Out Too Farr

by Stein, Andrea K.

  Fayed grabbed at Rania’s arm, but she was far faster. “Not yet, Fayed. Don’t get impatient. We’ll get to that part.”

  The two guards standing on the tarmac climbed into the helicopter and slammed the door. They sat next to Fayed, on the bench.

  “Only six men?” Rania asked. “Well, I’m a little disappointed. Perhaps the pilots will be game also.” She sighed playfully, and inside, the joy and scream of her adrenaline brought everything into such clarity. How big the men were, how small the space, pistols winking from shoulder holsters, the cockpit’s control panel, the door mechanism. These poor bastards, they had no idea what they were in for.

  “So, Fayed,” she continued, “really, this is a gift from Allah. Yes, the same Allah who spoke to our Prophet and advised that men probably shouldn’t marry more than one woman if they couldn’t treat all of them fairly. Being in one relationship is hard. Being in four? No, thank you. I’ve been in love recently, and this man, this wonderful man, would’ve been more than enough for me.”

  “Such a slut.” Fayed frowned. “What are you planning?”

  Rania flicked a hand forward to pinch this wretched man’s face.

  “Well, I suppose I should keep it a secret, but I’m planning on beating the holy hell out of your goons, the pilots, and then you. I’ve had a terrible day, perhaps the worst twenty-four hours of my life. You have provided me such a needed distraction. Alas, I doubt it will last. For men like you, Fayed, all bluster and money and crime, rarely last all that long.”

  She watched his eyes muddying with self-doubt and fear? Maybe fear. It seemed like a new emotion for him. Well, she would teach him the true meaning of it.

  “I want you to promise me,” Rania said. “If I can get out of this helicopter, and if I let you live, you will swear to leave me alone for the rest of your miserable life.”

  “No,” Fayed said.

  “Pity,” Rania said, suddenly turning very serious. “I find it very sad that today I will make three women widows. But in the end, I would imagine their lives will be much better without you.”

  Fayed remained emotionless, but one of his goons started to titter, and then all the men were laughing. Fayed, though, didn’t even smile. Despite the cool air around them, a line of sweat dribbled down his face.

  Rania burst out into guffaws. She didn’t know when the time would be to strike, but she had faith. Allah loved her and would not abandon her in her time of need.

  “Hey,” one of the pilots said. “What are these men doing? Sir? Someone is—”

  Then someone pulled the door open across from Rania. He was a dark-skinned man in a hat and horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Hey guys, it’s hotter than hell out here. Do you have any beer in there?” From his accent, he sounded South African.

  A bearded, tattooed man knocked the first man aside. “Wally, they have air-con in there. That feels awesome.”

  Behind them stood a slight Indian man with his arms crossed and scowling.

  Rania had no idea who these men were, and yet they seemed oddly familiar, especially the guy in the hat. Whoever they were, they had arrived at the perfect time.

  The goon closest to the door wheeled on the intruder and Rania launched herself forward, plucked his 9mm Sig Sauer P938 out of his shoulder holster, and then shoved him onto the African man outside.

  She wasn’t planning on killing anyone other than Fayed, and really, she didn’t want to end his life, because the paperwork alone might drive her crazy.

  A meaty fist reached for her, but she ducked. Fayed wasn’t about to try for her, and so he blocked a whole row of men for the instant she needed.

  She unloaded the 9mm into the control panel. The thunderous explosions of sound made both pilots shriek like fair maidens before a hungry dragon. They weren’t going to be a problem. How disappointing.

  A hand grabbed her, and she turned with it and let the man’s own momentum drive them both forward.

  She aimed his face at the back of the pilot’s chair, and he hit it with the snap of a vertebrae.

  “Ouch,” she said, laughing. “You’ll need a chiropractor to adjust that.”

  He moaned in response.

  A larger person would’ve been trapped in all the bodies, but Rania was slender enough to slide across the silk of the fallen man’s back and out the door. In seconds, she was free from the helicopter.

