“Hi there,” McDaniels replied.
“Sorry about that, Sir,” the older man said, grinning at McDaniels. “If I look away for a second, the little bugger gets away from me.”
“No problem at all,” McDaniels crouched all the way down to the boy’s level. He held out his hand to the boy. “My name’s Jeremiah, what’s yours, little man?”
The boy looked up at his companion, who nodded, and then at McDaniels’ huge hand. After a moment, the little boy gripped McDaniels’ hand.
“Tommy. My name’s Tommy and this is my ‘Pa.”
“Glad to meet you, Tommy. My friend and I have the seats right behind you. I guess we better get out of the aisle before we get yelled at, okay?”
Tommy nodded his head. He allowed the older man to draw him out of the aisle. The older man shook hands with McDaniels too.
“Jim Osbourne. I’m Tommy’s Grandfather.”
“Glad to meet you, Sir.” McDaniels shook Osbourne’s hand. He looked at the crew-cut hair and weathered face speculatively. “You do some time in the service, Jim?”
I did a hitch in the Marines back in the late sixties. How about you?”
McDaniels had moved past their seats and waited for Reskova to slide in to the window seat before moving out of the aisle. “Semi-retired army.”
“Not long, by the looks of you. Been in a few scrapes, have you?”
McDaniels chuckled. “Yeah, but I doubt I’ve seen as many as you, Gunny.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Osbourne turned to face McDaniels as other passengers streamed by to their seats. “Been a long time since anyone called me Gunny. I’m taking Tommy back to his Mom and Dad. The place my son-in-law works for transferred him to Detroit. My wife and I’ve been looking out for Tommy while they get settled.”
“Well, if you need a break, send Tommy back with me, Gunny. I’d be glad to watch him for you,” McDaniels offered.
“Thanks,” Osbourne replied. “I appreciate it.”
“Glad to do it.”
Reskova noted how carefully McDaniels sat down in his seat, which barely contained his bulk. Reskova patted the middle seat.
“I bought three so I wouldn’t have you leaning on me the whole trip like you did on the way to LA.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
“I see you made some friends and volunteered for babysitting duties. How much experience do you have with children?”
“Not much but they always seem to like me.”
“Kids like giants. How tall are you anyway? I saw you ducking around everywhere we go. You really stick out no matter where you are, Cold.”
“Thanks… six feet seven in my socks. I do a lot of ducking. It’s like second nature now. I… hey, here come the rest of the boys and they don’t look happy.”
Reskova and McDaniels watched the rest of the Syrians in commercial seating join their three companions, but not before giving everyone they passed angry, sullen looks.
“At least the guy you said was the leader is back here with us,” Reskova whispered, leaning closer to McDaniels. “He’s staring right at you.”
Reskova straightened in her seat. The Syrian McDaniels had picked as the leader tried to burn a hole through McDaniel’s head with his stare. Reskova watched the Syrian slow down as he reached McDaniels and lean down slightly. The Syrian’s jet-black hair was well groomed. His short beard was trimmed to about a quarter of an inch. He looked to Reskova to be nearly six feet tall and powerfully built. The Syrian continued to block the aisle, staring at McDaniels, who was ignoring him. A stewardess came up behind the man and gently touched his arm. The Syrian jerked his arm away angrily, not taking his eyes away from McDaniels.
“You look familiar,” the Syrian said in heavily accented English. “Why have you been watching me?”
“Sir, you must take your seat,” the stewardess urged from behind. “Sir?”
McDaniels looked up at the Syrian with a big smile. “Oh, hi, were you talking to me?”
“Yes, I was talking to you, idiot. Why have you been watching me?”
Reskova noted the passengers seated around them had quieted, watching the unfolding drama. McDaniels shrugged apologetically.
“Sorry, it’s just I’ve never seen a camel from the backside before.”
Chapter 7
Dry Run Turns Hot
Reskova gasped. More than a few people within hearing laughed out loud at McDaniels’ insult, including Tommy’s Grandfather. Instead of screaming in rage or attacking McDaniels physically, the Syrian’s face became a mask of deadly menace. He leaned down even closer into McDaniels’ smiling face.
