Not on His Watch

by Cassie Miles

Twenty-two minutes. Not a lot of time, but it was all he had. Twenty-two minutes to make a difference, to set the foundations for his future. Or twenty-two minutes until death.

  He would not fail her.

  IN THE AFT CARGO HOLD, Nicco had packed five parachutes for his men and himself. Placing these had been the easiest part of his plan. While he was posing as a part-time baggage handler, he produced a Quantum requisition for parachutes. No one questioned it. Parachutes on an aircraft were a logical precaution. But now, who would use them? He’d lost two men. Another was barely recovered from the Taser. Smilin’ Jack hobbled into the rear of the plane. His left leg was virtually useless.

  “I can make it,” he said. “Give me a chute.”

  Coldly, Nicco regarded him. For once, the mercenary wasn’t smiling. “You never should’ve left the flight deck.”

  “The instruments weren’t responding. It’s been a while since I’ve flown this type of aircraft. I didn’t know what to do. Everything went wrong.”

  “Not everything.” Nicco had received the ransom money. His job had been accomplished to perfection. “Of course, you won’t expect to receive the rest of your payment.”

  “The hell I won’t.” A spectre of the pilot’s former grin distorted his face. “We had a deal.”

  “And you failed to deliver.”

  Nicco unholstered his pistol and fired twice into Smilin’ Jack’s chest. The man staggered before his good leg collapsed. His jaw went slack.

  At the sound of gunfire, Scout scampered away and hid. How ironic that his dog hated loud noises. Nicco called for him, “Come on, Scout. We need to get ready.”

  He had a special pouch for carrying his dog when he parachuted from the plane. Determining the timing would be difficult. He would have to guess the rate of descent, opening the cargo hatch at just the right moment.

  Originally, he had planned to stage a small explosion in the cargo hold that would touch off residual fuel in the auxiliary tanks. All witnesses on the plane would have been killed.

  Unfortunately, it would now be too difficult to properly rig the timer and still make the jump safely. Nicco would have to forgo the satisfaction of blowing these fools to hell.

  Oh, how he wished them dead! Pretty Daughter with her perfect, coddled life. The mindless drones who worked for her. Cowboy, who rode to the rescue. Big hero! Big deal!

  The big man who had been stung by the Taser paced clumsily. “Dizzy,” he mumbled in German. “Stiff. Walk it off.”

  “Stay here if you want.”

  “I won’t go to jail. I’ll come with you.”

  Nicco didn’t care one way or the other. “Your choice.”

  After he strapped the chute onto his back and fastened the pouch for Scout on his chest, he removed a small satchel containing plastique explosive from the locker where he’d stored the parachutes. Longingly, he handled the makings for this bomb, the tools of his trade. No one was better than Nicco at precisely timed explosives. Did he dare to risk it?

  Vengeance was a dangerous game. He shouldn’t allow himself to be drawn into precipitous rage. If his timing was off by even ten seconds, he might die along with them and never have the chance to enjoy his reward.

  Yet, it seemed vital to kill these witnesses and maintain the secrecy of his identity.

  Tenderly, he fondled the coil and the timer.

  The level of noise inside the aft cargo hold modified slightly, and Nicco looked up. The door from the forward hold was open. Was someone else down here?

  The big German lumbered back and forth, muttering and stretching his huge limbs.

  “Quiet,” Nicco ordered.

  The man stared blankly. “What is wrong?”

  From the corner of his eye, Nicco saw a shadowy figure charge toward him. Before he could react, the cowboy was upon him. With the butt of his gun, he struck Nicco on the skull. All went black.

  QUINT HAD CHOSEN to strike the most dangerous adversary first. When he saw the makings of a bomb in the hands of Nick Beaumont, he knew he’d made the right decision. But the big guy was going to be a serious problem.

  He felt himself being lifted off his feet and flung across the hold. Quint’s spine crashed hard against a baggage container. He dropped his gun. His knees weakened, but he shook off the pain and shoved himself upright to face the next assault.

  Neither of them had a weapon at the ready, which meant the hijacker had the physical advantage. He was as tall as Quint and twice as wide. But he’d been stunned. His movements were clumsy as a bear’s.

