"Can I help you?" he called to her, walking over.
"No," she said. "Just a pre-flight check."
"Are you a mechanic?"
"I'm with security."
"Whose security?"
"The owner of this plane."
The man retreated, obviously not buying it. She estimated it would be maybe three minutes before one of Murphy's crew showed up.
She was wrong. The door popped open and four athletic-looking men in business suits dropped on the ground.
"You!" one of them called. "Stop!"
Thalma turned and ran in what for her was a slow jog – slow enough that the men caught her in less than fifty yards. A heavy hand chopped down on the back of her neck, and she stumbled to her knees obligingly. Two men swept her to her feet, pinning her arms behind her back.
"Who are you?" one of them demanded.
"Go fuck yourself."
One of the men delivered a short punch to the side of her face. It required nearly all of Thalma's willpower not to break free and start busting bones. She grimaced and closed her eyes, reining herself in. This is exactly what you wanted, she reminded herself.
The men dragged her back to the plane. One of them flipped out a cell phone.
"We caught some guy nosing around the plane," he said. After a pause, he said, "Yes, sir. We'll wait for you inside."
At the plane, one of the men frisked her, while the other stood back, pistol drawn, glancing around for anyone watching. The man patting her down located and removed her weapons. He pried her wallet and cell phone from her jeans.
"Damn," one of them remarked. "The asshole was loaded for bear."
They hustled her up the stairs into the plane. A tall, older man in a turtleneck stepped out of the cockpit.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"All we know is he was armed to the gills and standing around by the plane." The speaker smiled, white teeth showing in his trim, tanned face. "But we'll soon know a lot more. Mr. M will be showing up soon, and we'll decide what to do."
On cue, footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Mr. Murphy entered. Up close, he had the pleasant face of a college professor or maybe an insurance agent, Thalma thought. He had light blue eyes with the hint of an amused crinkle at the corners. She judged him to be in his late-forties.
"You've thoroughly searched him?" he asked.
"Yes sir." The man who'd searched her held up her weapons. "He's also wearing a Danzer bullet-resistant vest."
"I see."
They handed Mr. Murphy her wallet and cell. He set the cell aside and rifled through the wallet, pausing at her driver's license.
"Mr. Matheson," he said. "I believe we've encountered you before. Weren't you the one pretending to be a mild-mannered accountant representing Land Trust Investments? Right before you and another individual stole our merchandise."
Thalma stared at him impassively while she calculated the possibilities. Murphy would want to talk to her before killing her. The best option, she thought, would be to take her with them and arrange for a team to dispose of her when they reached their destination. That would give them time to interrogate her at their leisure without risking interference.
Exactly what she'd been hoping for herself – except the roles would be reversed. But she was confident she could re-reverse them underway. They were so confident, they hadn't even bothered to cuff her – assuming they had handcuffs on hand. Four tough guys against one unarmed dude who hadn't even put up a struggle when they'd caught him. To their eyes, she – he - wouldn't look terribly threatening.
"Let's stay on schedule," Mr. Murphy announced, turning to the turtlenecked pilot. "We'll get to know our mystery guest while in the air."
They retracted the stairs, and the pilot returned to the front. The engines wheezed to life. Soon they were taxiing to the runway. Mr. Murphy watched Thalma with reflective eyes.
"Marvin and James, please secure our guest in his seat," he said.
Mr. Murphy retreated to the cockpit to speak with the pilot. Two of the men cast about for something to tie her with while the other two kept an eye on her, handguns drawn. By the time they'd reached the runway, they'd strapped Thalma's legs and arms to the chair with duct tape. She'd tensed her muscles to the maximum while they'd wrapped her up. That, plus her unusually high body temperature, she believed, would soften the glue and allow her to pull free when she needed to.
"Where are we going?" she asked him when he returned from the cockpit.
"Chicago," said Mr. Murphy. "That will give us some time to get acquainted."
Not much more than an hour, Thalma thought. She would need to make her move fairly soon. She relaxed her body as the plane launched itself down the runway and sailed briefly out over a nearby lake before banking east. As everyone was distracted by the takeoff, Thalma took the opportunity to apply some serious force to her bonds while keeping her face impassive. The tape around her forearms had already developed an encouraging amount of give. Freeing her legs would be more of a challenge.
Once they'd leveled out in the air, Murphy offered Thalma an amicable smile.
"Now, Mr. Matheson," he said. "I believe it's time for you to answer a few questions. But first let me clarify a few rules. If your answer strikes me as indirect or evasive in any way, I will have Marvin here" – he nodded to the shorter and more ruggedly built of the two men from the plane – "stab you in your arm with his knife. If my satisfaction reaches a certain point, I will instruct him to begin breaking your fingers. Are there are any questions?"
Thalma stared back at him with stony eyes.
"All right," Mr. Murphy said. "My first question is how long have you been watching us?"
"For a few days," said Thalma.
"Please be precise."
"Since your men showed up at the farm."
"Did they do something to give themselves away?"
"One of them was aiming a telephoto lens at the house."
"Not terribly subtle, that. You were monitoring the motel, then."
"Yes."
"How many of your people are involved in this operation?"
