The SUV begins to slow its speed as the rural airport comes fully into view. Two hangars, one runway, and a tiny air traffic control tower. Still, it’s surrounded by high fences, lined with barbed wire. And a gatehouse. Which means a guard. My heart clenches beneath my breastbone.
My chance.
The SUV turns left and slowly pulls up toward the gatehouse.
“Don’t you say a god damned word,” my assailant warns harshly, the gun now pushed up against my chin. “Do you understand me?”
Breathe, breathe, breathe, my mind begs my incapacitated lungs. My eyes stare straight ahead, my mouth, my neck, unmoved.
“I said, do you understand me?” he repeats through gritted teeth, roughly grabbing the back of my neck and squeezing my skin in his calloused palm.
“Yes.” I force out a whisper, the barrel cold on my even colder flesh.
The SUV comes to a stop at the gatehouse and a guard stands up from his seat inside. He barely opens the door when the car approaches his post. No way he can see Harper and me tied up in the backseat.
Awkwardly tall with a thinning hairline, the guard holds a clipboard and gives a quick wave to the driver. “What can I do you for?” he asks with a surprisingly friendly smile. I would expect whoever was working the overnight Christmas shift to be a little bit grumpy.
“Hello, yes. I got a call from our pilot,” the driver says, thinning out his accent. “Our jet should be gassed up and ready for takeoff.”
“Oh, are you flying out on the Gulfstream?” the guard asks, pointing over his shoulder toward the runway.
Please come outside. Please come closer. Please notice us.
“Yes, that’s ours,” the driver says with an overeager nod. It’s something I’d notice, the forced pleasantness masking anxiety. But it’s not something this guard (who looks far more interested in getting back to his tiny TV and Cup Noodles on his desk) is going to take into account.
“She’s a beaut,” the guard replies, looking down at his clipboard. “Don’t get a lot of those into this airport. Mostly crop dusters. Single engines, stuff like that.”
Step outside. Please, come closer. Please! My brain is screaming as the gun digs into my chin so deeply, I feel my bone begin to bruise. My eyes burn a hole in the guard’s face, begging him to take a step into the snow. But he stays put.
“I just need you to confirm the tail number for me,” the guard says, riffling through the papers on his clipboard.
“Of course,” the driver says, clearing his throat. Another nervous tic the guard fails to see as a red flag. “N324LE.”
“That’s the one,” the guard says and pushes a button inside the gatehouse. The gate rattles as it pulls back, granting our kidnappers entry. “Have a safe flight.”
Before the driver can say thank you, the guard has shut the door, is back in his chair, and engrossed in whatever show is playing in the tiny TV in the corner. I squint my eyes, trying to get a better look. Looks like an old Law & Order.
The muscles in my arms constrict with disdain for this man. I hate him for no other reason than he didn’t want to step outside into the cold and snow. That he was lazy at four a.m. on Christmas Day. I know it’s not part of his job. And of course he would have no idea we were tied up in the backseat, guns pointed at our bodies. It’s irrational, but I hate him for not taking that extra step toward our car. That extra step could have been the difference between life and death.
The SUV pulls through the gates and follows a snowy path toward our waiting jet. I see it, majestic and elegant against the dark snow falling peacefully around it. It’d make a beautiful ad for Gulfstream if it wasn’t for the fact that it may be the delivery system to our coffins. Who am I kidding. We won’t get coffins. We’ll be burned in a fire pit or dumped in the ocean. Hopefully, just our bodies. But I wouldn’t put it past Fernando to send us to our graves like that, our hearts still beating.
The SUV pulls up right next to the jet and as if on cue, the door opens and steps descend down to greet us.
Oh, what service. I hope they have champagne.
“What’s happening?” I hear Harper whisper as car doors begin opening, her voice audible only to me. Her fingers clasp around my thigh, causing a series of finger-sized bruises that I can already feel rising on my skin.
I wish there was something I could do to comfort her. Something I could say.
