by Cassie Miles
“Come with me on this trip, Quint. We can spend the whole flight in here.”
“I’m sorely tempted.” Oddly enough, her tour of the airplane had reassured him. Nothing bad could happen on such a magnificent aircraft. Quantum security was top-notch. He’d been needlessly worried. “But I promised Whitney I’d be back at the Chicago Confidential offices in half an hour.”
“I’ll miss you,” she said. “It’s only three days, but that seems like a long time to be apart.”
“I can fly to Washington and join you.” He stroked the satiny bedcover. “Then we’ll come back together on this sexy aircraft.”
“After I’ve taken care of business.” She nodded. “Perfect.”
He kissed her once more. Oh, how he wanted to stay. Reluctantly, he rose and offered his hand to help her off the bed. “Would you be so kind as to escort me off your fine corporate jet? It’s so big, I’m afraid I’ll lose my way.”
Together, they strolled through the lounge and down the stairs, where they met the pilots who were preparing to enter the flight deck. Natalie introduced a rugged-looking older man with gray streaks at his temples. “Chuck has been with Quantum for almost thirty years. He learned how to fly post-Vietnam.”
Quint shook the pilot’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
Chuck introduced his co-pilot. “My regular co-pilot is sick, so I called on the reserves. This is Ted Jackson, former U.S. Air Force captain, otherwise known as Smilin’ Jack.”
Quint could easily see where the nickname came from. Smilin’ Jack had a lantern chin and a tightly stretched grin. His handshake was firm. A substitute pilot? Was he trustworthy?
Quint said, “Y’all take good care of Natalie.”
“Don’t worry,” Chuck said. “We just completed safety checks and expect to be ready for takeoff in just a few more minutes.”
Smilin’ Jack held open the safety door to the flight deck. “Would you care to take a look in here, Quint?”
“Another time,” he said. He would definitely enjoy studying the mechanics of this aircraft, but right now his focus was Natalie. He wanted to say a private goodbye.
They descended the stairs and stood beside the aircraft. Through the opened hangar, the night poured inside. He held her, kissed her. “I’ll miss you, darlin’. Be careful.”
“You, too.” Reluctantly, she stepped away from him. “See you in Washington.”
“Count on it.”
Though Quint should have hightailed it back to Confidential headquarters, he wanted to prolong these moments when Natalie was near. He might still change his mind and join her right now. That bed in the private cabin had been mighty seductive.
Casually, he circled the belly of the plane. Most of the loading had been done, and the door to the rear cargo hold was closed and latched. None of the baggage handlers were nearby.
Quint climbed the ramp leading into the forward cargo hold. In the back of his mind, he considered the possibility of stowing away down here and climbing out to surprise Natalie midflight. He could make a dramatic entrance. But with the chases and threats and bombs, there had already been too much drama in their relationship.
Instead, he explored deeper in the belly of the plane. Some of the luggage was stacked behind mesh to keep it from sliding around, and there were a couple of large containers that locked to the floor. The ceiling height in the cargo hold was lower than in the cabin; he had to take off his Stetson to walk standing up.
A sound caught his attention, and he turned. Inside the mesh, sitting on top of a large trunk, was a shipping kennel. Quint moved closer.
A friendly dog peered out at him. Black and white, it looked like a Border collie.
“Hey, fella. What are you doing here?” He must belong to one of the Quantum employees or maybe somebody in the flight crew. Seemed strange to bring your pet on a short trip to Washington.
The dog circled inside his cage.
“You want to get out of there, don’t you?”
The dog pressed up against the front of the cage. He was missing his front leg. A black-and-white Border collie with three legs.
“Damn.”
Quint finally had his answer. He knew what had happened to the dog in Reykjavik.