“You will pay for this insult,” the Syrian promised.
“Take your seat, Sir, or I will be forced to call security,” the stewardess warned.
The Syrian stared at McDaniels a moment longer before moving past to his seat on the aisle across from them and one seat beyond. He continued to glare at McDaniels who turned to give him a little wave. More than a few of the Syrian group began cursing McDaniels in Arabic. McDaniels avoided giving any indication he knew what they were saying. He faced the front of the plane as the stewardess began giving the required safety lecture.
“That was smart,” Reskova complained, leaning back in her seat. “Why didn’t you just introduce yourself?”
“Calm down. It would have been more abstract if I had tried to act all innocent. Right now he’s probably thinking I’m just another arrogant American stooge.”
“You left out smart-ass.”
“I wanted to see if you’d fill in the blank. Thanks.”
“I hear a lot in Arabic now. I bet I wouldn’t need an interpreter to figure out the drift of what they’re saying either.”
“If you guessed insulting my ancestry back to the dawn of time, spiced with invitations to do obscene acts with various animals, you’d be pretty close,” McDaniels whispered back.
“Been there, done that,” Reskova said. McDaniels could tell she was remembering her anger after the head incident in the woods. “You have a natural talent for pissing people off.”
“Yeah, but the kids love me.”
“Sorry, Cold, this ain’t Romper Room, so how about reigning in your annoying side for the rest of the trip. Did you see Folley?”
“He’s on the other side of the plane.”
“I bet he loved the way you performed to start this trip, Cold.”
“Your frequent use of what you think of as an insulting nickname falls short of annoying me, Dee-dee.”
“Don’t call me that,” Reskova ordered.
“Ah oh, I’ve pushed another button,” McDaniels said, patting Reskova’s shoulder.
Reskova jerked away from McDaniels’ hand. “Keep that catcher’s mitt off me, Cold. Pay attention to what you’re supposed to be doing.”
McDaniels settled back and closed his eyes, concentrating on the snatches of conversation going on in Arabic next to him. He had already noticed the uneasy looks the large group of Syrians engendered from the other passengers. Finally, the plane began taxiing around into position for takeoff. With the noise from the engines and the beginning motions of takeoff, the Syrians quieted.
The plane left the ground fifteen minutes later after jockeying into the line of flights at the runway. As the seatbelt signs blinked off, half the Syrian group in the center aisle immediately leaped up from their seats. They opened and closed the overhead luggage compartments, rifling through bags, and then returning them to the compartments. There were hushed gasps as passengers watched the Middle Eastern group milling around in the aisles.
The Syrians spoke sharply to one another in Arabic, making gestures with their hands. Some leaned down toward the people in seats near them. The stewardesses came over to try and get the men to sit back down. Instead of following the directives, they lined up at the bathrooms, continuing their playacting.
“What do you think, Cold?”
“You don’t want to know what I’m thinking right now, De
e Dee.” McDaniels exchanged stares with the one he had picked as the leader.
“What are they saying?”
“Just gibberish. They know what they’re doing and what gets the passengers the most upset.”
Three of the Syrians tried to enter first class, but were stopped by two stewardesses. McDaniels saw the dark haired, older woman step forward, while the younger stewardess with red hair took up a position behind her and to the right. The Syrians gestured angrily, yelling in broken English about using the bathroom. Nothing they said, McDaniels noted with some satisfaction, made any impression on the stewardesses. The two women repeated the rules, ignoring their angry tones and gestures of urgency. One of the men decided to push past. The dark haired flight attendant grabbed his arm firmly.
“Go back to your seat, Sir, or get into line for the bathrooms in your section!” The older stewardess ordered in a raised, no nonsense voice. “If I have to speak to you again on this flight, I will have the pilot call ahead to have you detained in Detroit. Is that clear?”