“Just do what they tell you,” I whisper back and her fingers release their tight grip.
“Let’s go,” the assailant next to Harper says, opening the door and dragging her out by her arm.
My eyes scan the airport, anxious to see any signs of life. Most of the hangar doors are closed but one … one is open. A light is on inside. A two-seater propeller plane sits in the dim glow. Is someone there? My eyes stay locked on the hangar door, the plane. But I see no one.
“Move,” my assailant barks, pointing his gun toward the waiting jet. I look back at the hangar, searching for a shadow, a figure, anything. And then I see him. A man moves into the light, and into my view. This is it. He’s our last hope.
I push my body across the backseat, hopping onto the asphalt, which is covered in a thin layer of snow. A cold gasp of air fills my lungs. My assailant reaches to grab my arm, but I immediately twist and turn and try to run.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” I scream over and over again at the top of my lungs. “Help” does nothing. “Help” causes people to turn away, run, and save themselves. My stumbling legs race toward the figure in the hangar, toward our only chance of escape. But before I can get even ten yards, my body is tackled to the ground. My face slams hard on the asphalt, burning and freezing my skin all at once.
“Fire!” I scream at the silhouette once more before a hand is shoved violently down my throat, filling my open mouth with fingers that taste of dirt and gasoline.
“Stupid girl. Try something like that again and your friend dies,” the assailant on top of me says, gripping me at my chin with his free hand and forcing my face toward Harper. First, all I see are her feet, still bare and probably near frostbite. Then I see her ice cream cone pajama bottoms, her shaking, tied-up arms, the hood pulled over her face, and finally, the gun pointed directly at her skull.
Click. The safety is off.
“We’re not kidding,” he says, pulling my face back and slamming my forehead into the impossibly hard ground. The blood comes fast and warm as it drips down my face. “We don’t need her. Try that again and she dies.”
I don’t say anything (not that I could with this guy’s fingers in my mouth). I don’t move. I don’t nod. I just stare at the ground. The white snow smeared with my blood.
The two men pick me up by each arm. And then I see him. The silhouette is walking toward us. Now he’s running.
Oh my God. Oh my God. He sees us. He’s trying to help!
The men force me toward the jet steps, but despite their warnings, I turn around. I search for the man who’s come to save us. But as he gets closer, I feel my heart drop several centimeters in my chest. He looks up at me, reads my grave face, and waves a gun. He’s one of them. I risked Harper’s life for nothing.
You fool. You careless fool.
“Move it,” one of the assailants yells at me, forcing my body up the stairs and through the jet’s doorway. The men move me roughly through the cabin, pushing my body down onto a buttery leather seat next to Harper. Her hood is now off. She looks at me with swollen, red eyes and a bloody lip. Her mouth drops when she sees my beaten face. I can feel the bruises forming, my cheeks and right eye pulsing. The cut on my forehead drips and warm blood trickles down my face.
The man I thought might be our savior comes up the jet stairs and through the cabin door. When he sees me, he smiles, walks to my seat, and slaps me hard across the face. I close my eyes, my left cheek stinging and my ear ringing from the strike. The shocking force sparks sobs in my chest. But I trap them in my throat before the cry can escape.
“Thought I was here to save yo
u, little girl?” the man says, leaning so close to my face I can smell the stale coffee on his breath. “No one can save you now.”
With those words, I hear the cabin door close. The jet’s engine roars to attention, the plane taxiing down the runway. I open my eyes as each of these monsters settle into their seats, preparing for a quick takeoff. My head turns slowly toward Harper, and as the jet speeds down the runway, the tears she’s been struggling to contain in her hazel eyes slip free, running down her pink face. I know what she’s thinking. Because I share the same thought.
The nose points toward the sky, lifting the multi-million-dollar jet into the air. And as I watch the patches of Iowa farmland get smaller and smaller, that thought repeats louder and louder, like a battle cry.
We’re as good as dead. We’re as good as dead. God help us, we’re as good as dead.
