by Cassie Miles
Stalking toward the corridor, Natalie joined the line.
In the lounge area, a third armed man waited. At his feet lay the body of one security guard. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back. His ankles were tied together.
The third man barked an order. “Everyone sit.”
His two companions enforced the order. Roughly pushing and prodding, they made sure all the passengers were seated on the plush leather sofas and chairs. The luxurious comfort of the furnishings mocked their fear.
“Thank you,” the third man said. The tenor of his voice seemed familiar to Natalie. “I want all of your cell phones and anything that might be used as a weapon. Swiss Army knives. Nail files. Toss them on the floor.”
Jerome Harris was the first to comply. He dropped his cell phone with shaking hands.
“You will be searched,” the hijacker advised. “If we find any of you have held back, the consequences will be severe.”
They quickly disarmed themselves. Natalie didn’t have her cell phone; it was in her purse.
When the hijacker looked directly at her, Natalie recognized him. She’d thought about his face often enough after her office had been bombed. “Nick Beaumont from Little Rock,” she said.
His eyes glittered. “And you are Natalie Van Buren, daughter of Henry Van Buren, CEO of the most powerful oil distribution company in the world.”
He was obviously the leader. Could she negotiate with him? “Please tell your man to release Maria Luisa.”
“Of course.” Nick nodded to his companion, who placed the sobbing Maria Luisa on a sofa beside a flight attendant. “I apologize for the injury,” said Nick Beaumont. “It is not our intention for any of you to be harmed. We are not fanatics.”
Natalie couldn’t help thinking of their destination: Washington, D.C. The horror of recent hijackings was all too fresh in her mind. “Why have you done this?”
“We have demands.” All eyes focused on Nick as he strutted among them, proud as a rooster. He seemed to take pleasure in their fear and confusion. “We’re not terrorists. We’re old-fashioned criminals.”
His men laughed. He spoke to them in German, a language Natalie understood well enough to know that he was asking about another person, another of his men who was not with them. One of the others replied in German that he had never left the cargo bay. His leg had been bothering him.
“Coward,” Nick said in English. He turned toward Natalie and her co-workers. “You are our hostages. To gain your safe release, we will need to be paid a very substantial sum.”
This plan would never work. Natalie said, “The United States government doesn’t negotiate with hijackers.”
“Of course not.” He stopped in front of her and bent down to look directly in her eyes. “But your wealthy father will negotiate. And he will pay a princely sum to have his dear little daughter safely returned.”
He was right.
Clearly, she saw the fiendishly simple logic to this campaign. First came the written threats to start the engine of fear. Then, the bombing escalated the threats into the promise of danger. Real peril struck when she was attacked and nearly abducted on Saint Patrick’s Day. Now the hijacking. Her father would believe that Nick and his men were serious in their threats. And her father would pay.
But why had they targeted Quantum? There were other captains of industry who were more wealthy, more powerful, more vulnerable. Why Quantum?
“Who do you work for?” she asked. “Who financed your operation?”
Without answering, he turned away from her. “Ladies and gentlemen, your comforts will be provided for. This ordeal should be over in less than two hours. You will not be harmed.”
“How can we believe you?” Jerome Harris asked nervously. “You’ve already stabbed one person.”
“Again, I apologize to Maria Luisa,” said Nick.
She gasped and looked up. “How do you know my name?”
“I know all of you,” Nick said. “I’ve researched your petty, boring lives. I know your salaries. I know what cars you drive. I know you are soft, spoiled and too self-indulgent to withstand pain or sacrifice. I also know you are intelligent enough to obey my commands.”
“The bodyguard,” Jerome said. “Is he dead?”
“Merely stunned.” Nick held up a small rectangular device. “This is an Air Taser. The range is fifteen feet. When hit, you are paralyzed for several minutes, but the effect wears off. Much safer than guns for use on an aircraft. I’ll demonstrate.”