The Syrian tore free of her grip and stepped back. He made a gesture with his finger across his throat before pointing at her. His companions laughed as the three turned around away from the stewardesses. Instead of fear in the dark haired woman’s eyes, McDaniels saw anger. She reached out and grabbed the Syrian’s shirt. When he whipped around the stewardess gestured at him with her hand.
“Come get some,” the stewardess beckoned, while her red haired companion moved up next to her.
Two men in the seats nearest the partition between first class and coach immediately jumped out into the aisle behind the two stewardesses. McDaniels tensed. He heard the leader shout out to the Syrians in Arabic, ordering them to return to their seats. The Syrian who had made the throat slitting sign had to be pulled back by his companions. He again made the gesture at the stewardess before turning around. The three walked up the aisle, his two companions urging the one confronting the stewardess to quiet down. The older stewardess talked heatedly with the other stewardess as the two male passengers listened in.
* * *
In the meantime, Reskova had moved over next to McDaniels. She grabbed hold of McDaniels’ arm as the three Syrians approached their seat, with the one Syrian still raging to his comrades. McDaniels turned to Reskova with a look so chilling she released his arm immediately.
“Don’t grab me,” McDaniels warned.
The Syrian, who had just gestured at the stewardess, stopped next to the seats in front of McDaniels. The little boy, Tommy, was standing on his seat, trying to see what was going on, while McDaniels could hear the boy’s Grandfather urging him to sit down. The Syrian reached for the little boy, a smile of malice on his face. Tommy cowered back. His Grandfather engulfed the Syrian’s hand in one gnarled fist. The Syrian dropped to his knees in pain.
“Don’t know what you think you’re doin’,” Osbourne said, gesturing at the two other Syrians to stay put, “but you reach for my Grandson again I’ll break this off and shove it up your ass.”
That said, Osbourne released the Syrian with a little push as he shielded Tommy. Reskova saw the Syrian jump back to his feet. Something slid down from under the sleeve of his jacket. What happened next seemed a blur to Reskova. In one fluid motion McDaniels shot up from his seat and smashed the thumb side of his right hand into the Syrian’s throat. The blow propelled the Syrian into the seats of his companions. McDaniels caught both of the man’s companions up by the throats, propelling them like rag-dolls headfirst into the upper bulkhead. He released their bodies, allowing them to collapse unconscious to the floor. McDaniels reached for the first Syrian while the rest of his group sat stunned at the speed McDaniels attacked.
Reskova reached for the 9mm Glock inside her jacket, trying to see around McDaniels. She heard a sickening crack as McDaniels broke the first Syrian’s right arm at the wrist, grabbing the sharpened wooden shaft formed like a knife. The man, still gagging for breath from McDaniels’ last blow, collapsed to the floor in a ball, rocking in agony as he tried to breathe and hold his injured arm. Reskova saw the Syrian McDaniels had pegged as the leader start out of his seat just as McDaniels’ right fist smashed into the Syrian’s face. The force of McDaniels’ blow pitched the man into the other aisle, blood shooting out of his broken nose.
Three air marshals in coach jumped to their feet during the melee, identifying themselves, weapons drawn. The other Syrians, standing in line at the bathrooms, and in their seats, were covered quickly. The marshals ordered them to the floor of the plane, hands behind their heads, face down. As McDaniels turned his attention to the Syrians still seated, one of them began to stand up, only to be pulled forcefully back down by his companion sitting next to him.
Reskova moved around McDaniels, with her weapon pointed at the Syrians. “That went well.”
Folley looked at McDaniels quizzically as the passengers sat in shocked silence, some hugging each other fearfully, while others seemed poised to join into the battle. Both men, who had backed the stewardess, along with Tommy’s Grandfather, moved near McDaniels, watching the Syrians in anticipation.
McDaniels held up the wooden knife for Folley to see. “The one on the floor over here was getting ready to use this. I imagine he isn’t the only one who has one. What would you like to do?”
“What do you suggest?” Folley asked in return.
“You don’t want to know,” McDaniels said, evoking some strained laughter from the passengers within hearing. “The one over by you is the ringleader.”
