Gone Duck

by L. L. Muir

  Dorothy Jean was right. The cure for the disease might lie inside that chip, and the researchers at WHOSO might be the only ones to access it. But Macey had come to care for the old bird far too much to consider letting the bastards kill Dorothy Jean, to get it before she was done with it, no matter how many other lives it might save.

  Macey nodded. “Yes. I promise. My plan is to do what Shawn hoped to do, to expose WHOSO however I can. If Shawn never…finds us, and we don’t have the files from the duck, I’ll just have to do what I can with social media. And I can do that from anywhere.”

  Dorothy Jean grinned. “Then let’s find a beach somewhere, in the states. Florida, maybe?”

  Macey smiled. “Sounds relaxing. And relaxing’s good for us both. I’ll just have the pilot find a small airstrip near the coast. Hopefully, we can find a boat to take us south.”

  “Too bad we can’t leave a trail of breadcrumbs on the water so Shawn could track us.”

  A memory clicked into place and Macey pointed to Dorothy Jean’s backpack. “Turn that bag inside out. There’s a tracking device somewhere inside it. Shawn put it there in just in case. I’m sure there is another one in the backpack he left on the plane.”

  Dorothy Jean started removing prescription bottles from the backpack. “What if we lose the bags? He’ll never be able to find us.”

  “It won’t matter.” Ignoring the pain in her side, Macey started opening cupboards until she found what she was looking for, then she held up the blue latex glove. “The transmitters have to be small, right? We’re going to swallow them.”

  Dorothy Jean gave her a disgusted look. “Oh, yeah? And just how many times will we have to swallow them until lover boy catches up to us?”

  Macey grimaced, then forced a smile. “We’ll just have to take it…one day at a time, that’s all.”

  Dorothy Jean nodded, her eyes bugging slightly. “That’s what I’m afraid of—re-swallowing it, one day at a time.”

  ***

  Together, they went out into the main cabin and sat down like nothing was wrong. Macey stashed Dave’s gun between her seat and the wall and kept the more menacing one tucked next to her leg. Across the aisle, Dorothy Jean stashed the little black bag with the hypodermics out of sight but within reach.

  Since Kofford had used a silencer, Macey hoped the pilots weren’t involved, but it wouldn’t be long before they knew for certain.

  She pulled out Kofford’s phone. She’d watched him turn it on enough that she thought she could figure out his security code. The man hadn’t been very clever about it. Bottom row of three numbers. But which order?

  7899.

  Wrong.

  7789

  Wrong.

  How many chances would she have before the phone would freeze?

  7889.

  Nope.

  7898.

  Ding ding ding! We have a winner!

  She exhaled an excited breath and gave Dorothy Jean a thumbs up. She entered her search and after a few wild goose chases, she found just the information she needed. She set the phone aside and picked up Kofford’s weapon, complete with the menacing-looking silencer, and stood.

  Dorothy Jean gave her an encouraging nod, but as planned, she remained seated and tried to remain calm, just in case. Of course, if the worst happened and the plane went down, it wasn’t going to matter much if the micro-chip went off in her head or not.

  The pilot wore headphones and seemed to be concentrating on whatever he was listening to. The co-pilot glanced sideways, sensing someone was standing behind him, but not taking the time to see who it was.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  Macey smiled, but said nothing. The guy turned until he saw her. Alarmed, he slapped the pilot’s arm, then returned his hand to the controls.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” she said sweetly.

  The pilot whipped off the headphones and turned in his seat to face her. When he leaned forward to look behind her, she laughed.

  “The men are…taking a nap.” She reached behind her and pulled the gun from her waistband. Apparently they knew she was a prisoner on the plane and shouldn’t be wandering around alone, which meant they were probably on Lacrosse’s payroll. “I was hoping we could have a polite conversation, but it looks like you’re not going to want to answer my questions.”

  The co-pilot’s hand strayed, so she tapped him on the cheek with the silencer.

  “You want to hand that over to me?”

