With a Vengeance

by Marcus Wynne

  8

  The pilot heard the thump too.

  “Somebody locked in the lav?” he said lightly.

  “Doubt it,” Guillete said. “Hey, you know what? You should step back there and get some face time with the press while we’re at cruising. Press the flesh, make the bosses happy.”

  “We’re not supposed to leave the flight deck…”

  “Ah, c’mon, on this flight of all flights, who you think is going to care? Step out in First Class and get your picture taken. Then you can come back and I can get my mug shot, too. It’ll look good on the cover of the ALPA Magazine.”

  The pilot grinned. “I’ll be right back.”

  He unbuckled, then went to the door and peered through the peephole to make sure it was clear, then undid the hardened latches and opened the door. He stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him, locking it.

  It could only be opened from the inside.

  Ray Guillette looked out at the sky. He stood and secured the double locking bars on the inside of the cockpit door. Then he took his pistol out of his storage box and slipped it into his waistband and sat down in the pilot’s chair, and flipped the auto pilot off.

  9

  Something was nagging at Hunter; something he couldn’t articulate, just a vague feeling of unease. He looked around at his marshals, at the passengers, at the press blocking the aisles so that the flight attendants had to walk the drink orders around. The cockpit door opened and the pilot came out, nodded to Hunter, and smiled at the Fox news crew.

  “Just wanted to say hey, and to let you all know we’re happy to have you flying with us today,” the pilot said.

  Hunter hid his displeasure at the pilot’s appearance, though technically as long as the flight was at cruising altitude and the co-pilot remained at the stick, the pilot could step out to use the lavatory or get a drink or -- in this instance, smile for the cameras to make his bosses happy.

  A thought rose in him, from long ago, Paul Raven on the shores of the river, talking about Musashi’s nine rules of strategy:

  Rule Seven: Perceive those things which cannot be seen.

  Rule Eight: Pay attention even to trifles.

  What was bothering him?

  He ran the movie reel of his memory back a few moments. The news crew working, the old cameraman brushing by on his way to the bathroom, the pilot coming out…what was it?

  He looked back over his shoulder down the aisle.

  Nothing.

  He heard the latch of the lavatory undoing, and he turned to see the old man come out of the lavatory. He looked first at the man’s hands, by force of training, and saw that there was something in the man’s hands, something he lobbed gently towards Hunter, whose hands flew up to snatch it out of the air…

  A stained and worn Felix The Cat doll.

  Want to see my Felix?

  And Hunter saw the boy’s face as though in a slow motion close up, saw the raw fear and his eyes widen as the terrorist sawed the jagged edge of the plastic knife across the thin white throat…

  And he looked past the doll at the old man standing there, traces of make up and the special adhesive that had held his mask in place still streaking that familiar face.

  “Hello, Hunter,” said Paul Raven.

  Chapter Six

  It was as though all time had stopped for Hunter, and if there was an open conduit between his mind and that of Raven’s. The old man nodded as though he could hear every thought in Hunter’s mind.

  Hunter fumbled at his seat belt, moved it out of the way. Behind him, Lindy had already stood and was checking to the rear. She didn’t know what was going on, but it didn’t feel right.

  “Paul…” Hunter said.

  The plane banked, just slightly. Enough for the pilot to say, “Hey…”

  The pilot tried to step past Raven, who pushed him back. Lindy broke out her weapon and said, “Hunter! What’s going on? Who is this…”

  “Tell her to put the weapon down, Hunter. Nothing to shoot here.”

  “What have you done, Paul?”

  “What should have been done a long time ago…”

  And now the cameraman active in the aisle turned his lens on the scene, and every other media whore on the plane scrambled forward. In First Class, the TSA Administrator and the Secretary of Homeland Security sat frozen in their seats, drinks untouched.

  “Sir! What’s happening here?” the young anchorwoman from CBS tried to scramble into the picture. Lindy gave her a shove and said, “Back in your seat, bimbo. Now.”