  In the shadowy dark of the cargo hold, Quint glanced at his wristwatch. Sixteen minutes left. Not enough time for a knock-down, drag-out fight.

  The big man approached. Quint couldn’t allow himself to be caught by those huge arms, capable of constricting his body and squeezing the last breath from his lungs.

  Quint braced himself and flicked out two quick jabs that appeared to have little effect. He needed to get away from the walls to throw a good hard punch.

  Dodging to the left, Quint moved into open space. The big guy charged at him, heavy as a freight train. Using his forward momentum and the unsteady motion of the plane, Quint sidestepped and pitched the big man to the floor of the cargo hold.

  In the heel of Quint’s cowboy boot was a knife, but he didn’t have time to grab it. The other man rebounded to his feet. Surprisingly nimble, he circled like a wrestler, watching for the opening when he could make his move. He lunged.

  Quint fired a one-two punch to the gut. The big guy bent double, allowing Quint to gather all his strength for a roundhouse right to the jaw that sent the hijacker sprawling. He hit the floor so hard he bounced. Then he didn’t move.

  Quint checked his wristwatch. Eleven minutes. Plenty of time to tie up Nick Beaumont and get back to the flight deck. He was going to make it—

  “Not so fast,” said Nick Beaumont. He held the two parts of the plastique explosive in his hands. “I can touch this off right now. We’ll all go down in a blaze.”

  His eyes shone with a frantic light. Clad in a parachute and leather jacket, he looked like a soldier in a dangerous army, taking his orders from unreasoning hatred.

  Quint tried logic. “You don’t want to die.”

  “It won’t happen. I didn’t come this far to die.” He edged toward the cargo hatch.

  Holding the explosive was going to be a problem for Beaumont, Quint realized. If he let go of either piece, he’d be vulnerable. He needed one hand to turn the knob and open the hatch.

  Biding his time—time he didn’t have to waste—Quint hooked his thumbs in his belt. He still held the one-shot Derringer in his belt buckle, but he couldn’t risk firing so close to the explosive.

  “We can cut a deal,” Quint said. “You’re a smart guy. You know there’s no way you could survive a jump from this altitude.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  He laughed. The sound grated against Quint’s eardrums, driving the tension up another notch. There wasn’t time for subtle negotiation, but he didn’t want to spook his adversary. How the hell was he going to pull this off?

  Just as he thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, he saw Natalie creeping through the shadows with a gun in her hand. If she fired, they’d be blown to bits. Trying to alert her, Quint said, “What kind of bomb is that?”

  “All you need to know,” said Nick Beaumont, “is that if I touch these pieces together, it detonates. Not a large explosion. Just enough to start a fire here in the cargo hold, igniting the fuel tanks.”

  He peered into the semidarkness toward Natalie. “Step into the light, Natalie. Know that if you shoot me, we will all die.”

  “I understand.” As she stepped forward, her arm dropped to her side.

  “Put the gun down,” he ordered.

  She allowed it to clatter to the floor. Her attitude was calm; she showed no fear.

  Though Quint would have preferred to have her farther away from danger, her presence was a distraction, forcing
Nick Beaumont to divide his attention between two of them. Quint eased a few inches closer to him.

  Natalie said, “I have to ask you something. For my own satisfaction, I want to know who financed this hijacking and the acts of terror? Was it Zahir?”

  “The handsome prince. Yes, he needed the money to finance a revolution led by Sheik Khalaf.” Again, he expelled a harsh laugh. His former cool had deserted him. This was a man on the ragged edge. “The fools! Zahir and Khalaf want to rule in arid desolate kingdoms where nothing grows. Why?”

  “Oil,” Natalie said.

  “Fuel for unneeded machines for pampered, ridiculous people. It disgusts me.”

  Apparently, his dog didn’t agree. Wagging his tail, the dog scampered toward Natalie. When she leaned down to pet him, his owner snapped another order. “Don’t reach toward the gun.”

  She remained upright. So poised and calm. Quint couldn’t believe she was a corporate executive. Her bravery in the face of life-and-death danger befitted a battle-tested warrior.