  Stiffly, he reached into a cubby and pulled out a gun, careful not to touch the trigger. She watched the other man while she tucked it into her waistband. That one’s hand twitched, his fingers all but pointing to his ankle.

  “I’ll take yours too.” She pointed to his foot and held out her hand.

  Grudgingly, he tugged up his pant leg and produced a teeny gun that fit in her pocket, though she wasn’t comfortable with it being there, even with the safety on.

  “We don’t have a lot of fuel,” the pilot warned.

  She leaned forward and squinted at the fuel gauge. “Ah, don’t worry. We have plenty. The question is…who is going to land this plane? One of you? Or me?”

  The pilot scowled at her. “I’ll land it.”

  She smirked. “We’ll see.” She turned to the co-pilot, who was starting to sweat. “Where is Lacrosse expecting us to land?”

  His eyes showed an unusual amount of white. “Who?”

  She shook her head, smiling. “Wrong answer.” She pressed the point of her weapon into his neck.

  “Wait! What are you doing?” the pilot barked. “We’re just the pilots!”

  “Wrong again.” She turned and pointed the gun at his head, and though he put his hands up, she still thought his attitude was bad. “You think I need you?” She gestured at the control panel. “Altitude indicator. Airspeed—we’re moving pretty slow, my guess is so Lacrosse can catch up. Vertical speed.” She pointed at the large handle between the seats. “Yolk. Please. I can land this in my sleep.”

  The pilot smirked. “Go ahead.”

  “Fine.” She pressed the point of the gun into the guy’s arm, pushing it down into the armrest…and pulled the trigger.

  He screamed immediately, though he might have been just as shocked and angry as he was hurt.

  “Still not liking your attitude, man.” She aimed at his crotch.

  He covered his threatened parts with his now bloody, but uninjured hand. “You’re crazy!”

  She narrowed her eyes at him and leaned forward. “You’re noisy.”

  He shut up immediately.

  She tapped the co-pilot on the shoulder. He may or may not have wet himself.

  “How soon will we reach Virginia?”

  He swallowed hard. “Two hours.”

  She tried not to show how pleased she was for guessing their destination. “You’re sure?”

  He nodded vigorously. “I’m sure. If we don’t alter our airspeed, 118 minutes.”

  “Tell her nothing,” the other man grunted.

  “Shut up, Peter.” The co-pilot glanced at the gun, then back at the controls. “What do you want me to do?”

  She sighed silently, relieved at least one of them was going to take orders from her. There was no way she could land the plane. She’d only learned the basics of airplane control panels while doing research for a book. When she was forced to travel, she always flew coach. She’d never even been in a small plane before, let alone a cockpit, until Dave put them all on that one in Spokane.

  “I want you to land at a small airfield on the coast. Do you know one? Or do I need to Google it for you?”

  The man considered for a few seconds, then shrugged. “I know one, but I don’t think they’re going to let us veer from our course.” He nodded to the side.

  She peered past his head and gasped at the intimidating sight of a fighter jet flying parallel to them. She looked to the left, past the pilot, and found another one an equal distance away.

  “Kofford warn
ed us you were trying to take the plane.” The pilot smirked. “We called it in.”

  She resisted the urge to shoot him again because she didn’t want to tempt Karma into letting her take another bullet. Instead, she forced him to take a seat in the cabin so she could assure herself he wasn’t sabotaging anything. She let him take off his belt to stanch the bleeding in his arm, but offered him no other aid. Any softness on her part would just lead him back to his first assumption that she wouldn’t hurt him.

  Dorothy Jean said there were some things in the private cabin she could use to tie him up and went to collect them.

  But five minutes later, Dorothy Jean still hadn’t come back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The pilot’s grunting began to wear on her nerves. He wanted her to feel bad for shooting him? Not a chance. It made her own wound hurt less, knowing someone else ached nearly as badly as she did.

  She sucked air through her teeth while she made her way to Dorothy Jean’s seat and found the black bag. The pilot’s eyes lit when he saw what she drew out of it. Still holding the injured forearm, he pulled his feet beneath him in order to stand up, but she shook her head and pointed the gun at his heart.