  “Did you get that? Are you getting this?” the anchor woman hissed at her cameraman.

  “Yep,” he said. “But I’m not liking this…”

  “Get out of the way,” another cameraman said from behind. He stood on a seat to shoot over the other.

  “Just like chumming for sharks, isn’t it?” Raven said. “Not to insult the sharks.”

  “What’s going on?” the Secretary for Homeland Security said.

  “Shut up,” Raven said. “This is a private discussion.”

  The air marshals were up; two of them had weapons trained forward on Raven; the others were up and activated, scanning the rest of the cabin, trying to get the press out of the aisle and everyone in their seats.

  “Paul,” Hunter said. “No…”

  “Yes,” Raven said. “Yes. Final chapter. You’ve done well, Hunter. Better than I ever expected. Or maybe not. Maybe it was always supposed to be like this. You and me, full circle. From the river to the sky. And it ends here.”

  The plane picked up speed; the vibration of the engines increased, and Hunter felt in the pit of his stomach, as did everyone else, the gradual descent of the jetliner.

  “Since we’re live, I’ll just tell the networks that they should turn their New York crews out and focus on the Statue of Liberty,” Raven said in a conversational tone. “That’s where we’re going. Not back to Ground Zero, no, I wouldn’t want to desecrate that hallowed ground with bodies of these bureaucrats and press whores. We’ll all go there, right up against Lady Liberty, with the whole world watching.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Hunter said. “It’s not going to happen.”

  “The co-pilot? The one in front with the gun? Lost his best friend on 9/11. And then his only son, a Marine, in Fallujah. Wife left him, he got sick, he got well. Left with nothing like memories. Like me, Hunter. All I had was taken away from me. I told you about that…take the work away and what do you have left? Those who’ve loved you, and those who you’ve loved. You let my grandson die, Hunter. You. And then my daughter, my Amy…she couldn’t live with it. And that left me. Who can do the hard things? Those who can. Remember that, Hunter?”

  “Move out of the way, Paul,” Hunter said.

  “Hunter! Shoot this guy!” Lindy said.

  Hunter moved into the aisle. Only a few feet separated him from Raven, but it was as though they stood facing each other across a vast and deep abyss. The old man’s face was sunken, hollowed; the fire in the eyes was still the same, though, the same fierce intelligence, the eyes of the great deceiver…

  Raven dropped his eyes, raised one hand as though to say STOP, and then suddenly he exploded forward, the Hossom Hunter-Killer Knife he’d worn upside down beneath his vest suddenly in his hand, lunging in a pikal style thrust right for Hunter’s face…

  …but Hunter had already been reacting to the shift in the old master’s energy and got his hand up in front of his face and saw the blade pierce his palm as he stepped back.

  “Hunter! Clear the line…” Lindy shouted.

  Raven was everywhere; the whirling fast pekiti style attack thrust through Hunter’s hand and now circling his face; Hunter’s hands moving faster than thought, not even with a blade himself yet, parry, turn, tie up and push…

  Raven flew back, thumped his back against the cockpit door.

  1

  Ray Guillette increased the air speed to maximum. Far off in the distance, he saw the
tiny dot that would become the Statue of Liberty.

  2

  Hunter drew his Retribution and lunged forward; Raven dropped under the knife and cut up and then exploded forward again; Hunter anticipated the cut and raised his hand up out of the line, then brought it down on Paul’s head as the older man bulled forward…

  …they clinched then, and Hunter felt the thinness, the weakness in the older man’s body, but there was still strength there…

  …Hunter gripped Raven’s knife hand at the wrist, but Raven turned the blade back, pecking sharply at Hunter’s hand, while his own held Hunter’s fist…

  …Raven bulled forward, and Hunter brought him out…

  …then twisted the older and lighter man to one side…

  “Clear off, Hunter!” Lindy shouted.

  “No!” Hunter screamed.

