He’s still holding the crutch in his hand but it doesn’t seem like he needs it. His weight is evenly distributed on both feet and he just kicked out at Blue…
All-American, the guy in the Eagles sweatshirt with the eyes of a killer, appears at the head of the other aisle. “Back away from the cockpit,” he says in that deep voice of his.
Crutch Man turns to him, shifting his weight but still holding onto the flight attendant’s neck. All-American’s nostrils flare. His eyes dart to Captain and then back to Crutch Man. He’s standing with his arms loose by his sides but in the blink of an eye there is a gun in his hands, cupped the way it’s supposed to be, and aimed at Crutch Man’s chest.
“Back away from the cockpit,” he says again, his voice just as deep, just as calm. Air marshal.
Crutch Man loosens his hold on the woman but doesn’t step back. “Shooting guns inside aircrafts is dangerous.”
“Don’t worry,” All-American says. “The bullet will get stuck in you.”
Oh damn. I like this guy.
Crutch Man releases Red’s neck, his hand drifts down her chest. Nope. Not okay. She whimpers, and I move. It’s only one long step and I’ve got the guy by the wrist. Because his focus is split between the air marshal and Red’s breasts, he’s distracted. So when my hand slips around his wrist, surprise is the first emotion that registers on his face.
It morphs into pain quickly when I take that wrist and break the fucking thing. “Holy fuck.” All-American’s voice is a mix of awe and surprise. Crutch Man is on his knees in front of me. That’s what happens when a person grabs your wrist, then slams their free hand into your knuckles, forcing the fingers toward the inner elbow. It drops you to your knees, and breaks your wrist. One scone feeding two birds.
Crutch Man screams—high and pained. Sweat breaks out at his hairline. His other hand, the one wrapped around the crutch, jerks and Blue leaps forward, pushing between us.
Blue’s teeth latch onto Crutch Man’s other wrist, which is when I see that he’s holding a sharpened metal stick—must have been hidden in the crutch. Blue bites down hard and the weapon drops to the floor. All-American comes up behind Crutch and wraps a strong forearm around the man’s neck. Crutch’s eyes bulge and his skin mottles.
“Off, Blue,” I command. He releases Crutch Man and moves to my side. The weapon lies on the floor. Red kicks it away so that it spins and slides, stopping at my feet. I’m not touching that thing.
I do stare down at it, though—it’s not store-bought. Someone smarter than this moron crafted it specially for the occasion. He’s not alone. Blue growls and my head whips up, looking back into the cabin. The passengers in first class are all seated but those with a view up the aisles are highly alert to what is going on in the front.
All-American glares at me over Crutch Man’s head. “There are more,” I say. His eyes narrow as if I’m involved—as if I’m a part of that “more”. Dumbass.
That chiseled jaw of his works for a moment and then he nods, recognizing not only my logic but also the fact that I am not working with the guy whose wrist I just broke and my dog mauled. That would be some deep fake shit right there. I am not that good…and neither is Crutch Man. He’s still on his knees, cradling his useless hands against his chest while All-American holds him tight around the neck.
I begin moving down the aisle, heading toward my seat, scanning the other passengers for crutches or some other means to conceal a weapon. A scream from economy class draws my attention and I push through the curtain separating the cabins. A man of similar build as Crutch Man stands in the aisle, his eyes wild, holding Daisy—the little girl who petted Blue—with a makeshift weapon of that same silver aluminum pressed to her throat. Daisy’s mom sobs, her hands pressed to her left eye like she just got punched.
I hold up my hands to show I don’t have any weapons. “That’s a kid,” I point out.
“Don’t come any closer,” the man says. “We are taking this plane to West Papua.”
I have no idea where that is.
“Okay,” I agree. “Let’s go tell the captain. She’s right back there. Your friend got a little fucked up.”
“I heard him scream.”
“Yeah, he got hurt. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.” That’s a lie. I want to hurt him.
Blue growls low as if he agrees with my thought, though it’s probably more to do with the fact that Terrorist #2 is tightening his hold on Daisy and the sharp metal is pressing into her neck. “Loosen up,” I say. “If you kill her, you’ll be all out of bargaining chips.”
“Shut up!” he yells at me, but eases the metal from her skin just a little.
My gaze rises from Daisy’s neck to her eyes. Raw terror. Fuck.
“It’s going to be okay,” I promise her.
“Do something!” her mom screams, still standing at her seat, though she’s dropped her hands from her face. Her left eye is swelling badly but her jaw has firmed. She’s not crying now.
“Come with me.” I wave my hand toward the cockpit. “We can go talk to the captain.”
“Free West Papua!” Terrorist #2 says.
“Not within my powers,” I point out. “I’m just a fellow passenger with a big dog. But I am a fan of freedom.”
The desperation in the man’s face tugs at something in me. He’s different than Crutch Man—there isn’t any ego here. He’s threatening the life of a kid to free a place I couldn’t find on a map. A place that obviously he thinks is worth dying for…if we hadn’t met under these circumstances and if his friend hadn’t assaulted a terrified flight attendant, his cause might even be one I’d agree with. But he is threatening a kid’s life, his friend did just cause mayhem outside the cockpit, and I’m going to have to stop him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What’s your name?” I ask Terrorist #2 as he starts down the aisle toward Blue and me. We back up as he moves forward, Daisy held against his body, the weapon pressed to her throat. “And why are you doing this?”
“I fight for freedom, West Papua deserves a referendum on our future, we do not want to live under Indonesian rule,” he says.
“Okay, that sounds reasonable. Taking kids hostages on planes,” I shrug. “Not super reasonable. In fact, kind of fucked up, my friend.”
“I am not your friend.”
“Fair point. Can I call you Gary?”
His face scrunches with confusion. Gary? his eyes seem to say. Who the fuck is Gary?
All-American appears in the opposite aisle, his gun up, eyes laser-focused on Gary. The passengers in between duck down in their seats, soft cries of fear passing like waves, following our slow progression as Gary moves forward and All-American’s gun tracks him.