  She dropped onto the guard’s legs, digging her heels into his thighs. The man yelped in pain, and Rania marked him off the list. Two down, four to go, since the pilots were obviously not chosen for prowess in combat. Four and Fayed, because he wouldn’t escape her wrath.

  The three South Africans stepped back from her, fear plain on their faces.

  Rania kicked off her heels and whirled. She dropped the empty pistol. Several scowling faces filled the doorway of the helicopter. “Come now, you are powerful men, and I’m only a little girl. And Fayed, if you have a spine, you’ll try taking me on yourself. Come and get me if you dare.”

  The men piled out after her as Rania sprinted toward the market.

  There she would turn around and make her stand. After seeing these guys fight, the rest was going to be easy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  4°19′48″S; 55°44′48″E

  April 27

  Praslin Airport, the Seychelles

  Standing outside the airport bar, Moj tamped down his first instinct to run to the helicopter and save Rania.

  Of course, he’d want to do that. He’d tried to rescue his mom, Fiona, every woman he’d ever been with. He was the one in control, calling the shots, making sure everything was perfect.

  Rescuing women and taking care of them was in his DNA. And yet, Rania didn’t need that, never had.

  During their escape from the pirates in the Maldives, Rania had made it clear he didn’t have the training to help.

  Still, he couldn’t stand there and do nothing while she was forced into the helicopter. He fished out his sat phone and buzzed Manning. The pseudo-spy answered right away.

  “Manning here.”

  “This is Moj at the airport. I think… Damn, but I think Rania just got kidnapped by her husband. Not her real husband, but that guy, Fayed, or whatever. These big Egyptian guys grabbed her.”

  “Listen closely,” Manning said. “We are on our way. Do not try to help, Moj. You will either get yourself killed, Rania killed, or both of you…” long pause “…killed. Stand down. Stay safe.”

  Moj hung up and started walking south, along the airstrip, toward the market. It seemed Praslin Airport had a 1950s idea of security. Then again, chickens were probably more of a problem than terrorists.

  As he walked, he kept his eyes on the big military-looking helicopter. Shit, he felt so powerless. The memories bashed him hard. Like with Fiona. He’d left her, right when she was dying, in an ineffectual attempt to help. Moj helping, that had been the problem. And what good had that done? When he’d come back to Fiona’s hospital room after quote-unquote helping, she’d been gone.

  Manning, however dopey, was right. Moj interfering would only make things worse.

  Now, three motley motherfuckers were jogging toward the helicopter. Who were they? Hat guy, beard guy, shrimpy Indian guy. What the hell?

  They bustled up to the helicopter.

  Gunshots rang out.

  What felt like seconds later, Rania sprinted barefoot across the tarmac, going for the market. Four burly Egyptian men in gray suits tore after her.

  Moj dropped his suitcase and sped over to Rania. She side-eyed him as he ran up. “What are you doing here?”

  “Helping?” Moj asked, wincing.

  “No, you’re not,” Rania shot back.

  “Listen,” he said as they ran. Lucky he was a swimmer; he had excellent breath control and could talk while they sprinted. “I need to talk to you. I kind of woke up to everything. Please.”

  “Uh, little busy,” Rania said. “Can we maybe talk romance in a minute? I’m havin
g some trouble with my ex.”

  “Gotcha,” Moj said. “Maybe after you’re done, we could meet on the beach?”

  “Deal.” They’d reached the market with the four men on their heels. Rania grabbed a skewered fish, head and all, roasting on a grill. She spun and stabbed the lead man in the shoulder.

  She swept a leg and he hit the ground, head first.

  Moj took out his wallet and threw the frightened man by the grill a twenty-dollar bill. “Sorry. I’ll pay for the fish.”

  The second man barreled into Rania, shoving her to the ground. She rose and took him out with an elbow to the groin. He tumbled into a rack of DVDs and Blu-Rays, and the whole thing came smashing down on top of him.

  A woman in a hajib, eyes wide, retreated under her awning. Moj gave her a twenty as well. “For the mess,” he muttered. Damn, he was quoting action movies in real life.

  He casually walked past Rania as she roundhouse-kicked a third man and sent him sprawling.