  …images…the river purling in the sun…Mathilde in Frankfurt: You are both artists…Alec’s face as he died…Pathetic…and little Zachary Prescott…Want to see my Felix?...

  “Damn you to hell, Paul Raven,” Hunter hissed.

  He dropped his weight and drove his Retribution deep into the older man’s belly, twisted the knife in the wound till the edge was up, and drove up with his legs, opening the man like a grocery sack. Hunter pulled Raven to him so he could look into the other man’s eyes.

  “It wasn’t me, Paul,” Hunter hissed. “It was you. I’ll see you in hell.”

  Even now, the older man’s training overrode his pain and shock. He grinned fiercely, and shouted, “Hah! Body of a rock, Hunter. Remember that…”

  Lindy pulled Hunter back. “Is he dead? Get the fuck out of the way, Hunter! Are you hurt?”

  Blood gushed from his hand but he ignored it. “Pat!”

  “Right here, boss,” said the ex-Marine.

  “Can you fly this?”

  “Yep. We best be getting in there, though. I reckon we’re only a couple of minutes out.”

  “Cockpit breacher up,” Hunter said.

  The new guy on the team reached down and pulled out a canvas duffel that fit neatly beneath the seat in front of him. He ran to the front, opening the bag as he went, shoving cameramen out of the way. He crouched in front of the door, and pulled out a specially designed and hardened titanium tool, that looked like a giant spike with a collar on it.

  “Remember where to hit it,” Hunter said.

  “Roger that, boss,” the marshal said. He took a deep breath to calm himself, then swung the heavy tool back and then forward, hard, punching a hole in the door above the lock and extra retaining bars inside.

  3

  Ray Guillette looked over his shoulder as the spike came through the door. He looked at the flight speed indicator and kept his hands steady on the yoke. This was his last mission, and he meant to do it well.

  4

  The young air marshal was strong and fit, but deforming the hardened door enough so that it could be breached was hard work.

  “Get it open,” Pat Haydon said softly.

  The door buckled, and then flew open.

  5

  Ray Guillette lifted the pistol from his waistband and fired over his shoulder in the direction of the door.

  6

  “Motherfucker!” Lindy swore. She took the shot, carefully, and put a .357 Sig round at the base of Ray Guillette’s skull, and his brains on the windshield canopy.

  “Move!” Hunter shouted, shoving Pat forward.

  “Easy, boss,” the Marine said. He reached past the limp form of Guillette and put his hand on the yoke. “Cut him out.”

  The Statue of Liberty grew even more quickly. Beneath them the waters of the Atlantic churned.

  Hunter slashed the pilot’s harness off and dragged him free while Pat slipped into the seat.

  Then, his hands on the yoke and feet on the pedals, the Marine pilot banked the MD-80 over New York Harbor, well away from the Statue of Liberty, and passed over the construction taking place where the World Trade Center had stood -- and fallen.

  EPILOGUE

  As the news broke world wide, one of Paul Raven’s sleepers, the same redheaded computer expert who had orchestrated their electronic operations, punched a button on his keyboard. With that, a blanket e-mail went to every major news organization in the United States and overseas, with a massive video file attached.

  When the file was opened, those huddled around the video monitors all over the world saw the face of Paul Raven, and heard his words…”My name is Paul Raven, and I was a state sponsored assassin for the United States of America. I’m here to tell you my story…”

  1

  The Eastern Shore of Maryland is a peaceful place. Chesterton, a small historic town on the Chester River, is well known for the beauty of its old Colonial homes and the Chesterton ship festival. It wasn’t the kind of place that Hunter would have thought that Basalisa Coronas would like; he’d imagined that she’d like the urban life in DC.

  But this gunfighter preferred the quiet pace, and put up with the long commute into DC and down to Quantico.

  “We get lodging if we need it down at Quantico,” she said, as they strolled along the street down to the historic harbor. “Sometimes, if I’m too tired, I’ll stay down there. But it’s worth it to come here, to be out here. The peace makes it worthwhile.”