Chapter Ten
Along with the other passengers and flight attendants, Natalie took her seat; hers was in the rear area with the standard first-class airline chair arrangement—double seats by the windows and an aisle in the middle. The two bodyguards—big, stalwart men—claimed the seats nearest the door that led into this section. Their presence seemed excessive for only seven Quantum employees on this flight, but Natalie wouldn’t complain. Her previous stance on refusing protection had gotten her attacked in Grant Park.
As the flight attendant in a rear jump seat politely requested that they fasten seat belts for takeoff, Natalie eagerly peered out the window, hoping to catch a last glimpse of Quint before they were airborne.
Nose pressed against the glass, her gaze searched the tarmac in front of the hangar, expecting to see his tall frame, wide shoulders and ever-present Stetson. But he wasn’t there; he must have hurried off to his meeting at Confidential headquarters. A little disappointed, she faced forward as they taxied toward the runway.
Maria Luisa, sitting beside her, smiled and said, “I’m happy for you, Natalie. Quint is a terrific guy.”
Which was why it would hurt so much if she lost him. “I hope this relationship works.”
“I’d bet on it. The way he looks at you…” Maria Luisa knotted her hands above her breasts. “That man is head over heels in love.”
“It’s too soon to talk about love. We’ve only known each other for a few days. It takes months, sometimes even years, to know if you really care deeply enough to call it love.”
“So careful!” Maria Luisa teased. “Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”
Shaking her head, Natalie recalled her first impression of Quint. She’d thought he was an annoying jerk—handsome with a great body, but definitely not for her. “The first impression wasn’t so good for me and Quint.”
“Maybe not from your side,” Maria Luisa said. “But I think he liked you from the very beginning.”
A rumbling vibration shook the aircraft as the two powerful turbofan engines geared up for takeoff. Through the porthole window, Natalie watched as the glittering lights beside the tarmac blurred. With a little bump from the wheels drawing up into the belly of the plane, they left the ground.
In the distance, she saw the magnificent glitter of Chicago. At night, the glow from millions of lights reached as high as the clouds. In her eyes, the sight was beautiful, enchanted. Would Quint appreciate her city the same way? Could he ever call Chicago home? Perhaps that was a bit much to ask of a loyal Texan. She’d be wiser to cherish their differences.
As they soared above Lake Michigan, Jerome Harris unfastened his seat belt and turned to her. “If you don’t mind, Natalie, there are a few figures I’d like to check with you.”
“Of course.” A few days ago, her entire consciousness had been absorbed with preparation for this meeting in Washington. Every waking moment was devoted to creating exactly the right speech, memorizing the data to refute any accusations regarding the way Quantum did business. Now, her presentation didn’t seem nearly so earthshaking.
Nonetheless, she followed rabbity little Jerome into the adjoining conference area, where they were joined by three others. The other passengers sat in the comfortable easy chairs in the conversation area in the forward lounge, or stayed in their reclining seats at the rear.
The bodyguards, she noticed, had split up. One was at the front, near the door to the flight deck. The other stayed in the rear where the flight attendants were busily preparing food and drink.
Natalie stood at the head of the conference table. She focused on the man from Marketing who was in line to be promoted to vice president. His name was Gregory Walsh. A husky blond guy with a permanent tan, he had the repu
tation of being an outdoorsman and an outstanding golfer, which was a useful talent for a marketing man.
Natalie nodded to him and addressed the assembled employees. “Before we get started, I’d like to take a moment to remember Gordon Doeller. He gave many good years to Quantum, and he will be missed.”
There were nods and quiet murmurs, but no tears were shed.
She turned to Jerome. “I believe you had some numbers to run.”
His head jiggled up and down as he passed out sheets of paper filled with a dizzying array of neatly typed columns. Distribution figures. Profit and loss. Margins. Percentages.
At one time, Natalie had found these numbers to be as compelling as a fast-paced thriller. She sifted through the sheaf of papers, and found herself thinking of Quint. What was he doing right now?
INSIDE THE FORWARD CARGO HOLD, ducked down beside the luggage, Quint felt the aircraft level off as they attained cruising altitude. In the cabin above his head, the passengers would soon begin moving around. And then, the Reykjavik terrorist would strike.