  “Here’s what I don’t understand,” Natalie said. “How did Zahir think he’d get away with this? Even if he funneled the money through you, we could still track it to him.”

  “I don’t care,” Nick Beaumont said with a shrug. “Zahir is a brainless playboy.”

  Quint took another step closer. He clicked his belt buckle. The Derringer slipped into his hand.

  “I’ll bet Quint is right,” Natalie said. “If you turn in Zahir, you could get out of jail free.”

  “I think not.” He called to his dog. “Scout, come.”

  With a growl, the dog obeyed.

  Quint took another step. He flexed his knees, preparing to leap. There would be one chance to stop Nick Beaumont. When the man reached to open the hatch, his hands would be far apart.

  “And you,” Nick Beaumont said to Natalie. “You come to me. Tonight, you will take a sky jump. Without a parachute.”

  A tremble quaked her shoulders, but she held her chin high.

  Nick Beaumont continued. “Then, we will see if money and oil will save you.”

  “Leave her alone,” Quint said.

  “You’re so right, cowboy. There’s no need. When I open the hatch, you’ll both be sucked into the night. And this is the way it was meant to be. I will escape. You, both of you, will die.”

  He reached for the circular handle. Twisted and opened.

  Derringer in hand, Quint dove across the cargo hold. He threw the other man’s hands apart. The undetonated plastique fell to the floor.

  Quint buried his Derringer in the other man’s gut and pulled the trigger as Nick Beaumont released the hatch.

  Ice-cold air sucked through the hold with the deafening roar of a two-hundred-mile-per-hour wind. The limp body of Nick Beaumont was dragged toward the open night like a rag doll in a cyclone. A strap of his parachute caught.

  As Quint grabbed Natalie, he felt his feet go out from under him. They crashed together. He heard her scream.

  Holding her tight against his chest, he clawed at the ribbing on the walls, struggling to reach the lever. Loose cargo rattled around them. The bodies of Smilin’ Jack and the weightlifter tumbled against the walls. They were caught inside a tornado, but Quint wouldn’t give up. Above the screeching air, he heard the dog barking wildly.

  “Quint, we can’t make it.” She clutched him. “He was right. We’re going to die.”

  “Not on my watch.”

  Struggling for every inch, Quint reached the handle and twisted. The hatch began to close.

  A storage trunk had come loose. As the plane tilted, the metal box careened toward them. Quint twisted to protect Natalie from the impact. The trunk whacked his shoulders and the back of his head.

  Sudden darkness threatened to overwhelm him. His vision blurred. Still, he held her until the hatch was completely closed.

  Gasping for breath in the sudden stillness, Quint watched the three-legged dog snuggle up to his master.

  “Sorry,” Quint said to the animal, probably the only living thing who would ever mourn the demise of Nick Beaumont.

  “You did it,” Natalie said. She peppered his face with kisses.

  “Time,” he reminded her.

  “Three minutes left,” she said.

  Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the cell phone to call Colonel Roberts. Triumphantly, she shouted into the phone, “The hijackers have been apprehended. Call off the F-14s.”

  She repeated twice, and as she spoke her voice seemed to grow more and more distant. Quint felt a wetness at the back of his head. He wanted to lie down flat and not move. To sleep.

  Grinning, Natalie kissed him again. “We’re clear to land.”

  It took all his effort to smile back at her. His eyelids slammed shut. He counted a million stars, and then lost consciousness.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Natalie knelt beside the only man she had ever truly loved and watched his eyelids close. Quint lay flat on the floor of the cold, dark cargo hold, surrounded by cluttered baggage and the bloodied bodies of the hijackers he had vanquished.

  She stroked his cheek. In repose, the chiseled line of his jaw relaxed. He looked younger, almost vulnerable. “Quint? Are you all right?”

  Obviously, he wasn’t. He was unconscious. She needed to do something. Desperately, she searched her memory, trying to remember the first-aid treatment for a head wound, but her brain wasn’t operating properly. The constant fear and stress had taken their toll, clouded her thinking. All she could see was his handsome face. All she could feel was a sudden, overwhelming horror. He might be seriously injured. He might never wake up.