He whirled and fired at one of the men from the legal department. He cried out, then stiffened and fell from the sofa. On the floor, his body shuddered as he curled into a fetal position.
“Any questions?” Nick said smoothly.
All were silent.
“Keep in mind that we are also armed with conventional automatic firearms and will not hesitate to shoot if you don’t obey. Shall I demonstrate the effect of a bullet through flesh?”
“We understand,” Natalie said quickly. “Hold your fire.”
“Very well.” He withdrew his hand from his holstered pistol. “Natalie, please come with me.”
Though it seemed that she should stay with the others, she didn’t dare to disobey. Yet, as she followed him down the narrow corridor, she considered attacking him from the rear. Possibly she could grab his gun or the Taser. But if she failed, the consequences might be terrible.
At the door to the private cabin, he turned to face her. His eyes pierced through her, seeming to read her mind. “You’ve decided to do as I tell you. Clever girl.”
Inside the cabin, she noticed that the bed was back against the wall and the desk was in place. She hadn’t left the room this way.
“Sit,” he ordered.
She circled the desk and sat in the bolted-down swivel chair. Trying to take charge, she said, “Let’s get these negotiations started. I assume you have a way to reach my father with your demands.”
“In a moment.” Reaching into the pocket of his flight crew jumpsuit, he produced a roll of duct tape. “Place your arms on the arms of the chair.”
He came close, so close that she noticed the disgusting stench of his sweat. He smelled like fear. Though he appeared to be in complete control, the man who called himself Nick Beaumont was nervous. How could she use that information? How could she turn this situation around?
“You don’t have to go through with the hijacking,” she said. “Stop right now, and I’ll make it all go away. You won’t be arrested.”
“Why would I stop now?”
“You’re taking all the risk, but you’re working for someone else,” she guessed. “Someone else financed this operation.”
He cocked his head and regarded her curiously. “Explain your logic.”
“The bombing in Reykjavik. The surveillance time in Chicago. The costs of hijacking this plane. A lot of expenses. Someone else paid those bills, and they’ll be the ones who reap the reward from extortion money. I’ll double any amount they’re paying you.”
Quickly, he wrapped the tape tightly around her forearm, fastening her to the arm of the chair.
“I’d make the payment directly to you,” she said. Though she was desperate, her voice remained calm. “Call this off right now, and I won’t press charges. You’ll be paid.”
“I will be paid,” he said. “My way.”
Natalie strained against the tape. “It isn’t necessary to tie me up. I won’t do anything that would endanger the lives of my employees.”
“Think about those lives,” he said as he backed away from her. “Their survival depends upon you and your father.”
“What are you doing?” Her muscles tensed as she pulled against her bonds. “Are you leaving?”
“Patience, Natalie. I’ll be back soon enough.”
He closed the door. She was on her own. Helpless to do anything. Frustrated, she clenched and unclenched her fists. Even if this was only an extortion scheme and not a terrorist action, she foresaw no go
od outcome.
“Don’t scream” came a whisper from behind the wall sofa.
In two softly spoken words, she knew. “Quint!”
He stood and squeezed himself out of the narrow space between the sofa and the wall. “Natalie, keep your voice down.”
But she wanted to yelp for joy. Her heart leaped. They were going to be all right! Quint wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her. Then she saw it. His white shirt, untucked and unbuttoned, was spattered and smeared with blood.
“My God, Quint. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he whispered. “But you should see the other guy.”
There was an automatic pistol tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He flipped open a switchblade to cut the tape holding her arms. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t untie me.”
“Honey, this ain’t the time to get kinky.”
“I can negotiate with this guy. He’s not going to hurt me. I’m his meal ticket.”
Quint closed the blade with a click. He peered into her eyes with ferocious intensity as if he were absorbing the sight of her. And she gave herself gladly to his scrutiny, wishing she could melt into him, that she could be a part of him.
Damn it, why had he come back? Their situation was hopeless. Quint would be killed, too.