On the ground, when the cargo hatch had closed and Quint had realized he was about to be locked in, his first impulse was to alert the bodyguards to the approaching danger. Then he’d thought again. There was the possibility that those bodyguards were in cahoots with the terrorists. Sure, they’d been approved by the Feds, but mistakes had been made before. Quint wasn’t prepared to trust anybody. Not when there was so much at stake. Natalie’s safety. Her life.
When he thought of her being in peril, a burning rage churned in his gut. He wanted to charge up into the cabin, grab her and kill anybody who dared to get close. That was his second impulse. His fists clenched. He wanted action, but he needed to be smart. Right now, he had the element of surprise in his favor. Nobody but the three-legged dog knew Quint was on board the Quantum jet.
By the dim illumination of work lights, he crept toward the sliding door that led to the rear cargo bay behind the wheel well. There was a considerable amount of junk down here. A folded-up display booth. A couple of office machines. And sports equipment. Apparently, when Henry Van Buren traveled in his luxurious corporate aircraft, he wanted to be prepared for anything. Quint was glad for the extra bit of height in the cargo bay. He could walk standing up, whereas in a typical 737, he’d have had to duck way down.
As he came up to the fire door separating the two cargo hatches, he wished he’d paid more attention to the mechanics of this aircraft instead of gaping at the padded leather seats and the mechanical fold-down bed. All he could deduce from prior experience was that there were two insulated cargo bays to the fore and aft, separated by a wall and the wheel well. The belly of the plane was pressurized but not heated. The temperature down here would stay between fifty and sixty degrees—chilly but not ice-cold. Much more annoying was the lack of soundproofing against the constant loud hum of the turbojets. As he picked his way toward the rear of the plane, he noticed auxiliary fuel tanks. They ought to be empty for a short trip like this, but this was still a dangerous place to be firing a weapon.
Where were the terrorists hiding? Where was the owner of that three-legged Border collie?
If Quint himself had been planning a hijacking, he’d divide his forces. He’d position men in the rear cargo hold with access to the cabin through the service kitchen. Then, he’d have another force to attack from the front. But there was no one else in the forward cargo bay. He had to wonder if other terrorists were already on the flight. Maybe the bodyguards or the flight attendants. Maybe Smilin’ Jack, the substitute pilot.
There weren’t many other hiding places on a plane like this. There was a crawl space in the ceiling above the cabin. There was a bay underneath the flight deck that held some of the override computer avionics. Only one man could fit in that tiny space, and he’d need help from the pilots to get out.
Counting on the constant engine noise to cover the sound of his movements, Quint slid back the door leading to the aft cargo bay. He slipped through and closed the door.
Through the shadows, he saw three armed men, poised at the steep metal stairs leading up to the service area, where the flight attendants were probably preparing food.
Three of them. Somehow, Quint had to disable three armed terrorists with his one-shot Derringer.
There wasn’t time for him to come up with a plan. They were already on the move. The first one climbed the steep metal stairs leading to the cabin.
Quint lowered his head and scrambled across the cargo bay.
The second man disappeared up the stairs.
Number three climbed more carefully. He was limping.
Quint made a dive and caught the guy by the leg, pulling him down the stairs. His weapon fell from his hand and clattered into the shadows as he staggered to his feet. Quint recognized the man with a moustache from Grant Park. He was also the guy with the Vandyke beard who had shadowed them in the Art Institute.
He squinted toward Quint. “You!”
From the heel of his boot, Quint removed the switchblade. It snicked open. The handle fit neatly in his hand.
The terrorist looked at his knife and sneered. He reached inside his jacket and unsheathed a long, wicked-looking blade.
Quint was damn good and ready for a fight. He gestured the other man toward him.
