Crashers

by Dana Haynes

  Walter stomped on the brakes. The Sentra skidded, the nose coming around. They stopped, halfway across the overpass, facing the wrong way.

  “What the hell?” Peter spat. He knew Walter didn’t approve of obscenities, but he didn’t much care. “Are you out—”

  The shriek of the Vermeer’s four massive engines battered the car like a physical force. The wide-body rose from the south, blotting out the clouds, hurling its shadow across the raised roadway and the Sentra, blocking the rain, if only for a second.

  Walter leaned forward, mouth open, eyes staring up at the retracting landing gear. He could see wear patterns on the treads of the great tires.

  Peter stared up, too. The sliding, floating mass of metal over his head reminded him of a scene from Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

  The Vermeer passed on by.

  Its thrust tube of rainwater hit the Sentra a second later, rocking the car, maxing out its shock absorbers, lifting both right-side wheels off the road for just a second.

  Then the jet was gone, the wake vortex dissipating into the clouds. The Sentra quaked back down onto its shock absorbers.

  Walter and Peter sat there for a while. Finally, they looked at each other.

  Walter Mulroney’s voice cracked. “Fuck! Me!”

  49

  THE SUN WAS BRUTAL. Even Daria’s Middle Eastern complexion and upbringing couldn’t alter that fact. At least, by being cuffed to the clothes pole, her shadow had cooled it enough so that she could lean back against it without blistering.

  Every breath was a fine agony. Her tongue played along the teeth on her left side, found a cracked tooth.

  Sweat discolored the ground beneath her. Pretty soon, she’d stop sweating. That’s when heatstroke would set in.

  Grunting with pain, she curled her legs up against her butt. She twisted, reaching for her boot. The razor blade was still there. Big deal. If there was an old spy trick for defeating a regulation pair of FBI-issue handcuffs with a double-sided razor, they hadn’t taught it in the Mossad. It didn’t even make a decent weapon—being sharp on both sides, she’d be as likely to slice open her own hand as any attacker.

  Her mouth was dry and she tasted dust on her teeth. Between each labored breath, her thoughts fell morbidly on her case agent, Ray Calabrese. She’d failed him, and she knew with icy certainty that failing Ray meant dooming some airliner.

  As the thought fermented in her head, the sound of another jet fought through the fog of fury and recrimination. She glanced up, squinting. A twin-engine aircraft cleft the cloudless sky. Two more old vapor trails were visible.

  Daria didn’t know any of the details, but she suddenly realized the strategic value of this festering excuse for a motel. It sat beneath a bustling air corridor leading to the airports of Southern California.

  OVER ROSEBURG, OREGON

  The swap-out sliced through silver-gray clouds, soaring into the bright blue sky of southern Oregon. It was going on 5 P.M.

  Isaiah Grey relaxed his grip a little. When he looked over, Kiki winked at him.

  He reached for the intraship PA system. “You boys can get up now. This bus is so light, it’ll only take us about two hours to reach L.A.”

  He clicked off the system and leaned back. “So. You and Tommy, huh?”

  Kiki’s face burned a bright pink. “Isaiah!”

  “Oh, please.” He rolled his eyes. “This morning was the first time that man has smiled since he hit Oregon. Go get him. I’ll hail regional air traffic, declare an NTSB emergency and let them know why we’re in the air. Honestly? I think we’re the only craft flying today. Should have the sky to ourselves until we clear this weather.”

  OVER CHICO, CALIFORNIA

  Dennis could barely feel the thrum of the engines of the luxurious Gulf-stream. He’d been in Cadillacs that had bumpier rides. He leaned back, admired the burnished wood paneling of the fuselage, the big-screen TV with satellite feed, the well-kept furniture, the full bar. This, he thought, was the life. Soon, it would be his life.

  The pilot’s voice drifted over the PA. “Sir? We’re about an hour out of LAX. Is there anything we can do for you?”

  “Yes. Divert to Victorville Airport.”

  He listened to the hiss of the PA system. “Ah, we can do that. It’s not much of an airfield. Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Dennis said, and snuggled deeper into the fantastically comfortable seat.