Folley looked down at the groaning Syrian. He reached down to feel the man’s sleeves, provoking cries of pain. Standing back up with another of the wooden knives, Folley held it up for McDaniels to see.
“My man up front has the other two at gunpoint.”
McDaniels glanced down at the Syrians who were looking around wildly at the hostile looks. “Since we don’t know what these guys have, why not head back to LA and get some troops on board?”
“Already on our way,” Folley confirmed. “Agent Reskova, would you please go forward, and back my man’s play up there?”
“Sure.” Reskova moved past Osbourne and the two other men from the front coach section. The stewardesses had already began quieting the passengers, calmly letting them know the plane would be heading back to Los Angeles. There was shared laughter at suggestions of throwing the Syrians into space and proceeding to Detroit.
* * *
“Do you have enough restraints for all these clowns?” McDaniels asked Folley as the Syrians began shifting uneasily in their seats.
“Yep. Go ahead and help my guys with the ones in the aisle. We’ll do these guys in the seats last, one at a time.”
By the time they finished restraining the Syrians, two of the ones McDaniels had fought died. One expired with a severe skull fracture from McDaniels launching him into the plane’s roof. The second one, who had started the whole incident, gasped the last of his life out, still trying to get air through his ruined throat. Shifting some of the passengers, the air marshals gathered all the Syrians together, while they took seats from which they could easily watch the group.
“Cold.” Folley attracted McDaniels’ attention. “Would you go up front and help my man with the restraints.”
“On my way.” McDaniels turned to walk up the aisle. Tommy’s Grandfather, holding his Grandson tightly, blocked McDaniels’ way, sticking out his free hand.
“Thank you,” Osbourne said.
“It was a pleasure, Sir,” McDaniels answered, winking at Tommy.
Osbourne looked down at the bodies still in the aisle and then back up at McDaniels. “It does look like you had a real good time. I hope you don’t get into any trouble over this. If you do, I’ll testify for you anytime, anywhere.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Gunny. I might need to take you up on your offer.”
McDaniels stopped to shake hands with the two men at the front of their compartment, who also wanted to thank him and int
roduce themselves. They had recognized McDaniels from the Hughes’ affair. McDaniels moved by them into first class, where the other air marshal and Reskova were holding the two Syrians at gunpoint. The ten other passengers in first class had been reseated in the rearmost seats. McDaniels took the restraints from the air marshal. When McDaniels moved toward the first Syrian, the man spoke angrily.
“You will not put those on me,” the man stated in English. He spat between him and McDaniels.
“I will be putting these on you and your friend here,” McDaniels said in Arabic, “or I will be twisting your head off. Which would you prefer?”
“Do not provoke this man,” the other Syrian warned his friend after the momentary surprise of hearing McDaniels speak their language. “I recognize him from the newspapers. He is the one who cut a man’s head off. The newspapers called him Cold Mountain.”
McDaniels confiscated the wooden knives each of the Syrians carried, before fastening the plastic restraints roughly around their wrists. When he looked up from his task, he noticed the other first class passengers watching him with fearful stares. Even the stewardess who was serving them free drinks had stopped to stare at him. Reskova nudged him.
“I heard your new nickname amongst the Arabic. What did he say?”
McDaniels pointed at the Syrian who had warned his companion not to resist. “That one has read my press clippings.”
“That’s where I’ve seen you before,” the air marshal exclaimed as McDaniels handed him the wooden knives. “I knew you looked familiar. I like the nickname.”
“Cold… Cold Mountain,” one of the women in the back of first class called out. “You’re the one the newspapers call Cold Mountain. You’re the guy who cut off that baby killer’s head, aren’t you?”
McDaniels looked pointedly at Reskova who was enjoying McDaniels’ discomfort. “Thanks, Dee Dee.”
“Anytime, Cold.”
McDaniels turned to face the passengers. He waved slightly at them. “Sorry for the mess folks.”
“Better than being dead,” the same woman replied, as her fellow passengers in first class murmured their agreement.
Monster Page 7