  Another local woman, clutching a baby to her chest, was selling beach chairs. “How much?” Moj asked.

  Of course the woman was too freaked to talk. Moj laid two hundred-dollar bills down by a cigar box she used as a cash register.

  “I need one of those chairs right now,” Rania called.

  Moj tossed her a chair, and she used it to smack down a fourth guy.

  Leaving his lover to what she did best, Moj collected two other beach chairs and continued on down the line, giving everyone hundred dollar bills since the vendors weren’t in the mood to chat while they stared at Rania’s battle royale.

  Moj bought an umbrella, a woven mat, a cooler. He filled it with beer and Pellegrino. He also got himself a new swimsuit. When sirens filled the air and the shrieking dimmed, he made his way down a path through greenery to get to the beach.

  His phone rang, and he recognized the ring tone. Bronwyn. He didn’t answer it. He texted her instead and told her exactly where he was heading.

  He thought about going back for his Hulme suitcase, but he didn’t care about anything inside. Someone else’s life was in there. He wanted a new one.

  Moj slammed the umbrella in the sand, unfolded a chair, and unbuttoned his shirt. Cracking open a beer, he leaned back.

  Now, this was a vacation.

  * * *

  Rania took out Fayed’s last goon easily. She snatched up another fish skewer, pretty sure that Moj’s twenty dollars covered at least two, and then started back across the airstrip to confront Fayed.

  But the three mysterious strangers were already dragging her never-was husband right to her.

  She must’ve wrecked the helicopter controls, because it hadn’t gone anywhere. Sirens had wailed so long, they’d started to make bleating noises. She didn’t have much time.

  The South African in the hat had one of Fayed’s arms while the bearded, tattooed guy had his other. The Indian man followed, a thoughtful look on his face.

  Rania slapped Fayed with the fish, first one cheek then the other. She pressed the skewer to his throat.

  “Please, no,” he wept.

  “Now, do we have a deal? Will you leave me alone?”

  “Wally, dude,” the bearded guy gasped. “She like kicked his ass with a fish.”

  The guy in the hat erupted.

  “Hardcore, Bert! Hard-fucking-core!”

  Indian guy just shook his head.

  Rania ignored them and roared at the man with fish juice in his beard.

  “Answer me, Fayed!”

  “Yes, yes, anything you say. Anything you say. We are divorced, forever. Never more. You are free.” He was clearly finished with her. She could return to Egypt if she so chose. But first, she had a date on the beach.

  Rania sighed and let the fish drop. “Good.”

  The Indian guy took over. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize me, Fayed. You are the man who ruined my life. You helped Shabana Iyer run me out of Durban.”

  Fayed’s eyes nearly rolled back into his head. “Vikram Kori. It was business, Shabana Iyer promised-”

  “No!” Vikram shouted. “No excuses. I’ve been wanting to ransom someone for weeks now, and you will make the perfect victim. There are crime syndicates all over Africa, your rivals, who would pay to put an end to you.”

  Rania head the word “ransom” and blinked.

  “You. You three were on the catamaran. You shot at me.”

  Wally tipped his hat. “Sorry, miss. That was me and Bert. We were trying to be criminals. It didn’t work out.”

  “Yeah,” Bert said, “our apologies.”

  “But now,” Vikram sputtered, “we can be the good guys. We can kidnap criminals and either ransom them to the police or to their enemies.”

  Bert and Wally exchanged smiles.

  “Kidnapping bad guys and ransoming them?” Bert asked.

  Wally answered, “That’s bloody fucking brilliant!”

  Rania realized in her heart of hearts that she and Moj had never been in any real danger from these guys.

  “I would be careful,” she cautioned.

  “Totally,” Wally said.

  “You got it, Babe.” Bert winked.

  The two big guys took a fresh grip on Fayed, who had slumped down, while Vikram started the negotiation.

  “Now, Fayed, we were going to ask ten million dollars for Moj, the American music producer. I think that’s where we’ll start.”

  The three men marched Fayed across the tarmac and into the jungle.

  Rania sped away to get her duffel before tearing back through the market, down the path, and to the beach. She had a date to keep.