  OVER TWIN FALLS, IDAHO

  David Singh swiveled in his seat. “Can I have the PA, then?”

  Behind him, Teddy McCoy pulled on his Mickey Mouse ears and flicked the appropriate toggles, activated the PA system, then nodded to David.

  The captain adjusted the microphone attached to his headset. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. The good news is, we’re facing less head wind that I’d anticipated. We should be reaching Los Angeles in a little under two hours.”

  The Sinn Fein members exchanged looks. The Ulster Unionists exchanged looks. They sat on the upper deck of the double-decker jet—actually higher than the flight deck, which was located forward and directly between the upper and lower seating areas. The delegates occupied seats in the first ten rows of the jet, and, if it had been configured differently, this definitely would have been first class.

  As it was, the A380 had been configured to make the most money possible for the first five years of its life. That is: it was all economy seating throughout the vast fuselage.

  In this configuration, the jet carried 838 passengers. They, plus the 9 crew members, accounted for a staggering 847 souls.

  Almost six times the number of people who’d been on board Cascade-Air Flight 818.

  BOCA SERPIENTE, CALIFORNIA

  It hurt like hell doing it, but Daria edged herself around the pole. She was no longer facing the sun. At least she didn’t have to squint, and the sunburn would cover her arms and legs and midriff evenly. It’s important to keep up appearances, she told herself. She tried to approximate a smile, which just opened her split lip again.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it.”

  Keith O’Shea, the dark-haired Irishman, had sauntered up behind her. Daria bent forward, covered her mouth with one arm stretched around the pole, and coughed dryly into her fist.

  O’Shea circled in front of her and lowered himself to his haunches, close enough that their knees touched. He wore a wifebeater and a red bandanna around his neck. A Glock model 27 was stuffed in his belt. He held a bottle of water and a long military knife with a serrated six-inch blade and a handle made of black polymer.

  He grinned at her, a handsome rake of a man who knew, in his heart, that every woman desired him.

  “Drink?”

  Daria stared up at him, breathing shallow.

  “No?” He took a long gulp. “He shouldn’t’ve trusted you. O’Meara, that is. He was always a wanker.”

  Daria said, “Think so?” but her voice was husky and as dry as gunpowder, the words slurred as if her tongue had swollen to match her parched, cracked lips. Her hair hung lank in front of her eyes and she stared at him through the straight, black locks.

  “Johnser, too,” O’Shea said. He reached over and ran the tip of his knife along the muscles of her calf. The tip left a soft red trail as it passed.

  Daria stared at him through her hair. O’Shea smiled languidly and shifted his weight, one hand down on the ground, shoulder softly touching Daria’s shoulder. The knifepoint drew along her exposed thigh. He sipped more water.

  “Why here?” she asked, the words more or less intelligible.

  He shrugged. “We’ve a friend who can drop an airliner in our laps. The only reason we’re here is, sometimes people walk away from plane crashes, don’t they. Our job’s to make sure no one walks away from this one.”

  And this far out into the Mojave Desert, Daria knew, they could swoop in and take care of any survivors long before rescue crews could arrive.

  “There are . . . Catholics . . . aboard?” It was difficult to unders
tand her, her words were so slurred.

  O’Shea winked at her. “Ye need to speak up, lass. Catholics? Oh, aye. There’re IRA butchers on board, to be sure, but we could kill those fuckers at will, and twice on Sunday. No, we’re aimed at the Protestant delegates.”

  Daria looked confused.

  “Jay-sus, girl. Killing a Catholic is something any of us could do—did do—by the time we were seventeen. But these fucking delegates? They’re talking about giving the land to the pope. They’re pissing away Ireland, a bit at a time. When we crash this jet and kill the Catholics, we’ll show them the respect any soldier shows his enemy. It’ll be a military death, dignified-like. But the Protestants? They’re bugs. I’m hoping they survive the crash. I’m hoping to kneecap them and watch the desert take ’em.”

  He’d enjoy it, too, she thought.

  “Plus, fucking the Good Friday Accord on American soil, destroying an airplane, it’ll be 9/11 all over again. Remember how badly the Yanks screwed Iraq? We’ll finally be rid of their meddling.”

