands. Traveling at eight feet per second, he initiated the braking process halfway down the rope. He released the tension and moved his brake hand out at a forty-five-degree angle to slow his rate of descent.

  Rif’s feet connected with the rooftop with a gentle thud. Clearing the rope through the rappel ring, he scanned the area. All quiet. Jean-Luc landed behind him a few seconds later.

  They grabbed their gear and hurried toward the closest entrance. Rif removed his pick and worked on the lock while Jean-Luc watched for trouble.

  After a soft click, he nodded to Jean-Luc and turned the roof door’s knob slowly. A rush of hot air greeted them as they entered the building. Searching the interior, he discovered a few mops, cleaning supplies, and an industrial floor cleaner. It was a maintenance room with another door on the opposite end leading into the main building.

  Moving silently, he and Jean-Luc closed the door behind them and crouched on the ground so they could assemble their sniper rifles. Weapons in hand, they stood up for a last equipment check. Rif zipped the duffel bag up and secured it to his back before texting Thea.

  We’re inside. Waiting for your signal.

  Chapter 92

  Thea had skirted the swelling crowd waiting to enter the Hagia Sophia and cut into the line near the front. Some people grumbled, but everyone was so excited to be there that even the presence of a pushy Westerner couldn’t dampen the mood. She hurried through the metal detector and security line, which wasn’t all that stringent. She could envision how the Freedom Guardians could have smuggled the ceramic canisters inside—they could almost pass for thermoses.

  She’d wrapped a scarf around her head in a hijab style so she blended into the crowd. Passing the donation mosaic featuring Mary and baby Jesus, she threaded through the throngs into the interior narthex. Crowds of people surged around her.

  She glanced at the flashing red dots on her phone. All six members of the Freedom Guardians were already inside.

  The Imperial Gate loomed ahead. She entered the Hagia Sophia’s breathtaking nave, the 180-foot ceilings soaring high above, the mosaics reflecting a golden light inside the building. Shouldering her way through the bustling attendees, she headed toward the Sultan’s Lodge, as one of the Freedom Guardians lurked in that area.

  Brown, Johansson, Neil, and Stewart were all inside the Hagia Sophia too. They’d considered alerting the Turkish police about the imminent threat but decided against it. Seconds counted, and explaining the situation would devour time better spent tracking the Freedom Guardians. And if the police appeared and started evacuating the building, Dietrich would likely order his men to release the plague immediately.

  Glittering mosaics and rare marble set the tone beneath the magnificent dome. The cavernous space buzzed with excited murmurs, everyone’s head tilted upward to take in the view. A knot of attendees edged closer and closer to the minbar, an unusual pulpit with a stairway located at the center of the nave. The imam would stand halfway up the staircase when delivering his sermon, as standing any higher would be considered disrespectful toward the Prophet Muhammad.

  Well-respected and popular, Imam Mayali was to address the crowd today, and everyone wanted an opportunity to hear him or, better yet, to meet him in person. Thea moved closer to the wall, finding it easier to navigate the horde as she made her way deeper inside.

  The forty arched windows along the top of the dome allowed sunlight—and perhaps God or Allah—into the Hagia Sophia. Her gaze drifted to the upper balcony, which had been cordoned off for the event. All quiet, even though she knew Rif and Jean-Luc were up there somewhere in the shadows, waiting for their signal.

  She spoke quietly, knowing the earpiece would pick it up. “I’ve got nothing. Brown, do you have a visual?”

  Chapter 93

  To minimize the window of time they’d be exposed in the open-air gallery that looped around the Hagia Sophia’s second story, Rif and Jean-Luc waited inside the maintenance room for the team to locate the targets. With the swarming mob downstairs, security was tight, and two men holding rifles wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.

  Historically, upper-class citizens would sit on the higher floor while the masses gathered below. Today, the ramp to reach the balcony area was cordoned off because of ongoing construction, which worked in their favor.

  A vent pumped hot air into the small space, leaving Rif’s skin coated in sweat. Jean-Luc sat beside him, perspiration dripping down his face. Rif glanced at his watch. The imam would start his welcome speech shortly, then introduce the various speakers, feminist activists from across the Middle East.

  They had loaded subsonic rounds into their M110 SASS rifles. Instead of traditional 7.62mm NATO bullets, they were using hollow-point, 180-gram rounds, which would slow down after entering a target, spreading and shredding rather than passing straight through and possibly injuring somebody else. They wanted to avoid accidental casualties at all costs. He’d trained as a sniper in Delta Force, and Jean-Luc had been a sharpshooter in the French Foreign Legion, so there was no question they were qualified for this mission, but firing into a mob carried collateral risks even for the most experienced marksman.

  At all costs Rif wanted to avoid causing a panic, which was where the subsonic rounds came in: when fired, they made a noise about as loud as a human clap. In this noisy environment, the shots should go unnoticed. Whether or not a body or two dropping to the ground from a head wound goes unnoticed is another question altogether.

  Rif logged into the Facebook Live feed. On the screen, the crowd inside swelled, people packed shoulder to shoulder as they gathered for the historic event.

  Three minutes until the imam spoke.

  “Should have worn my fucking tropical gear,” the Frenchman said.

  “I’m just hoping you wore deodorant.” Rif wiped sweat off his neck.

  The older man laughed, his salt-and-pepper stubble at least three days old. “You fancy me, then?”

  “Nah, you’re not my type.”

  “Right, you have someone else in mind.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You don’t reach my age without noticing a thing or two,” Jean-Luc said. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  Thea’s voice sounded in his earpiece, asking Brown if he’d found a target. Her timing was impeccable, saving him from having to deal with Jean-Luc’s prying question.

  Before Brown answered, footsteps sounded on the hard marble floors outside the maintenance room. Rif raised his index finger to his lips and nodded to Jean-Luc.

  They edged to either side of the door, pressed their backs against the wall, and waited. Maybe a security guard doing rounds before the imam spoke?

  The footsteps paused on the other side of the inner door.

  Chapter 94

  Johann sprinted to the Hagia Sophia, his long legs making quick work of the short distance. After bullying his way to the front of the line and passing through security, he searched for the towering form of his father. In the live feed, Vater ha
d been close to the apse, but he could be anywhere by now. Johann paused by the ramp leading to the second level and looked out on a heaving sea of humanity. Thousands of people gathered at the nave, their faces alight with joy. He felt overwhelmed, discouraged—and furious. How dare his father plan an attack on people because of their ethnicity, their culture?

  Fatima’s culture.

  He called her burner cell.

  She answered right away, her voice tense. “You okay?”

  “It’s so crowded. I can’t see Father anywhere.”

  “I lost him on the feed too. Maybe you should try calling him?”

  “Good idea.” He paused for a beat. “I’m so sorry about all this.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” She sounded worried. “Wish I were there with you.”

  “I like knowing you’re safe.” People knocked into him as the crowd surged. “Fatima?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Fatima . . . I love you.” It was the first time he’d said the words aloud, but they felt so right.

  “I love you too. Now, call me back as soon as you can.”

  “I promise.”

  He pressed the end button and dialed his father’s number.

  The phone rang and rang.

  Finally, Father picked up.

  “Dietrich.”

  “Vater.”

  A long silence.

  “Where are you?” Father asked.

  “Near the ramp.”

  “You’re here?” His father’s tone was incredulous. “I hope you’ve come to your senses.”

  “I hope you’ve come to yours.” A flash of that memorable green caught Johann’s eye. Looking across the nave, he spotted his father’s unmistakable form. Johann couldn’t make out his expression over this distance, but he could easily imagine the disapproving stare.