Thalma hesitated. Murphy raised an eyebrow, and Marvin stepped forward, a seven-inch Ka-Bar gleaming in his right hand.
"Two," said Thalma quickly. "At present."
"Where is your partner?"
"Waiting outside the airport."
Mr. Murphy leaned back, a cynical smile playing on his lips. "You're being remarkably cooperative, Mr. Matheson."
"I'm not all that fond of knives. Unless I'm holding it."
"Very wise." Murphy's smile dropped away. "Please give me the make, color, and location of the vehicle where your partner is waiting."
Thalma thought quickly, remembering her first car. "It's a blue Caprice. Parked fifty yards north from the airport entrance on the opposite side of the street."
He pulled out his cell and spoke to what Thalma assumed was one of the men in the motel. He summarized the situation in four short sentences, and hung up.
"We'll know if you're telling the truth in roughly twenty minutes," he said.
"Not likely," said Thalma.
"Really? And why is that? Because you have misinformed me about the vehicle?"
"No." Thalma couldn't stop a hard smile in the face of this arrogant man who was very close to discovering just how foolish his arrogance was. "Because dead men rarely make phone calls."
She took a small satisfaction in seeing the flicker of doubt in his face.
"I'm surprised you would speak so boldly, considering your current situation," he said. "If you're typical of your personnel, I can't see much cause for worry. Frankly, you appear to be barely out of high school."
"He looks like a punk-ass little bitch to me," sneered one of the men.
"He didn't even put up a fight," said Marvin, the man with the knife.
Violence rippled in the air. She was grateful they'd holstered their weapons. That would give her a precious second or two.
&
nbsp; "I believe," said Mr. Murphy, "that our discussion will precede more efficiently if some humility is introduced in our guest."
He nodded to Marvin, who shifted the knife in his hand for a downward strike. Thalma knew it had been coming. No matter what she said or how cooperative she was, they would have to hurt her at some point to establish dominance. For the last several moments she'd been fiercely rehearsing her escape in her head. Now her best-laid plans were about to meet reality.
Thalma tore her right arm free just as the knife started to descend. The blade jammed into the cushioned arm. Thalma smacked her right hand down on the top of the knife handle, holding it in place as she ripped her left hand out from the duct tape and punched with all her strength in the center of his chest. He went limp as breaking bones and cartilage tore through his heart and lungs. She yanked the knife out of his hand and ducked down, slicing through the tape around her ankles. She ignored the pain and blood – no time to be gentle – and sprang back over the chair, hauling the still-sagging Marvin with her.
"No guns!" Murphy shouted.
Thalma hadn't counted on such largesse. She was already tugging out the fallen man's handgun, anticipating a gunfight, when the other three henchmen converged on her. Instead of rolling away, she rolled into their thicket of kicking legs and grasping hands. Two tripped over her, and one remained standing. She shot him in the head. Someone grabbed her gun hand from behind. She whirled with an elbow – made contact with someone's throat – and whirled again as a third man opened fire. He was about one half-beat too slow in tracking her with his pistol as she rolled free and placed two rounds in his upper chest before he could catch up.
She jerked sideways again, anticipating Murphy or maybe the pilot drawing down on her, but the pilot was still in the cockpit – fearfully glancing over his shoulder – while Murphy sat clutching his right arm, blood oozing between his fingers. Stray bullet, Thalma thought. She kept her pistol leveled on him as she stooped to check the four men for signs of life. Only the man she'd elbowed in the throat was still gasping like a fish out of water, his eyes bulging and face turning blue. She choked back a jab of nausea and moved toward Mr. Murphy. The pilot jumped up and slammed the cockpit door shut. The sound of deadbolts clinking into place echoed in the now too-silent cabin.
Thalma perched in a seat to one side of Mr. Murphy.
"How bad is your wound?" she asked.
"It passed clean through," he said. "But I'm afraid it nicked a major vessel, judging from the quantity of blood."
Thalma patted him down, and was surprised to find he wasn't armed.
"Remove your jacket and shirt," she said. "I'll make a tourniquet."
"Thank you. I appreciate your being civilized."
"If not my lack of humility."
While he was gingerly stripping off his jacket and shirt, Thalma retrieved her own weapons, returning them to their holsters. She also removed one of the men's belts. Mr. Murphy was looking a little pale when she got back to him. She cinched the belt above the wound, poking a hole in the belt with the tip of her knife for the buckle to lock it in place.
"Though I saw it with my own eyes," said Murphy, "I still can scarcely believe what just happened. You tore free of multiple layers of duct tape and took out four highly trained men – one a black belt in Aikido – in a matter of seconds."
"If you're hit hard enough, all the training in the world won't help," said Thalma. Her ability to strike with lethal force had never been a source of pride for her, but it had helped her to survive on more than one occasion. "Now Mr. Murphy, it's my turn to ask the questions. If I'm unsatisfied, I will loosen the belt and you'll bleed out."
"I understand."
"What is the organization you work for, and who are its leaders?"
"That's rather a long story."
"Then I suggest you find a way to shorten it."
A cell phone in his jacket started ringing. He looked a question to her, and she held out her hand. He glanced at the number, and gave it to her.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"My men. I'm not sure why they're calling."