  He took a hit of the water, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Look, lass. This is crap, this. Chaining you up like a dog, in this sun. O’Meara has no idea how to treat a lady. That’s always been his problem.”

  Daria dredged up enough saliva to say, “Oh?”

  O’Shea winked at her. His hand rose and the knife danced along his knuckles, flipped easily end over end and returning to his palm, like some sort of conjurer’s trick. He handled it like a virtuoso, studying her eyes for fear.

  “We need to know who you are and who you work for. Where your mates are. What they’re planning. All of that. But we’ll get fuck-all doing it O’Meara’s way. It’s ham-handed.”

  Daria raised the outer curves of her eyebrows in question.

  The knife flashed and the shirt button between her breasts spiraled away, landing in a puff of dust. Only the knot of her shirttails held the cloth together under her breasts.

  “My way’s better,” O’Shea whispered. The knifepoint glided along the inner curve of her breast.

  Daria let her torso edge forward, leaned into the knife. “Give us a kiss,” she slurred.

  O’Shea didn’t know if it was heatstroke or a trick, or if she got off on it. But he was no fool. He reached around, tested the cuffs on her wrists. They were secure.

  The knife danced easily over his knuckles again. He slammed it into the ground, half the blade disappearing into the dirt. He leaned in, grabbed the back of her head, and kissed her. It was a hungry kiss, openmouthed. He felt her tongue, dry as sandpaper, slip past his lips.

  Daria took the deepest breath she could and exhaled for all she was worth, as if giving O’Shea CPR. Her rib made a creaking noise and spots danced before her eyes.

  She had no spit to give, but when she’d coughed into her fist, she’d slid the two-edged razor onto the dry surface of her tongue. When she blew into his mouth, it shot off her tongue and lodged itself in the soft tissue at the back of Keith O’Shea’s throat.

  O’Shea’s eyes flared open and he pulled back. He had absolutely no idea what was happening. It felt like a live electrical wire had touched the back of his skull. He tried to say something but the act of moving his tongue filled his mouth with hot, sticky blood.

  His hands rose to his throat. He gagged, the gag reflex increasing the pain in his head a hundredfold. He leaned forward, blood drooling from between his lips. He tried to close his mouth and felt like his tongue was caught on fire. The water bottle fell to the ground, water gurgling onto the hardpan.

  He rose to his feet.

  Daria kicked out her legs, caught O’Shea at the ankle. She cried out, the broken ends of her rib grinding together. O’Shea fell like a brick, landing on his ass, hands around his throat, eyes wide with terror. His chin, neck, and chest were coated in blood. Air bubbles popped around his lips as he tried to speak.

  Daria braced herself on one elbow, knew that this would hurt them both, maybe equally, and drove the heel of her boot into O’Shea’s balls. He grunted and rolled into the fetal position, his face red and puffy, eyes wide.

  Daria was crying from the pain as she used the toe of her boot to nudge the Glock out of his belt. It hit the dust and she used her boot to crab the gun closer.

  A car pulled into the parking lot and Donal O’Meara was on his feet in an instant, his Colt drawn. He moved the curtain a half inch and snuck a peek.

  The newcomer drove a Lexus Coupe, a rooster tail of dust following. The door opened and Lucas Bell stepped out, wearing a casual, button-down shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled up, and sunglasses.

  O’Meara smiled. “Friends in high places.”

  “I hope Keith doesn’t kill that bitch,” Feargal Kelly said, eyes on the football match.

  “Sod it. O’Shea’s a pro. And he’s good at getting information from people. Especially women.”

  O’Meara unlocked the door. In truth, he didn’t have much use for rapists. But then again, this was war. Soldiers didn’t always get to pick the tools of their trade.

  Daria heard a car door shut. She thought about yelling for help but squashed that notion immediately. It was either another ally of O’Meara’s or an innocent bystander she’d manage to get killed.