  “Unfortunately, Peter, this is going to help you with the pain.”

  “I don’t believe you!” He glared when she leaned close. “I hope Lacrosse takes his time—”

  Macey jabbed the needle into his upper arm. She hesitated, wishing she could leave the guy to suffer, but she couldn’t. She had to find out what was keeping Dorothy Jean and she didn’t trust Peter to stay in his seat.

  She shot the drug into his arm, and as his eyes lost their focus, she murmured, “You’re welcome.”

  She refilled the syringe quickly, then went searching for Dorothy Jean. As she passed the restroom door, she froze at a sound coming from inside. The woman was humming a tune much too high for her voice, and for a second, it had sounded like someone was strangling a mouse.

  With her nerves pulled tight, Macey opened the cabin door. It took only a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim light of a single overhead bulb. The men were just where they’d been left. The shackles were still in place. Either the drugs hadn’t worn off, or they hadn’t gotten any more sleep than she had the last few nights and were taking advantage of the break.

  She pulled the door shut and bumped into someone. They both screamed. Macey turned to find Dorothy Jean holding the top of her head, her eyes wide.

  Macey tried to think of something to do to help, hoping the woman’s expression was due to anticipation alone.

  “I’m so sorry, DJ. Does it hurt?”

  The woman blinked hard, then blinked a dozen times quickly. “Nope. We’re good.”

  Macey was relieved, but unnerved. “I think another scare like that and my own head will explode.”

  They tied the pilot good and tight with long black stockings that didn’t even earn a blush anymore. Macey waited until Dorothy Jean was back in her seat before breaking the news about their surprise escorts.

  Dorothy Jean closed her eyes and exhaled dramatically, her boney shoulders crumpling inward as she did so. “I probably wasn’t up for a boat ride anyway.”

  “It means Lacrosse or at least his men will be waiting when we land. They’re going to take you back to the research hospital, I’m sure of it.”

  The woman nodded.

  “But you’ve got to convince them to keep you alive. Tell them everything. Tell them the adrenaline isn’t affecting you like they warned. I was wrong. We don’t need to keep secrets from them if it makes you more interesting.”

  Dorothy Jean held up a hand to stop Macey’s chatter. “It’s all right, dear. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I’m the rare bird, after all. The star of the show. They’ll be good to me.” Her brow and lips puckered in unison. “I’m more worried about you. Can you tell him about the duck? Maybe he’ll trade with Shawn. Rubber Ducky for you.”

  Macey smiled and nodded, though she didn’t hold out hope for Shawn arriving in time to save her from Lacrosse. But to keep Dorothy Jean calm, she dug around in Shawn’s backpack and found another small metal dot half the size of a pea. She retrieved another finger from the blue glove, dropped the dot into the end, and tied it in a knot. Then she rolled it all into the size of a large pill and leaned her head back.

  She laughed at the ceiling. “I sure hope these really are tracking devices and not just some decorative rivet from the backpacks.” She pushed the latex to the back of her tongue and swallowed.

  If only my fans could see me now, playing spy games, swallowing secret transmitters…

  She got back on her feet. Dorothy Jean tried to tell her to take it easy, but she ignored her. There wasn’t much time!

  She stumbled up to the cockpit and collapsed into the pilot’s seat, avoiding his blood as best she could, then faced the co-pilot. “What’s your name?”

  He took a deep breath and glanced at the fighter jet out the window. “Cleary,” he said, like he was ashamed of it.

  “Where are we going to land, Cleary?”

  He turned and looked her in the eye, like he was sorry, but he wasn’t allowed.

  “Come on,” she prodded. “It’s not like I’m getting out of this alive, and you know it. Did Lacrosse tell you not to tell me?”

  “No.”

  “So tell me.”

  His shoulders dropped and he sighed. “Daniel Boone Air Field.”

  “Are you lying to me?”

  He shook his head, looking her in the eye, and she believed him.