  “Yes,” Hunter said. “It does.”

  They paused and looked out at the flow of the river.

  “I like looking at water,” Lisa said.

  Hunter was lost in a memory…by the purling waters of the river…

  “He loved you, you know,” Lisa said. “He staged his death in Iraq so that Alec wouldn’t kill you.”

  “Yes,” Hunter said. “I know that.”

  “He got what he wanted. There’s never been a shake up like this before. The system…well, it’s a whole new world.”

  “Yeah.”

  She studied his face. “Let’s go back to my place.”

  They walked up the street to her house. As she let Hunter through the gate, he saw a child’s bicycle propped up against the stairs. Lisa saw him looking at it.

  “You like kids?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  She led him up the stairs and opened the door. “Hello?”

  “Hi mom!” came a young voice. A boy, maybe eight years old, ran into the room and stopped short at the sight of Hunter. An older Hispanic woman bustled in behind him.

  “Hello, Miz Coronas,” the Hispanic woman said.

  “Hi Maria,” Lisa said. “Hunter, this is my son. Alex. Alex, this my friend, Hunter.”

  Alex came forward and extended his hand like a miniature adult. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Hunter.”

  Hunter knelt and shook Alex’s hand. “Hey Alex. I’m glad to meet you, too.”

  “Do you want to play?” Alex said.

  “Sure,” Hunter said. “I’d love to.”

  THE END

  THANKS AND GRATITUDE

  I wrote this book over a two year period while I was recovering from complications resulting from surgery for colon cancer. It was a very tough time. The complications sidelined me for almost five years. I had colon cancer, nine major surgeries, several heart attacks, a small stroke, extended hospitalization, a divorce and custody battle, bankruptcy, relocation, job loss, homelessness, poverty and a near-death-experience in those five years.

  I owe my survival to the intervention of God through my family and friends – many of whom just stepped in and provided help financially, emotionally, and physically during my long convalescence and recovery.

  So I want to take the time, right here and now, to thank all those people who helped me through that very hard time, and to let them know that they are loved and appreciated.

  The nurses at Decatur Memorial Hospital who kept me alive; Dr. Stephanie Donnelly, who set a medical milestone with my surgical reconstruction; my brothers Alan, Wade, Evan and Curt, who trekked half way across the country to tend to me; my dear friend David Dean, who did the same; D
avid Morrell, Gayle Lynds, and Joe Hartlaub who helped me with significant amounts of money while I recovered; Cameron Casey, Dennis Martin, Peter Morgan, Ben Fields, Rob Krott, Scott Ralston, Steve Slyter, Jim Burrell, Sister Teresa Ann, and Nick Hughes all helped me out financially when I was too sick to support myself; Harley Jane Kozak, whose humor and compassion helped me through a dark time; and all those who stepped in with a kind word at the right time.

  My amazing lawyer, the irascible and brilliant Kent Rathbun, who has stood by me for five years of interminable legal hassles, and his wife Sheree, deserve special recognition for all they’ve done; as does Stan Waxman of New York and Miami, who jumped in the fight long-distance.

  Dennis Martin, for dragging me out of my sick bed and making me realize that I can still be of service, and Kjetil, for that long talk on a very dark day.

  My son, Hunter, who gives me the best of all reasons to live.

  And if there is anyone I overlooked, forgive me and know that I am grateful.

  TECHNICAL ADVICE AND LINKS

  I want to single out here people who are mentioned in the text or who advised me on various points; also I want to recognize some of the manufacturers whose product I mention and recommend in the text:

  Ray Dionaldo, FCS Kali, knife master supreme, http://www.fcskali.com

  Jerry Hossom, master knife maker, http://www.hossom.com

  Joyce Laituri, Sal Glesser, Spyderco knives http://www.spyderco.com

  Karl Sokol, master gunsmith, http://www.chestnutmountainsports.com