  It would have been easy enough to take O’Shea’s gun and shoot the cuffs. Easy, but loud. Instead, she kept kicking him in the balls, paralyzing him until he asphyxiated from breathing his own blood. Then, grunting in pain, Daria used her feet to drag him closer. She undid his belt and removed it. As she had hoped, the tine of his buckle was almost exactly the right shape to pick the lock on her cuffs.

  That took a couple of minutes. It took two more before she could rise shakily to her feet. Her head swam, bile rose in her throat. But she didn’t fall over.

  Picking up the empty water bottle, she let a few drops fall on her tongue. Tossed it aside, found the Glock. Daria stumbled toward the front office.

  50

  SHE PEEKED AROUND THE first corner. State Route 247 was vacant, little dust devils prancing across the tarmac, heat ripples distorting her vision.

  Daria limped to the next corner and glanced into the parking lot. The motorcycles were gone. So was the van, leaving only two stolen Jeeps and a sleek, black sedan. She snuck around the corner, keeping her shoulder against the faded aluminum siding, and slid along the wall until she reached the office. She opened the door carefully, remembering that it had squeaked when she’d checked them in.

  There was nobody behind the counter. Daria circled the counter, one hand holding the automatic, the other pressed gently against her snapped rib.

  The manager lay on his back behind the counter, a neat hole in his forehead. From the pool of sticky blood and the buzzing of flies, she doubted that the exit wound was as tidy. He must have been shot while she was unconscious.

  She stepped over the manager and into the apartment behind. Turned on the light. Conway Twitty began twanging from a cheap radio plugged into the same wall socket that worked the lights. She turned down the music. There was a rocking chair next to it and a pile of Reader’s Digests. Other than having a tiny kitchen and a bedroom, the apartment was every bit as soulless as the rooms for rent.

  Daria spotted the phone but, first things first, limped into the kitchen. The floor tiles were mushroom gray and peeled back at places. There had been a pattern to the wallpaper but it had faded into near nothingness. Daria found a cup of lukewarm coffee and tossed out its contents. She turned on the tap. Dull gray water gurgled out. She filled the cup, took a sip, gently letting it seep down her throat. If she drank too fast and coughed, her rib would punish her. The kitchen smelled of bad vegetables. An almost full pot of coffee had been left plugged in, the coffee obsidian black and smelling like it had been cooking for half the day.

  She poured more water into the cup and dumped it over her head. It felt fantastic on her tender, red skin. She cupped water in her hand and splashed it softly onto her face, chest, and neck
.

  Revived, she limped back to the living room and eased herself down onto a stained sofa. She set down the gun, reached for the aged Princess phone. She thought about calling Ray Calabrese’s cell but remembered that he was in Oregon, at that crash site. Daria’s Mossad training had included memorization techniques. She tried the number to Ray’s office.

  The Irishmen turned when Lucas Bell’s cell phone chimed. Lucas reached for it. He had rigged a call-forwarding from Ray Calabrese’s office.

  “Ray Calabrese’s office.”

  “This is Daria Gibron.”

  His eyes went wide. He made the finger-to-the-lips gesture to shut up the others. Her voice sounded chalky.

  “What? Wow. We’d given up hopes of hearing from you. It’s me, Lucas.” He put his hand over the phone, but lightly, and said, “It’s Ms. Gibron. Get Ray on the line, now. And trace this.” He removed his hand. “Ms. Gibron?”

  A snarl on his features, Donal O’Meara drew his Colt and moved to the motel room door. Kelly followed, heading toward the front of the motel.

  “Yes. We’re outside a town called Boca Serpiente, in California. Somewhere north and east of Los Angeles, in the desert. The Irishmen are here. They’re making their stand.”

  “I understand,” Lucas said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. One of them told me they plan to crash a jetliner that passes overhead. I don’t know how. They’re armed to the teeth, handguns, shotguns, and one sniper rifle. And they said more cohorts are on their way. But this is the staging area. It happens here.”

  “Got it,” Lucas said. “How’d you get free? Are you armed?”

  “Yes, I have a gun. Where’s Ray?”

  “He’s still in Oregon, checking out that crash. I’m leading a crack team your way right now. Are you in the same building as the Irishmen?”