Gently, he touched her cheek. He kissed her forehead lightly. “You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known.”
“I’m not.” She desperately wanted to believe they’d survive, but she feared the worst. “I’m scared, Quint. I don’t want to die.”
“Hush now.” He kissed her mouth, taking away her sadness and giving her every reason to go on living. “Nobody’s going to die.”
He stood up straight, looking every inch the hero she needed. For the first time in her life, she felt she wasn’t alone. Quint would be with her. He would support her and protect her.
With one last caress, he moved away. “Go ahead with your negotiating. You were doing good.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to kick some hijacker butt.” His grin was almost gleeful. “Then I’m going to take back this plane.”
He slipped into the bathroom adjoining the private suite. Though she couldn’t see what he was doing, she heard the click of a latch, shuffling noises and then silence. Quint had vanished into the bowels of the plane.
Natalie had to believe she’d see him again.
IN THE FORWARD CARGO BAY, Nicco released Scout from his carrier and held him. Wagging his tail, the dog licked his master’s face.
“Good boy,” Nicco said. He couldn’t leave Scout down here. The belly of the plane was too cold.
The Border collie hopped down to the floor and started toward the rear cargo bay. Very likely, they’d find the coward who’d been afraid to charge the passenger cabin back here, hiding in the dark.
“Alex,” Nicco called out. “Where are you?”
He slid open the door to the rear cargo bay. Alex’s participation was not necessary. Nicco’s plan did not require four men and a pilot. Three could handle the hostages easily.
But he didn’t like loose ends. “Alex?”
The fool must be hiding with the luggage, afraid for his miserable life. He should be frightened. This was the second time he’d failed. First in Grant Park on Saint Patrick’s Day. Now on the plane.
Nicco unholstered his firearm. For a moment, he considered firing into each container until he heard the scream of his comrade. But he thought better of that action. These walls were insulated but it was best not to shoot inside a plane.
Scout paused at a spot on the floor and gave a soft bark.
“What is it, boy? What have you found?”
Nicco knelt. Blood on the floor?
He glanced toward the metal stairway leading up to the rear galley. In the shadows, he saw a black Stetson.
Chapter Eleven
Quint wedged and twisted to fit his long body through plumbing underneath the shower in the private suite. Legs dangling, he dropped into the forward cargo hold. He crouched, arms spread wide and gun in hand, ready for an assault. But no one appeared. So far, so good.
Surrounded by semidarkness and the constant hum from the turbojet engines, he peered into corners as he moved cautiously. It was cold down here. He noticed the dog’s carrying cage was empty. The dog’s master—alias Nick Beaumont—had been here.
Moving as quickly as possible, he went to the aft cargo hold, to a built-in storage locker. Carefully he opened the locker. The guy with the mustache was inside, barely moving, still unconscious. He was bound and gagged. No need to tie his feet. One of his legs had been broken in their knife fight. Later, Quint would get first aid for his victim, but he wasn’t in a rush. There were a whole lot of other things to do.
He found his jacket where he’d left it behind a storage trunk, and slipped it on to ward off the chill in the cargo hold.
Then he looked for his hat. Nowhere to be found. If Nick Beaumont had picked up his Stetson, Quint had lost his only advantage—the element of surprise. That was…not good.
In spite of his boast to Natalie that he’d take care of everything, Quint had no idea what came next. If he’d been alone on the aircraft, without hostages, he might have tried a surprise attack. By reputation among the Confidential branches, he was known as the Lone Ranger, taking on a gang of bad guys with only his six-gun and his horse. Not this time. Too many other people would be hurt. Besides, he couldn’t overpower three armed men. Actually, there had to be four men, because another hijacker must be in the cockpit, piloting the aircraft.
At the very least, he needed technical assistance. Quint pulled the cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialed Chicago Confidential. When Kathy Renk answered, he spoke softly. “I’m in deep trouble. Hijacked.”
