Undefeated, page 5
An hour before landing, Angel passes us. She talks with one of the first-class flight attendants—a tall redhead. The passenger across the aisle stirs from his nap. He shifts in his seat, grabbing the crutch next to him, then uses it to stand.
He has curly hair and dark skin with a wide nose. At about 5’9” with a narrow frame, Crutch Man is only a few inches taller than me, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with a flag on it. Red, white, and blue but with only one star and seven stripes. I don’t recognize it.
He starts to stretch toward the ceiling with one arm, the other holding onto the crutch. I lean forward trying to see the passenger next to him, but my view is blocked by the divider between the seats. Why am I getting trouble vibes? My gaze falls back on the passenger…he seems not nervous…but something. Blue growls so low only I can hear, his attention also on our neighbor. I’m not the only one getting the sense something is up.
The fasten seat belt sign dings on. Crutch Man continues his stretches. Angel and the other flight attendant push a trolley in front of the restroom, blocking the path. The cockpit opens and the captain comes out—the woman I heard over the intercom has her dark hair up in a twist. Angel slips into the cockpit and the door closes behind her while the captain steps into the bathroom.
The flight attendant with bright red hair and broad shoulders stands guard by the trolley. The plane drones on.
Crutch Man finishes his stretches and starts toward the blocked bathroom. “Please have a seat,” Red says.
“I’d like to stand,” Crutch Man responds, his accent something I don’t recognize.
“I’m sorry, sir, but the captain is using the facilities, you’ll need to take your seat.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he says.
The flight attendant raises one shapely brow—damn I wish I could do that. “Sir, you need to sit down.”
“And if I don’t?” Crutch Man asks.
Okay…
“Sir, it is a federal crime.”
The guy snorts. Snorts. Then his hand is on her neck, her back hits the trolley, and his face is in hers, snarling something I can’t hear. I don’t need to hear it, though. I get it.
Blue and I stand as one, our bodies locking into formation—him in the lead, me right behind. The bathroom door opens and the captain begins to emerge. Her eyes widen and mouth opens in surprise when she sees the altercation taking place right outside her door.
Crutch Man looks up—I can’t see his expression but Captain’s face pales when she does.
Blue closes the distance between them and growls low and close. Crutch Man’s head whips around, his attention turned to Blue. He kicks out. Blue dances back, avoiding the messy attempt. “Let her go.” I say it calm and quiet but loud enough for him to hear.
“Fuck off,” he says.
“Let her go immediately,” Captain says.
He’s still holding the crutch in his hand but it doesn’t seem like he needs it. His weight is evenly distributed on both feet and he just kicked out at Blue…
All-American, the guy in the Eagles sweatshirt with the eyes of a killer, appears at the head of the other aisle. “Back away from the cockpit,” he says in that deep voice of his.
Crutch Man turns to him, shifting his weight but still holding onto the flight attendant’s neck. All-American’s nostrils flare. His eyes dart to Captain and then back to Crutch Man. He’s standing with his arms loose by his sides but in the blink of an eye there is a gun in his hands, cupped the way it’s supposed to be, and aimed at Crutch Man’s chest.
“Back away from the cockpit,” he says again, his voice just as deep, just as calm. Air marshal.
Crutch Man loosens his hold on the woman but doesn’t step back. “Shooting guns inside aircrafts is dangerous.”
“Don’t worry,” All-American says. “The bullet will get stuck in you.”
Oh damn. I like this guy.
Crutch Man releases Red’s neck, his hand drifts down her chest. Nope. Not okay. She whimpers, and I move. It’s only one long step and I’ve got the guy by the wrist. Because his focus is split between the air marshal and Red’s breasts, he’s distracted. So when my hand slips around his wrist, surprise is the first emotion that registers on his face.
It morphs into pain quickly when I take that wrist and break the fucking thing. “Holy fuck.” All-American’s voice is a mix of awe and surprise. Crutch Man is on his knees in front of me. That’s what happens when a person grabs your wrist, then slams their free hand into your knuckles, forcing the fingers toward the inner elbow. It drops you to your knees, and breaks your wrist. One scone feeding two birds.
Crutch Man screams—high and pained. Sweat breaks out at his hairline. His other hand, the one wrapped around the crutch, jerks and Blue leaps forward, pushing between us.
Blue’s teeth latch onto Crutch Man’s other wrist, which is when I see that he’s holding a sharpened metal stick—must have been hidden in the crutch. Blue bites down hard and the weapon drops to the floor. All-American comes up behind Crutch and wraps a strong forearm around the man’s neck. Crutch’s eyes bulge and his skin mottles.
“Off, Blue,” I command. He releases Crutch Man and moves to my side. The weapon lies on the floor. Red kicks it away so that it spins and slides, stopping at my feet. I’m not touching that thing.
I do stare down at it, though—it’s not store-bought. Someone smarter than this moron crafted it specially for the occasion. He’s not alone. Blue growls and my head whips up, looking back into the cabin. The passengers in first class are all seated but those with a view up the aisles are highly alert to what is going on in the front.
All-American glares at me over Crutch Man’s head. “There are more,” I say. His eyes narrow as if I’m involved—as if I’m a part of that “more”. Dumbass.
That chiseled jaw of his works for a moment and then he nods, recognizing not only my logic but also the fact that I am not working with the guy whose wrist I just broke and my dog mauled. That would be some deep fake shit right there. I am not that good…and neither is Crutch Man. He’s still on his knees, cradling his useless hands against his chest while All-American holds him tight around the neck.
I begin moving down the aisle, heading toward my seat, scanning the other passengers for crutches or some other means to conceal a weapon. A scream from economy class draws my attention and I push through the curtain separating the cabins. A man of similar build as Crutch Man stands in the aisle, his eyes wild, holding Daisy—the little girl who petted Blue—with a makeshift weapon of that same silver aluminum pressed to her throat. Daisy’s mom sobs, her hands pressed to her left eye like she just got punched.