  “Thank you.” She clamored out of the seat and he offered a hand to steady her. She wondered how Lacrosse, or an organization like WHOSO, could maintain their secrets when all their employees weren’t the throat-cutting killer-types. Then she remembered how Shawn and Dave hadn’t known their research subjects were being stolen from their families and held against their wills, or that the benefits of that research would only go to the uber rich.

  Maybe the folks at WHOSO were spoiling for a revolt within their ranks. Maybe one day there really would be an underground organization powerful enough to expose them. Maybe Shawn had already planted a seed or two.

  And maybe, if she was lucky, she could do a little something to nudge those seeds along.

  She finally settled into the seat across the aisle from Dorothy Jean and unlocked Kofford’s phone. She quickly, but carefully composed a message.

  This is Mortimer Coffee/Macey McDaniels.

  This is not a joke. Please repost this message as fast as possible. Authorities will remove it quickly. I need to get a message to my fans, and this is my only alternative.

  I am not a criminal. I’m being delivered to a madman, Vasco Lacrosse. He works for the World Health Organization and has the power to make me disappear.

  To my fans in Virginia, come to Boone Field in 90 minutes to bear witness.

  Not a hoax. Repost quickly. All sites possible.

  For me, for Keefer.

  She opened up all her social media sites, then copied and pasted the message everywhere she could. While she was at it, she reposted her own post over and over again until the phone suddenly went dead in her hand.

  For the next hour, she fought against the temptation of knocking herself out. The pain in her side worsened with each minute, but she couldn’t make it easy for Lacrosse. She pretended to be separate from her body, removed from the agony, and began to relax. She prayed her message was going viral and Lacrosse was unable to stop it. She hoped Shawn, wherever he was, might catch wind of it on the news, if she could be that lucky. But there was every chance he’d been right, that Lacrosse could crash whatever site he needed in order to stop her.

  When they’d been on the road, driving through Northern Idaho, she and Shawn had discussed the probability of exposing WHOSO’s crimes via social media and conspiracy theorists.

  “They can crash just about any site they need to,” he’d said, speaking of Lacrosse and WHOSO in general. “They ow
n the news stations, the papers. They are the world’s silent bully, watching, deleting, controlling. Whatever helps their agenda, they make happen. Whatever thwarts them, disappears.”

  And that was exactly what she was fighting against—disappearing.

  Noises came from the rear cabin.

  “Macey! Macey, damn you! Get him off! I can’t breathe!”

  Weak and aching, she walked back to the private cabin with a syringe in one hand and a gun in the other. She toed the door open. “We pushed him off your lungs, babe. You can breathe just fine. You want another dose? We’re going to land in about half an hour. You can be awake or not. Your choice.”

  “Macey. Listen to me. Force the pilot to take land somewhere else—”

  “Can’t do it.”

  “Of course you can. You have my gun!”

  “And the fighter jets that Lacrosse sent as escorts have bigger ones.”

  He was quiet for a few seconds. “Macey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She figured he wouldn’t be so sorry if he was suddenly free of the shackles and in possession of his gun again. It was easier to hate him that way.

  She pulled the door shut and returned to her seat, forcing herself to breathe. Too worried about her present pain to worry about what Lacrosse might do to her. She couldn’t imagine him doing anything that hurt worse than she already did.

  “Macey! Are you there?”

  She wasn’t about to holler back, and she ignored his demands to release him and let him fix things. Dorothy Jean watched her closely. The woman never missed much anymore.

  “Are you okay?”

  Macey nodded. “Yeah.”

  Dorothy Jean looked doubtful. “You still have a gun, right?”

  “Right.” She had four.

  “Well, maybe this time you won’t be afraid to use it.”

  ***

  The plane began to descend. Macey slipped back into the pilot’s seat, hoping to get a hint at what was waiting for them, but it was impossible to see much with the window so high. She flat out refused to look at the fighter jets. It would break her heart to make eye contact with them, knowing they were just following orders, probably told she was a dangerous hijacker whose crazy scheme threatened their country.