SEVENTEEN
They’ve threatened to split us up twice now. Once for talking (Harper was crying so hard, she was on the verge of a panic attack. I was just trying to calm her down). The second time was because Harper dared to grab my arm.
“No touching,” the second assailant who attacked me scolded, pointing at her chapped hands, clasped around my forearm. Harper immediately pulled away and looked down at the floor.
“Can’t you just untie us?” I asked, squirming uncomfortably in my seat, my hands forced awkwardly behind my back. “We’re thirty thousand feet in the air. Where are we going to go?”
“What do you think we are? Idiots?” one of the men answered.
Okay, fair enough. With my arms free, I could disarm one of the guards, get his gun, and do some damage. Doubtful I’d be able to kill them all. But even if I could, the whole landing a plane thing would be kind of difficult. Never got to take that class at CORE (yes, there really is a class at the training academy where operatives learn to land jets and helicopters).
After that very hard no, I tried to convince them to at least tie my hands in front of my body.
“Please,” I asked calmly, trying not to beg. “My arms and shoulders are killing me like this.”
“Like we give a shit,” the same man replied.
They refused. Which, if I’m being honest, is probably a smart move on their part. If my hands were in front of me, I could probably still kill someone (like I’ve never practiced choke holds with zip ties on?). And I could most likely get out of the zip ties altogether. With my hands tied behind my back and a seat belt forced across my lap, it’s nearly impossible.
Over the last two hours, one by one, each of the six men has fallen asleep. All but one. My first assailant sits kitty-corner across the aisle with his bloody nose and black-and-blue eye, staring us down. I heard the other men talking. He’s supposed to stand guard. But his eyelids are heavy and when I sneak a glance at him, they flutter closer to unconsciousness. He’s gotten the shit beaten out of him. This guy can only fight sleep so long.
Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep, you asshole.
I close my own eyes, trying to look small and sleepy, nuzzling my head against the luxurious headrest (PS: Nicest plane I’ve ever been on. Hand-stitched leather seating, TVs everywhere, freaking gold cup holders. It’s ridiculous). I change my breath, pulling in slower, deeper gulps. After a few minutes of fake sleep, Harper nudges me in my side. When I open my eyes, I see that he’s out. They’re all asleep.
“Finally.” Harper whispers so softly, I can barely hear her above the roar of the jet’s twin engines.
“Thank God,” I whisper back, my tense shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. I turn toward her, the concerned words on my tongue for hours are finally free to tumble out. “What the hell happened to you out there? Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I’m so sorry,” she answers, shaking her head slowly, strands of hair still matted to her blotchy, tear-streaked face. She’s no longer crying but I can see where the tears fell, like tiny, fading rivers on her raw skin. “I ran and ran and ran and I found this hollowed-out tree and I thought maybe I’d be safe in there. So I hid and then next thing I know, there’s a gun pointed at my face and an arm pulling me away. And that’s when I started screaming for you. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”
“No, you did the right thing,” I say. “Did they hurt you? Are you injured?”
“My feet really hurt from being out in the snow without shoes,” Harper answers, looking her body up and down. “But they feel better with the socks.”
One of the men felt bad for Harper and gave her a pair of fuzzy blue socks. Like the kind they give you on overnight flights to Europe with the little white gripping pads at the bottom. It was such a random, weirdly timed gesture of kindness. Like giving a Kobe beef cow a massage or letting it drink a gallon of beer before cutting off its head.
“Reagan…” Harper whispers before biting down on her lip, tears filling her eyes again. “Do you really think Luke is dead?”
My body stiffens and for a moment, I can’t breathe. I hear the shot. I see the blood. His face. The fall. It comes back to me, in pieces and out of order. I’ve been trying desperately not to replay it in my mind. To not deliberate whether he’s dead or alive. I’ve pushed that moment into the darkest corner of my mind because if I really think about it, if I contemplate Luke being gone, I’ll lose myself completely. And I can’t. I cannot afford to lose my mind, my will to live and to save Harper. Not now. So I swallow the emotional tumor trapped in my throat and try to find a suitable answer.