  Over her shoulder, she noticed police cars filling the runway as she disappeared into the foliage.

  * * *

  Moj sipped at his Pellegrino and enjoyed the cool wind off the ocean as Rania sat down in the chair next to him. She drank two beers without saying a word.

  He tried to talk to her, but she held up a finger. “Not yet. Give me a minute.”

  Then Bronwyn came tripping down the beach carrying his Hulme suitcase. “There you are! Moj, we have got to capitalize on this. We have news outlets from every major media center on the globe. Word has it you saved Rania. Not sure why you both are here on the beach. I’m telling you, teens and tweens from Bangladesh to Boise are going to be squee-ing in their third-period math classes. This is the best thing that could have ever happened to us!”

  “To you. Not to me.” Moj said. “You’re fired. I’m done with your PR game. I’m going to make music and love to Rania until she gets tired of me. I’m gonna go all JD Salinger.”

  “Who?” Bronwyn asked, mouth slack.

  Moj shook his head.

  “Author. He wrote a book. You might want to read more. Anyway, don’t need you anymore, Bronwyn. In the end, I had to choose, and I choose Rania.”

  Bronwyn let the suitcase fall onto the sand and wandered back toward the airport stalls.

  “Addio, donna spietata.” He loved how the Italian felt on his lips. “Non mi mancherai.”

  He and Rania sat listening to the waves play on the shoreline and the seabirds call out for lunch. After several long moments, he turned. “Can we talk now?”

  “You let me fight those men on my own,” Rania whispered. “You didn’t get in the way at all. Were you worried about me?”

  “Real worried,” Moj said. “I called Manning. I figure he’s probably back at the airstrip talking to the police and bribing whoever will take the cash. And of course, he’ll make sure it all ends up real hush-hush.”

  “You didn’t try to rescue me.” Rania showed no emotion. Her words came out flat.

  Moj couldn’t read her face, but he was certain about what he was feeling.

  “Cara Mia, you didn’t need saving. I was feeling sorry for those guys. I had to get out of there before I started helping them.”

  Rania reached out her hand and he took it.

  “And Bronwyn,” Rania said. “You really did choose me?”

>   “I really did,” Moj said. “Chose you over millions of dollars and fame and Grammys and all that. Well, chose you and the music. A guy set me right about the music. It’s not about sales. It’s about life and how we live it.”

  She smiled, those lips parting, and Moj remembered how they’d felt on his mouth, on his skin, on other parts of him. His cock stiffened at the thought.

  “It’s about life and how we live it,” Rania echoed. She leaned forward and let him taste her as they kissed. She was luscious and hot and the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.

  He reached a hand into her dark curls so he could feel more of her, kiss her more, do everything more.

  They were together, for good, at last.

  THE END

  EPILOGUE

  Coordinates Classified

  December 24

  Off the Grid, Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean

  Moj lifted his face to the sunshine beating down on his face. He stood on the deck of their decadent dream house, perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Pacific.

  A wall of windows allowed the sunrise to paint the great room every morning, and from the master suite they had a view of the sunset every night. The emerald fronds and tower palm trees of a green jungle surrounded the wrap-around deck built on the solid rock. The builders had chipped a staircase in the stone that led to the sandy beach below. Their island paradise couldn’t be more private or remote.

  “Moj, come and watch,” Rania called. “You can’t avoid this forever.”

  “I can try,” he muttered. To her, he replied, “Coming, amore della mia vita.”

  Moj padded across the patio to the guest bathroom, half the room exposed to the ocean, the other half built into the cliff’s side.

  He watched as Rania explained again exactly what she was doing, and worse, what she expected him to do, but there was a disconnect between his mind and his eyes.

  She lathered her hands generously with citrusy soap and water for the second time in a hollowed-out rock with a pump handle fixture. On top of the toilet tank. After she washed her hands, she demonstrated how the waste water would be used to flush the toilet below.

  “No way, Tesoro. No freaking way. I fought my way to the top of the music world, made enough to keep us safe and off the grid… Found us a deserted island, for God’s sake. And now you expect me to wash my hands in the toilet?”