Within seconds, he heard Vincent’s voice. “Quint, where are you?”
“Hijacked on the Quantum corporate jet, headed toward the nation’s capital.”
“I’ll contact the FBI.”
“No,” Quint said quickly. In these perilous times, the Air Force was likely to shoot down a hijacked plane rather than taking a chance on more deaths from a targeted crash.
“How many hijackers?”
“Four, maybe five,” Quint said. And he was sure one of them would always be with Natalie. If he thwarted their mission but failed to eliminate all of them, she’d surely be their first victim. He imagined a gun to her head, fear and resignation in her beautiful green eyes. Don’t go there! He couldn’t start thinking about the danger to Natalie, or his rage would overtake his smarts.
“What can we do to help?” Vincent asked.
“Have Andy start tracking the flight.”
“Done,” Vincent said. “What else?”
“Line up an expert pilot. I need somebody who knows how to fly a modified Boeing 737.”
“I’ve got just the guy. Anything else?”
The flight deck was equipped with the new security doors, and that presented a problem. If he was going to take over the plane, he needed to be at the controls. “I want to create a malfunction to draw the pilot off the flight deck. Have Andy look up specs so I can manually disconnect the autopilot.”
“Better yet,” Vincent said, “we’ll figure out how to reset the course away from D.C.”
Apparently, Vincent was also thinking of national security. Even if they didn’t alert the Feds, Chicago Confidential couldn’t be responsible for allowing a hijacked jet to enter Washington, D.C.’s airspace.
Quint was about to disconnect, when Vincent said, “Somebody here wants to talk to you.”
A familiar voice boomed over the phone. “Hey, Quintin Crawford.”
It was Daniel Austin, the founder of Montana Confidential—Quint’s good friend. “Hey, Dan, you sorry son of a sheepherder. How the heck are you?”
“Can’t complain. I understand you got yourself in a heap of trouble.”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Quint lied. He’d never felt so ove
rwhelmed.
“Whitney’s been telling me you found a girlfriend—that pretty girl I asked you to keep an eye on. Is that true?”
The sheer incongruity of gossiping about his social life while he was stuck in the cargo hold of a hijacked aircraft amused Quint. Dan Austin had never been one to acknowledge danger, even when it was staring him in the face. “Yep, I hooked up with her—she sure is a real pretty, real smart woman.”
“I got a question.” Daniel’s voice turned serious. “Do you love her?”
Quint recognized the deeper meaning. During his first days with Texas Confidential, Quint had been in a transition from his grief back to life. He’d been learning how to accept his wife’s death, had done a lot of talking about her. Dan Austin was the only man who’d ever seen him cry.
Quint remembered saying over and over that there would never be another woman for him. His heart had died with Paula, and he would never love again. But Natalie had changed that. She’d taken his sorrowful words and shredded them by demanding everything he had to give. No holding back. She pushed him to the limit, which was okay because she applied the same standard to herself.
“I love her like there’s no tomorrow.”
“Then, you’d best get that aircraft down in one piece. I intend to be best man at your wedding.”
“You sound like Natalie,” Quint said. “She’s always got to be the best, too.”
“Henry’s told me that about her.” He paused. “Good luck, partner.”
The call ended. Quint pocketed the cell phone just as the hatch leading to the rear cabin opened. Quint hunkered down. Somebody was coming to take a look around. Looking for him? Had Nick Beaumont sent out the forces, knowing that Quint was in the cargo hold?
A foreign-accented voice called out, “Alex, you coward. Come out! I don’t want to waste time looking for you.”
Quint angled around to get a clear shot at whomever might come down those stairs. He switched the semiautomatic pistol to single shot. The last thing they needed was a hail of bullets in the belly of an aircraft.
A stocky man lumbered down the stairs. With thick shoulders and neck, he looked like a weightlifter. In his right hand, he held an automatic pistol. He grumbled in a language Quint couldn’t quite understand. Maybe German.
