Daisy’s mom steps out of the aisle and follows her daughter. Mom has a look on her face that spells trouble. She’s not letting this guy walk off with her kid.
“Let her go,” All-American says. But he doesn’t have a shot here—not a good one anyway. Maybe he’s an expert marksman and can take this guy out with a headshot without hurting Daisy or blowing a hole in the side of the aircraft, but it’s not a sure thing. Crutch Man had his back to All-American—that guy was an easy kill. This situation is much trickier.
That’s when Mom does something stupid and brave. She launches herself onto Gary. Her small body—all five foot two, one hundred and twentyish pounds—lands onto the arm holding the makeshift knife. It scratches down her daughter’s arm, tearing her shirt, and beading blood. Mom’s teeth sink into the man’s bicep and he yells, his grip loosening on Daisy.
The little girl dives forward, falling onto her hands and knees. “Come here,” I yell at her. She crawls on all fours toward Blue, who bounds to her. She gets behind him and Blue leaps through the air. Mom has both hands and her teeth on the guy’s weapon arm. Blue latches onto his wrist and they fall awkwardly in the narrow aisle, Gary letting out a pained cry. The passengers on either side of them push into their neighbors, desperate for a few more inches of physical space between themselves and the mayhem less than a foot away.
The weapon drops with a low thud, barely audible over the droning of the aircraft and the thundering of blood rushing in my ears. Mom is throwing fists at Gary, her hair and eyes wild. Blue just holds onto Gary’s wrist.
Daisy wraps both her arms around my waist and buries her face into my stomach. “Okay, sweetie,” I say, my eyes landing on a woman sitting in the aisle seat next to us. She’s in her fifties with dark skin, kind, worried eyes, and her purse clutched on her lap.
“Here, sit here.” I push Daisy at the woman who reaches out and envelops the girl into a hug—the kind of hug a certain type of woman can give that makes the world a better place. This lady will fight to the death to keep this little girl safe and she doesn’t even know her. That is the side of humanity I need to think about tonight when I’m struggling to sleep.
Daisy seems to understand the same thing I do and curls into the woman’s lap, holding the stranger tight. Daisy squeezes her eyes shut, as if she’s trying to make the outside world disappear.
I rush down the aisle toward Blue, Gary, and Mom. The makeshift weapon is between Blue’s legs and I crouch, picking it up. The metal is warm to the touch. Mom is still whaling on Gary, her fists flying, her form horrific. The woman is likely to break her own thumbs with these moves. “Back off,” I tell her.
Gary is lying still, his free hand covering his face, blocking what blows he can, while the other remains clamped in Blue’s mouth. Mom doesn’t listen, probably can’t hear me.
I carefully reach out, over Blue, and touch her shoulder. She spins, and lashes out at me, misses, and tips herself over, falling back onto her butt. “It’s okay,” I say. “Daisy is safe. I’ll take care of Gary.”
She blinks at me and then her gaze travels past Gary down the aisle to where Daisy is poking her head out. Mom’s face reflects both pain and relief. Tears run down her cheeks as she stands. The other passengers shift so she can make her way around our little clump of bodies. I focus on Gary who lies at my feet.
“If I call my dog off will you remain calm?” I ask. All-American appears at the other end of my aisle, gun trained on Gary. “Watch it,” I say to him. “Your aim is too close to my dog.”
All-American’s eyes dart up to me and seem to say so? To which I respond,. “Get your fucking gun off my dog.” His eyes widen but he lowers his weapon so that it’s pointed at the floor. “Thank you,” I say to All-American before dropping my attention back to Gary. “So, what do you say? Want to get some zip ties on those wrists and enjoy the rest of the flight in police custody? Or do you want to stay on the ground with Blue’s teeth in your wrist?”
All-American’s lips seem to tilt into something like a subtle smile. No teeth or humor, but maybe a wee bit of amusement. “Call the dog off,” Gary says.
“I’m assuming you have some zip ties?” I ask All American.
He moves a hand from the gun and reaches into his back pocket, pulling one out. “How do you want to do this?” I ask him.
His jaw tightens before he answers. “Call the dog off and get him on his knees, arms behind his back.”
“You hear that, Gary?” I ask.
“Yes.” His voice is choked. I hope he doesn’t start crying.
“Blue, release.” Blue backs off, moving to my side, his mouth stained with blood. That takes forever to get out of his white fur.
Gary moves slowly, like he’s aged a hundred years since he and his buddy started this harebrained terrorist attack. “On your knees,” All-American barks. Wonder if he practices that in the mirror.
Gary’s eyes fall on the aluminum weapon I’m still holding. The thing looks homemade, and an image of Gary working on it in some shitty apartment in LA floods my imagination. So sad.
Gary then does something so stupid, so just fucking stupid. He launches himself at me, powering up from a crouch, his hands out. My instincts take over and I fall back into a fighting stance, swinging the weapon up and slashing his chest. Blood spatters, arching across my new sweatshirt. Dammit.
Gary doesn’t slow down—he’s in the place where adrenaline and desperation keep pain from registering. His hands reach for my throat, grabbing me hard enough to leave a bruise. I drive the weapon into his side.
Gary doesn’t seem to notice. Blue bites onto his pant leg and shakes hard enough that Gary loses his balance, falling forward onto me, his fingers releasing from my neck. I shuffle back, still steady on my feet, but Gary wraps his arms around my waist, the same way Daisy did moments ago. Blue gets behind him and yanks, pulling down his pants but not dislodging Gary.
The man has lost his ever-loving fucking mind.
The weapon is still stuck in his side, Blue has his pants, and Gary hugs me like I’m his mother. I am not.
Blue drops the pants and looks at me, wanting a command. “Let go,” I say to Gary. If I pull the weapon, blood will gush everywhere and he might die. Probably not, but he could. I’m already going to have a lot of questions to answer when we land…killing Gary will not help me.
I reach around to my back and grab one of Gary’s thumbs, twisting it, forcing him to release. Gary yanks both hands back and I step away, creating a little distance between us. He starts to rise from his knees, using the armrests of the seats on either side. The weapon still protruding from his side makes the movement awkward and I see him wince with pain.
“Stay down,” I advise him, my gaze flicking to All-American behind Gary, who still has his gun aimed at the floor. Smart man. Blue is in between the gun and Gary. If All-American shot my dog there would be consequences.
“Come on,” I say slowly. “Get back on your knees.” He doesn’t listen, just keeps rising up. Ah, fuck it. I kick out with my front foot, driving my heel into his chin. Gary’s head whips back and his body follows. He lands on the floor with a solid thud, unconscious.
Blue barks his excitement and looks at me with adoring eyes, then leaps over the fallen terrorist. He taps his nose to my hip before maneuvering to stand on my left. Ready. All-American comes forward, his gun aimed at Gary. “Want help with that zip tie?” I ask.
All-American’s eyes flick up to mine and there are a lot of questions in them.
Someone starts to clap. And quickly the rest of the cabin joins in. Suddenly there are whoops and cheers. I scan the cabin; people are nodding at me, others are holding up phones, recording.
This is not going to end well…
CHAPTER NINE
I overhear All-American telling Angel his name is Peter Drunfeld. But in my head I’m calling him Air Marshal Petey because it makes me smile and after that shit show I need a little humor.
Crutch Man and Gary spend the rest of the flight, which is only about thirty minutes, with Petey guarding them while Blue and I sit in our pod. Red comes over as our descent begins, her hair put back into place but her smile unsure. “Thank you,” she says.
