by Angel Vane
Too soon, Mena pulled away from him. “You better come back alive or I will never forgive you.”
Julian watched as Mena walked backward toward the bathroom. She blew him a kiss, then stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
Turning back toward the door leading out of the bedroom, Julian slid it open and watched the gunmen. They were still arguing. One of the men held a tablet between them as their heated exchange continued. Julian focused on the screen. Video of a soccer match being played, maybe from the World Cup.
The guns were still on the couch. The man closest to Julian pointed at the video, vigorously trying to make some point to the other gunman who was looking off into the distance as if contemplating the man’s perspective.
Julian felt the familiar anticipation of combat settling through his body, adrenaline pumping as he focused on the slow metronomic beats thudding in his chest. His hand gripped the butterfly knife and he slipped out of the room, easing the door closed behind him.
In two steps, he reached down and swiped one of the guns from the couch with his left hand while plunging the blade of the butterfly knife into one of the men’s throat, twisting then jerking it forward. The rebel dropped the tablet, his hands flying to his throat as his body fell to the ground. Julian pushed the man forward toppling him into the other rebel, who let out a frantic cry. Julian pointed the gun at his chest and pulled the trigger, silencing his wails.
“The lazy fools didn’t tie you up like they should have,” Dr. Quentin Tufa said, rising from the couch. He stretched and yawned, then settled back against the sofa. “I swear if we don’t give specific instructions, things never come out right.”
Julian sat down on the couch across from Quentin, securing the second AR-15 on his body with the shoulder strap. He pointed the gun at Dumay’s co-conspirator in crime and adopted brother.
Quentin taunted, “Go ahead. Kill me. You can’t stop what we’ve already put in motion.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
A loud shot sent a jolt through Mena. She screamed, unable to stop the sound from erupting from her mouth.
Grasping for the silver handle of the bathroom door, she squeezed it tight, turned, and pushed the door open. Had Julian been shot? What was happening out there?
Against the warning bells going off in her head, Mena rushed forward through the bedroom and slid open the door, stepping into the middle compartment of the plane.
The smell of death gagged her. The sickening and overpowering sweet metallic scent mixed with smoke from the rifle lingered in the air.
Scanning the room, her eyes were drawn to two dead men, their bodies crossing each other in a heap on the floor. One man’s neck was mangled and open revealing tissue and muscle as blood continued to ooze from the wound. The other man’s eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling in shock. His neck, chest, and arms covered in dark blood.
Gasping, Mena fought to resist vomiting as she stumbled backward.
“Mena!”
Startled away from the gruesome scene, Mena looked toward the sound and saw Julian standing near one of the couches. Concern clouded his face as he stared at her.
“You shouldn’t be out here. Go back inside the bedroom,” Julian said.
Mena rushed toward him, flinging her arms around him. “I thought you’d been shot. I had to come out and make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine, but you need to go back where you’re safe. I still need to find Adam Russell,” Julian said. He rested one arm around her while he pointed the large assault rifle toward someone behind her.
She looked over her shoulder. Dr. Quentin Tufa was on the couch, his head propped up on his hands as he stared back at them.
“No need to worry about Adam Russell. He won’t be ambushing anyone,” Quentin said.
“You’re lying,” Julian said, stepping in front of Mena shielding her from the view of the two dead bodies and Quentin. Mena peered around Julian’s massive frame, her hand gripping one of his arms.
“Check the luggage closet for yourself. Adam thought he could redeem himself for agreeing to testify against my sister by getting me out of Africa undetected,” Quentin said, shifting his feet to the floor as he sat upright. “My sister is more forgiving than I am.”
Julian turned and placed the assault rifle in Mena’s hands.
“I’m going to tie Quentin up while you hold the gun on him. If he makes a crazy move, you shoot him, center mass. Don’t worry about me. I’ll make sure I give you enough room to make the shot,” Julian said.
“I’ve never shot a rifle before,” Mena said. The rifle weighed a ton as it rested against her forearm.
“Like riding a bicycle, you’ve ridden one, you’ve rode them all. Trust your instincts, okay,” Julian said, then gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
Mena held the gun outward, lacing her finger on the trigger and directed it toward Quentin’s chest. Julian snatched tactical ties from the pocket of one of the dead gunmen and used them to secure Quentin’s hands and feet. He didn’t resist being restrained, allowing Julian to immobilize him without a fight.
Lifting Quentin from the couch, Julian dragged the man past Mena and into the bedroom where they’d been kept for most of the flight. She stood alone in the middle of the compartment, unsure of what to do next. Had Quentin killed Adam Russell? Was the danger over?
The door to the bedroom closed with a loud bang. Mena jumped and turned, pointing the rifle at Julian’s head. He was calm, reaching for the barrel as he lowered it to her side, then slipped the weapon from her hand.
“You’re okay,” Julian said, squeezing her hand. “I’m going to check the luggage closet and see if Tufa was telling us the truth.”
Mena stepped back, her mind swirling with confusion and terror as she held her breath. Julian gripped the gun tightly as he approached the door near the back of the compartment. Lifting the latch to open the closet door, he tugged at it and the door swung open. Inside, Mena could see Adam Russell, bound and gagged. His body twisted at an awkward angle to fit into the space. A gash with dried blood was on his head, above the temple.