“I don’t know,” I finally say, my voice thin and far away. Like the words aren’t even coming out of my own mouth.
Harper reads the restrained sorrow on my face and softens her own. She gingerly reaches for my arm, glancing quickly at the men to make sure they’re all really asleep.
“Maybe he’s okay,” she whispers, her hands grasping at my still-damp sweatshirt.
“Maybe,” I answer, but the hopeful word leaves my mouth with very little weight. My body shivers and I try to push the image of Luke, falling onto his back, out of my mind before the anxiety that’s blossoming inside of me pushes its way up.
My head shakes with tiny microbursts, trying to erase every emotion and lull me back into the feeling of half dead. I look past Harper, out the window and into the night. The sky is still mostly black, but out on the horizon, I can see the first promise of daylight. A deep blue outlines the night sky’s edges, creeping up and up and up, promising to scorch this blanket of darkness with the morning sun and paint the sky a fiery orange. That hopeful blue color feels alive, almost human. It whispers: It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming.
“It’s Christmas,” Harper says, her eyes focused on the sky’s changing colors.
“It is. I forgot. Merry Christmas, Harper.”
“Merry Christmas, Reagan,” she says, squeezing my arm and turning her eyes back toward mine. She smiles, but her crooked lips make her face look even sadder than before.
Harper stares out the window again, her chest rising with a deep gulp of air. Several seconds of silence pass before she turns back toward me and I know what she’s going to ask before she even opens her mouth.
“What’s going to happen to us?” she asks, her eyes desperately searching mine. “Are they going to kill us? Is this how it ends?”
“I won’t let that happen,” I answer even though I know I may have zero say on whether Harper lives to see the New Year. “Look, if they wanted us dead, they’d have killed us already. They wouldn’t have put us on a plane bound for who knows where.”
“Why are they keeping us alive?” Harper asks.
I shake my head. “I have no idea.” And I really don’t.
“So, what do we do now? I mean, should we try to get away at the airport? Should we run, scream, do something?”
“No, we should just keep our heads down and get in the car.”
“What?” Harper says, her whisper swelling too high, causing one of the assassins to stir. I quietly shush her and turn toward the guard, making sure the man drifts b
ack to sleep. He does.
“We do nothing,” I whisper as I turn to meet her face, still frozen with surprise.
“Are you crazy? Have you never seen an episode of Dateline? This may be our last chance to be in public. If we don’t do something or try to get away, our chances of survival are like cut in half or some really scary statistic.”
“Look, whatever private airport they’re taking us to is staffed by people who are on this cartel’s payroll,” I whisper, awkwardly twisting my shoulders and trying to turn my tied-up body toward Harper. “If we want to stay alive, we can’t try to run now. We have to wait.”
“But what if we…”
“No,” I whisper and shake my head. “I should never have tried to draw attention to us at the last airport. If I do it again, they will kill you. Okay? I mean it. They. Will. Kill. You.”
The blood drains from Harper’s face, turning it a sickly shade of pale gray in a matter of seconds.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to scare you,” I whisper. “But I’m begging you. Don’t do anything. I will get us out of this.”
“How?” Harper asks, her jaw shaking, her eyes blinking back tears.
“I’ll think of something,” I answer.
“I hope you do,” Harper says, her voice breathy and body starting to shiver. “Because I’m terrified, Reagan. I’m so fucking terrified.”
I close my eyes, take in a deep breath of recycled air, and push it out of my mouth.
Me too, Harper. Me too.
EIGHTEEN
“Open up, princess,” my first assailant says, dangling a pack of cellophane-wrapped peanut butter crackers in front of my face. I glance at his hands. They’re speckled with blood (probably mine and his) and dirt. I’d rather go hungry than have him feed me.
“Can’t you just untie me?” I ask, trying to make my voice as small and timid as possible. Make them think I’m not as strong as they’ve been warned.
You Won't See Me Coming Page 12