Thalma tossed the phone to the rear of the plane. "You were going to tell me about your organization."
"Very well." Murphy continued to clutch his wounded arm, though the bleeding had stopped. "The short story is a company called World Security Group. WSG owns substantial shares in the world's largest private security firms and several related industries. It facilitates cooperation and oversees operations, joint and individual, between these firms. It has come to serve as a kind of security broker for the United States Government, organizing and supplying response and protection teams in various conflict theaters abroad and for events at home."
"You sound like an advertising brochure." Murphy winced as Thalma rested a hand on the belt strapped around his arm. "Get to the good stuff."
"I was merely providing necessary background," Mr. Murphy protested. "As I'm sure you've surmised, there is a 'special operations' division of WSG that focuses on profitably utilizing what you might call the 'spoils of war': cash, drugs, and various illicit forms of trafficking."
"What else?"
"A department of WSG also creates events which further certain political agendas."
"What does that mean?"
"I mean, that certain kinds of events facilitate certain political and private interest aims. For example, if you wish to bring troops into a country – say, to secure an oil line - WSG has the means to create an event that would rally popular support for such an enterprise."
"You are in the false flag for profit business." Thalma's voice had grown cold.
"Succinctly put. There are parties here and abroad who are willing to invest large sums of money for such services."
"Who is your immediate superior?"
Mr. Murphy gave her a sickly smile. "To give you that name would be to sign my death warrant."
"Possibly. But if I loosen that belt, your death is a certainty."
"Good point. Leonard McPhail directs WSG's Special Operations Division."
"You have internet here?" Thalma nodded to the computer on a nearby rotating table.
"Very much so."
Thalma moved to the computer, confirmed it was online, and typed in Leonard McPhail, World Security Group. His name came up beside a smiling, bearded man who made Thalma think of a Scottish terrier.
"Who does he report to?" she asked.
"That's above my pay grade. But I think one could safely assume it's someone at the main office."
"I would assume that the people at the top of World Security Group know about the criminal operations."
Mr. Murphy shrugged. "I'd say that's a reasonable inference."
Thalma permitted herself a relieved breath. She had what she wanted. Perhaps he'd misled her, but his account squared with her own theory, and without a lot more time to interrogate him and check out his story, this was about as good as she could hope for.
"You have someone waiting for me in Chicago?" she asked.
Murphy hesitated. "We have arranged for someone to retrieve you, yes."
"We'll need to divert the flight."
"To where?"
Thalma considered that. "Back to Watertown sounds good to me."
"And then what?"
"They have a hospital. You should be okay, as long as you don't fuck with us." Thalma paused. She couldn't help thinking she was missing something – some important detail. "Do you have the authority to call off your operation against us?"
"I can order my men to cease and desist, yes."
"Do you have the authority to permanently end any investigation into our organization?"
Thalma noted his micro-hesitation and frown.
"Yes," he said.
"That was a lie." Thalma reached for the belt. Murphy raised a hand.
"You're correct," he said. "I can make tactical decisions, but the decision to investigate your organization had been made at higher levels. I could plea
d that case, but that would be their decision."
"Could Leonard McPhail make that decision?"
"Very possibly. As you can imagine, we're highly compartmentalized, so I can't say for certain."
Thalma gave a weary nod. "Okay. Tell your pilot to open his door and return to Watertown."
"Very well." He raised his voice. "Alan, the situation has been resolved. Please open the door."
Thalma moved past him toward the cockpit as she heard the deadbolt reverse. The door swung open, and Thalma found herself face to face with a pump shotgun. She jumped sideways as the shotgun roared, feeling shot impacting the left side of her vest and shoulder. She shot him twice in the upper chest as he racked in another round. As he fell back, the shotgun roared again – blowing a hole in the instrument panels. Thalma moved in, gun leveled, watching his eyes glaze over as blood pooled around his body. She grabbed his collar and dragged him out of the cockpit.
"That was unfortunate," said Mr. Murphy.
"Can you fly?" Thalma asked.
"No. I take it you can't, either?"
"Nope." Not in a plane, anyway, she thought.
"Even more unfortunate."
They both braced themselves as the plane lurched.
"Come with me," she said. "I'm going to try to fly this thing."
With Thalma grasping his good arm, Murphy staggered to his feet and joined her in a woozy walk into the cockpit. The plane was listing badly to the left by the time they'd both sunk into the two seats. Murphy noted the gaping hole in the instrument panel left by the shotgun. The burnt plastic odor of shorted wires filled the cabin.
Thalma eased up one of the levers. Nothing happened. She tugged the lever harder and turned what she thought were the directional controls.
"I don't think the basic controls are functioning," she said.
The one thing that did seem to be working was the altimeter, which was spinning slowly downward. Thalma had little doubt that she'd survive the crash, but the prospects weren't good for the urbane Mr. Murphy.
In a flash, she made a decision. She stuck two fingers into her back pocket, making contact with the LSD 35 powder, rubbing off the excess after withdrawing them. She sniffed one of her fingers deeply, and thrust the other onto Murphy's nostrils. He shook his head away, sneezing.
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