Julian squatted low and pressed his fingers against Adam’s neck. “He’s still breathing.”
Standing, Julian stood up and closed the door. “We’ll leave him in there for now.”
Mena walked over to Julian.
“What’s our next move?” Mena asked.
“We wait until the pilot lands the plane in St. Basil and we make a run for it there—”
A gunshot blast rang through the air.
Hot searing pain sliced through Mena’s arm. She looked down at the blood oozing from her bicep as she fell backward onto the floor, her landing softened by the body of one of the dead gunmen.
Julian spun around.
Mena screamed as bullets whizzed through the cabin.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Julian looked at the man with two gunshot wounds to the chest wedged between the open cockpit door.
Bastard must have been one of the pilots. Would the other one come out firing too? Julian weighed the risks, standing his ground as he pointed the rifle toward the open door.
Leaning slightly, he looked for any signs of another threat from the cockpit. The Gulfstream likely had an auto-pilot function, but he was gambling that the lead pilot wouldn’t leave his post to join the fray, especially with his co-pilot bleeding out in the doorway next to him. Keeping the plane steady and headed to its destination without crashing probably was his greater concern.
Turning around, Julian rushed over to Mena. She was sweating profusely, her face a mask of pain as she gripped her bloody arm with her left hand.
“It hurts like hell,” Mena said, through shaky breaths. The dark red blood staining her fingers as it coursed down the length of her arm. Her body was propped against one of the dead gunmen sprawled on the floor near the center of the cabin.
Julian scrambled down to the floor and wrapped his arms around Mena. Rising to his feet,
he carried her to the couch. Her body trembled as she struggled to deal with the pain.
“Can you move your hand away? Let me take a look,” Julian said.
Leaning her head back against the cushion of the couch, she slowly uncurled her fingers from her bloodied arm. The wound was nasty, skin and muscles ripped to shreds but luckily, he detected an exit wound. Julian suspected the bullet had damaged her muscles and not hit her humerus bone. Dealing with a gunshot wound would be tough enough. He didn’t want her dealing with a broken bone on top of that.
“How bad is it?” Mena asked, her eyes clenched tight.
“You really want the answer to that?” Julian asked, scanning the room for materials to stop the bleeding. The blood was gushing at a rate faster than Julian would have preferred. A sign that the major brachial artery in her arm could have been hit. He had to make sure she didn’t bleed out before the plane landed and he could get her to the hospital.
“Good question. The less I know until I get to the hospital, the better. Nothing we can do until we land anyway,” Mena said.
“Have you forgotten that you’re dating a highly trained ex-special forces veteran of the military?” Julian said, giving her a wink.
A laugh erupted from Mena, then she winced in pain. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“I love your laugh. It’s good to hear, despite this fucked up situation,” Julian said.
Moving toward the cabinet next to the couch, Julian opened the door and pulled out the first aid kit. Inside, a row of four clear medical vials were secured to the lid. Julian removed one of the vials and peered at the clear contents. No label or markings to indicate what was inside. He’d hoped it was an antibiotic, but couldn’t take a chance of giving it to Mena without knowing for sure. Julian slipped the vial into his pocket just in case, then turned his focus to the other contents. Grabbing a handful of triangular bandages, roller gauze, scissors, and the bottle of pain relievers, he headed back to Mena.
“Take four of these,” Julian said, opening the bottle and shaking the pills out onto her hand. He wrapped her arm in bandages secured by roller gauze to staunch the bleeding.
Mena popped the pills in her mouth and swallowed, looking up at him. “Is it over?”
Glancing around at the gruesome scene, Julian paused. He’d killed three men on the plane to protect Mena, tied up Quentin Tufa, and left Adam Russell in an unknown state, but alive, bound and gagged in a luggage closet.
He didn’t want to think about what Mena thought of him right now. The quickness to which he resorted to taking out the threats, without any hesitation. The quickness he planned to unleash to eliminate the last threat against them.
But the look on her face eased away any concern that was building. He saw pure love in her eyes and a desperate hope that the challenges they’d faced were now behind them. He would do anything to protect her and keep her safe.
Julian leaned over and placed his lips against hers, savoring the soft sweetness of her mouth as he kissed her fully.
“Yeah, it’s over. When we land, we’ll call Kendrick and get the police to round up Quentin and Adam—”
Turbulence shook the plane, jolting Julian. He stumbled backward, struggling to maintain his balance.
“Julian, what’s happening?” Mena asked, reaching for him.
“Just stay here,” Julian said, picking up the assault rifle. “I’m going to go check on the pilot.”
Julian took a step toward the flight deck, then dropped to his knees as the plane lurched forward into a dangerously steep descent. What the hell was wrong with the pilot? Was he trying to crash the plane … on purpose? Glancing out the window, Julian could see land in the distance. Tropical islands dotting the water.
Struggling to stand, Julian rushed toward the cockpit, stepping over the dead co-pilot in the doorway and peered inside, his gun pointed toward the pilot seat.