  “No,” she said firmly. Natalie hadn’t come this far only to lose the endgame.

  Her hand rested on Quint’s muscular chest. His respiration was strong and steady, but his eyelids remained closed. Head wounds were dangerous—that much she knew. But was his injury life-threatening?

  The black-and-white Border collie sat beside her, having abandoned his former master. The dog rested his head on her knee, and she absently touched his fur.

  “What should I do?” she murmured.

  She was too weary to think. If only Quint would wake up, he could be the leader. She wouldn’t gripe, wouldn’t complain. She’d follow him to the end of the earth.

  She leaned over him, needing to hear the whisper of his breath, to feel the warm assurance that he was still alive. “Quint, I love you.”

  He didn’t respond. He lay so terribly still. When she again touched his face, she felt moisture—the dampness of her own tears falling unchecked.

  “My darling.” She traced his lips with her fingertip. “Don’t leave me.”

  She couldn’t imagine a life without his laughter, his drawl, his black Stetson and his ridiculous silver belt buckle. In a few short days, he’d sauntered into her world and changed every attitude she previously held dear. Her career was no longer the only driving force in her life. Though it still mattered to be the best, number one was a shallow number unless Quint stood at her side, encouraging and acknowledging her accomplishments.

  “Don’t die. Oh God, Quint. Don’t you dare.”

  His heavy eyelids opened. “I don’t reckon dying was part of my plan.”

  Relief turned her sobs to whimpers of hope. At her side, the dog harmonized with quiet yips and tail wagging. She kissed Quint once, then again.

  “Ow, that hurts,” he complained.

  “But you’re all right?” she asked anxiously.

  “That whack on the head—” struggling, he sat up “—feels like a concussion.”

  “How do you know what a concussion feels like?”

  “A man who rides horses as part of his livelihood is bound to take a couple of falls. It’s not the first time I’ve been clunked on the head.”

  As his eyelids began to droop again, she gripped his arm. “Don’t go to sleep again. What should I do?”

  “Get somebody down here. Make sure these guys aren’t going to stir
up any more trouble.”

  “Right,” she said. Her mind began to clear. “You and I should go up to the flight deck and prepare for landing.”

  “Sounds real simple when you say it.”

  For the moment, she couldn’t allow herself to consider the complexities of landing a jet aircraft. “But we can do it.”

  “That’s right, darlin’. We can do anything.” With an effort, he forced himself to stand. Obviously unsteady, he leaned on her. “I don’t want you to be alarmed if I drop off now and again. I’ll be okay.”

  “You’d better be all right,” she said as she helped him toward the steep stairs. “I’ll be really annoyed if we crash and burn.”

  He laughed. Then winced. “Ow, Natalie. My head is splitting.”

  Together, they stumbled up the stairs with the hijacker’s dog following behind them. As they came through the hatch, they confronted Maria Luisa, who stood ready to face whomever or whatever might emerge from the cargo hold. She braced a pistol in both hands, looking much like a television cop. When she saw Natalie and her wounded partner, mixed expressions of joy and worry crossed her face.

  “Is he—”

  “A concussion,” Natalie said. “He tells me he’ll be fine, but I think that’s the macho talking.”

  “He doesn’t look fine,” Maria Luisa said. “He looks like crap and seems to—”

  “Ladies,” Quint interrupted, “let’s move along.”

  Even when he was half-unconscious, Quint expected to be treated like the boss. Natalie smiled. She liked that tough-guy quality in her man.

  “You’re right,” Maria Luisa said. “We should go to the flight deck right away.”

  “Why?” Natalie asked.

  “There are a couple of flashing lights on the instrument panel. We have Colonel Roberts on another cell phone. He said we’re low on fuel.”

  Swell. One threat followed on the heels of another. She hurried with Quint through the plane. As they moved, she gave Maria Luisa instructions about preparing the rest of the passengers for a rough landing.

  At the makeshift infirmary near the flight deck, she checked in with the pilot. Though he was awake, his reactions were as slow as a drunk on a three-day bender. There was no way he could manage an emergency landing.