STIFFLY, NICCO EMERGED from the cramped space beneath the flight deck where he’d been hiding for nearly forty-five minutes. Though the wait should have been only a minimal test of his endurance, his body ached. A cold sweat dampened the clothing he wore under his ground crew jumpsuit.
He had no need for worry. According to brief walkie-talkie transmissions, he’d been assured that every phase of the hijacking had gone as planned. His men had hidden in galley modules from the catering truck. When loaded onto the plane, they released themselves and hid in the aft cargo bay. Their weapons had been placed in the hangar earlier by the ground crew employee, the smoker, who Nicco had eliminated and then been hired to replace. Nicco himself carried the weapons onto the plane.
No one had questioned the credentials of Smilin’ Jack, the mercenary who was paid excessively to replace the co-pilot on this flight and compromise his otherwise sterling reputation.
Nicco stood erect at the rear of the flight deck.
The pilot was slumped over in his seat. Smilin’ Jack stared through the windshield at the night sky.
“We’re on autopilot, cruising at an altitude of twelve hundred meters,” he said.
Nicco nodded to the pilot. “Is he dead?”
“Unconscious. I used the stun gun, then whacked him so he’d stay quiet.”
“Good.” Though Nicco had no aversion to killing when necessary, he preferred to keep his hostages intact to use as bargaining chips.
He stretched his arms and legs. This would be the most risky part of the operation—eliminating the bodyguards and taking control of the aircraft.
He and his three men were armed with pistols, but Nicco preferred the Taser stun guns with a striking distance of fifteen feet and an ability to immobilize the target without permanent harm.
Before giving his men the order to attack over the walkie-talkie no larger than a cell phone, Nicco felt a strange need for reassurance. After all these years of working alone and underground while he constructed sophisticated explosive devices for other terrorist groups, he wished for validation.
He would not expect congratulations from Smilin’ Jack. To ask for support would be perceived as weakness.
Nicco thought of Scout, his beloved dog whom he’d loaded earlier into the forward cargo bay. When this was over, he and Scout would be rich enough to live anywhere. They would no longer take orders from fools. They would walk together on sunlit beaches.
Inwardly, Nicco smiled. His plan would not fail.
Lifting the walkie-talkie to his lips, Nicco gave the order. “Go! Now!”
SITTING IN THE AIRBORNE conference room, Natalie stared at the sheets of paper Jerome Harris had distributed. The rows of
numbers blurred before her eyes, and she struggled to concentrate.
From the rear of the plane, she heard a shout, a scream. Gunfire!
Natalie leaped to her feet. Similar noise came from the front of the plane. Apprehension rushed through her. The worst possible scenario was an attack on the airplane. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
Frantically, her gaze scanned the walls and the portholes as though she might suddenly discover a magic corridor for escape. No chance. She was trapped. Unarmed. Helpless.
A flight attendant rushed into the conference area. “It’s a hijacking.”
Jerome Harris backed up against the portholes. Trembling, he whispered, “We’re all going to die.”
“Stop it!” Natalie commanded. Where were the bodyguards? There were two bodyguards—special agents—on this aircraft. Where were they?
The other flight attendant who had been in the rear of the plane staggered into the conference room. Her face was white with terror. Tears streaked down her cheeks.
Two armed men followed. One of them held Maria Luisa with a knife to her throat.
“Go.” He shouted the order to all of them. “Single file down the hall to the lounge. Move it. Fast.”
The other hijacker—a huge grizzly bear of a man—hauled slackers to their feet. Rudely, he shoved them forward. “Go. Now. Go.”
Through her fear, Natalie still needed to resist. These were her employees, her responsibility. She could not stand idly by and watch them being herded like sheep. Bracing herself, she demanded, “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Move it!” The hijacker slashed his blade across Maria Luisa’s bare arm. She screamed. Blood oozed from the wound.
Natalie couldn’t bear seeing the fear and horror in her secretary’s dark eyes. Just a moment before, they’d been giggling about her relationship with Quint. Now, their futures were over, gone.