Empty.
A surge of adrenaline spiked through his veins as he scanned the cockpit. Lights flashed across the instrument board and the control wheel shook wildly as the altimeter registered falling altitude.
Dropping the gun, Julian slid into the pilot’s seat and placed the headset on his head. He had to do something, anything to get the plane not to crash.
“There’s no other pilot?” Mena’s voice wafted from behind.
“Looks like I took out the one guy who was flying this plane,” Julian said, annoyed that he hadn’t checked earlier after he shot the pilot. He’d assumed that the Gulfstream was manned by two pilots like protocol. But this was far from a typical situation. Maniacs like Adam Russell and Quentin Tufa followed rules of their own design and weren’t concerned with safety standards.
Mena slid into the co-pilot chair, fumbling with the straps of the seat belt before locking herself in. “Have you ever flown a plane?”
“Never,” Julian said, a wisp of sadness in his tone that he hadn’t wanted to let out.
Mena grimaced, then reached her hand out toward his. “I love you, Julian. Thank you for—”
“Stop it. We’re not dying. Not today,” Julian said, squeezing her hand then bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss.
Julian pressed the VHF radio button and flipped the talk switch on the communication panel.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday,” Julian spoke into the headset.
The radio was silent.
“Are you sure it’s on?” Mena asked.
Julian checked the lights and switch again. “Can’t say for sure, but it looks like it.”
“Try again,” Mena encouraged.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday, we need immediate help to avoid a crash. Mayday, mayday, mayday,” Julian said, blood rushing in his ears as he waited for a response.
The radio crackled, then a voice filled the air. “N303GA St. Killian go ahead.”
“Pilot is incapacitated. Need help to land safely.”
“N303GA say last known location.”
“I don’t know. Took off from El Wak in Kenya,” Julian said, shifting in his seat. “Losing altitude steadily. Kind of nose-diving. How do I get level?”
“Squawk 7700 if you have a transponder.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Julian said. “Plane is falling! How do I get it level?”
“N303GA have you flown a plane before?”
“No,” Julian responded.
A brief silence, then a voice he’d recognize anywhere came on the line.
“Lucky you have friends in high places, N303GA,” a woman’s voice filled the air.
“Damn it, Sunny! Get me out of this fucking mess,” Julian said, relief coursing through his body.
“I’m in an ASF military jet with Reggie. We’ve been following your plane this whole time. No way I was letting you get kidnapped. Now pay close attention because this is going to sound like Greek. I will describe what stuff looks like and just do exactly what I say,” Sunny said.
“You’re going to enjoy bossing me around, aren’t you?” Julian quipped.
Julian tightened his seat belt, then followed the instructions from Sunny on the radio. Within minutes, he’d brought the plane to level and re-engaged the autopilot.
“We’ll have you landed in about ten minutes,” Sunny said.
A loud beep filled the air.
“What was that?” Mena asked, straining forward.
Julian scanned the instrument panel, his eyes drawn to the flashing alert.
“Got a problem,” Julian spoke into the headset.
“What’s wrong?” Sunny asked.
“Fuel level low error message,” Julian said. An eerie quiet settled in the cockpit as the engines stopped. Mena glanced at him, terror in her eyes.
“Damn. You’re not close enough. Power on the fuel pumps and go full throttle,” Sunny barked in his ear.
Julian followed her directions, but the engines wouldn’t start.
The plane was going down.
Fast.
“Julian, listen to me. You’re going
to have to land the plane on the water. It’s the best chance you have,” Sunny said. “The angles will be important. Too steep and the force of the collision will kill you. Out of balance and the plane could cartwheel and tear the aircraft to pieces.”
“You’re scaring the shit out of me, right now,” Julian said.
“I know you. You operate better when you know all the risks,” Sunny responded. “Water is no different from land. Just pretend that’s glass down there and you have to land this baby soft and gentle.”
Julian ignored the ocean looming closer through the window, focusing on the details of Sunny’s instructions instead. Muscles aching with tension, he held onto the control wheel as the plane dove closer and closer to the water. An island loomed straight ahead as the plane rocked back and forth. Julian glanced at Mena, her eyes squeezed shut as she braced for impact.
“Pull back on the yoke. Slowly!” Sunny directed.
Seconds later the plane struck the surface of the Caribbean Sea. The impact was deafening, shuddering the aircraft as water sprayed across the windshield. Julian fought to retain control of the wheel. His body bounced and jerked back and forth until the plane slammed to a stop, hurling him into the tight harness of the seat belt. Pain detonated across his chest, aggravating his cracked ribs and knocking the wind out of him. He fought to inhale, but the pain was searing and he almost blacked out from the effort.
“Good job, Montgomery,” Sunny’s voice crackled in the headset. “We have a visual of your location. Palmchat Islands Coast Guard has been alerted. Help is on the way.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you. I owe you Sunny,” Julian said.
“Damn right, you do.”
Leaning backward, he fumbled for the release of the seatbelt, then turned toward Mena.
“You okay?” Mena asked.
“I am now,” Julian said, unhooking her seatbelt and pulling her into his arms.