I hold up my hands to show I don’t have any weapons. “That’s a kid,” I point out.
“Don’t come any closer,” the man says. “We are taking this plane to West Papua.”
I have no idea where that is.
“Okay,” I agree. “Let’s go tell the captain. She’s right back there. Your friend got a little fucked up.”
“I heard him scream.”
“Yeah, he got hurt. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.” That’s a lie. I want to hurt him.
Blue growls low as if he agrees with my thought, though it’s probably more to do with the fact that Terrorist #2 is tightening his hold on Daisy and the sharp metal is pressing into her neck. “Loosen up,” I say. “If you kill her, you’ll be all out of bargaining chips.”
“Shut up!” he yells at me, but eases the metal from her skin just a little.
My gaze rises from Daisy’s neck to her eyes. Raw terror. Fuck.
“It’s going to be okay,” I promise her.
“Do something!” her mom screams, still standing at her seat, though she’s dropped her hands from her face. Her left eye is swelling badly but her jaw has firmed. She’s not crying now.
“Come with me.” I wave my hand toward the cockpit. “We can go talk to the captain.”
“Free West Papua!” Terrorist #2 says.
“Not within my powers,” I point out. “I’m just a fellow passenger with a big dog. But I am a fan of freedom.”
The desperation in the man’s face tugs at something in me. He’s different than Crutch Man—there isn’t any ego here. He’s threatening the life of a kid to free a place I couldn’t find on a map. A place that obviously he thinks is worth dying for…if we hadn’t met under these circumstances and if his friend hadn’t assaulted a terrified flight attendant, his cause might even be one I’d agree with. But he is threatening a kid’s life, his friend did just cause mayhem outside the cockpit, and I’m going to have to stop him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What’s your name?” I ask Terrorist #2 as he starts down the aisle toward Blue and me. We back up as he moves forward, Daisy held against his body, the weapon pressed to her throat. “And why are you doing this?”
“I fight for freedom, West Papua deserves a referendum on our future, we do not want to live under Indonesian rule,” he says.
“Okay, that sounds reasonable. Taking kids hostages on planes,” I shrug. “Not super reasonable. In fact, kind of fucked up, my friend.”
“I am not your friend.”
“Fair point. Can I call you Gary?”
His face scrunches with confusion. Gary? his eyes seem to say. Who the fuck is Gary?
All-American appears in the opposite aisle, his gun up, eyes laser-focused on Gary. The passengers in between duck down in their seats, soft cries of fear passing like waves, following our slow progression as Gary moves forward and All-American’s gun tracks him.
Daisy’s mom steps out of the aisle and follows her daughter. Mom has a look on her face that spells trouble. She’s not letting this guy walk off with her kid.
“Let her go,” All-American says. But he doesn’t have a shot here—not a good one anyway. Maybe he’s an expert marksman and can take this guy out with a headshot without hurting Daisy or blowing a hole in the side of the aircraft, but it’s not a sure thing. Crutch Man had his back to All-American—that guy was an easy kill. This situation is much trickier.
That’s when Mom does something stupid and brave. She launches herself onto Gary. Her small body—all five foot two, one hundred and twentyish pounds—lands onto the arm holding the makeshift knife. It scratches down her daughter’s arm, tearing her shirt, and beading blood. Mom’s teeth sink into the man’s bicep and he yells, his grip loosening on Daisy.
The little girl dives forward, falling onto her hands and knees. “Come here,” I yell at her. She crawls on all fours toward Blue, who bounds to her. She gets behind him and Blue leaps through the air. Mom has both hands and her teeth on the guy’s weapon arm. Blue latches onto his wrist and they fall awkwardly in the narrow aisle, Gary letting out a pained cry. The passengers on either side of them push into their neighbors, desperate for a few more inches of physical space between themselves and the mayhem less than a foot away.
The weapon drops with a low thud, barely audible over the droning of the aircraft and the thundering of blood rushing in my ears. Mom is throwing fists at Gary, her hair and eyes wild. Blue just holds onto Gary’s wrist.
Daisy wraps both her arms around my waist and buries her face into my stomach. “Okay, sweetie,” I say, my eyes landing on a woman sitting in the aisle seat next to us. She’s in her fifties with dark skin, kind, worried eyes, and her purse clutched on her lap.
“Here, sit here.” I push Daisy at the woman who reaches out and envelops the girl into a hug—the kind of hug a certain type of woman can give that makes the world a better place. This lady will fight to the death to keep this little girl safe and she doesn’t even know her. That is the side of humanity I need to think about tonight when I’m struggling to sleep.
Daisy seems to understand the same thing I do and curls into the woman’s lap, holding the stranger tight. Daisy squeezes her eyes shut, as if she’s trying to make the outside world disappear.
I rush down the aisle toward Blue, Gary, and Mom. The makeshift weapon is between Blue’s legs and I crouch, picking it up. The metal is warm to the touch. Mom is still whaling on Gary, her fists flying, her form horrific. The woman is likely to break her own thumbs with these moves. “Back off,” I tell her.
Gary is lying still, his free hand covering his face, blocking what blows he can, while the other remains clamped in Blue’s mouth. Mom doesn’t listen, probably can’t hear me.
I carefully reach out, over Blue, and touch her shoulder. She spins, and lashes out at me, misses, and tips herself over, falling back onto her butt. “It’s okay,” I say. “Daisy is safe. I’ll take care of Gary.”
She blinks at me and then her gaze travels past Gary down the aisle to where Daisy is poking her head out. Mom’s face reflects both pain and relief. Tears run down her cheeks as she stands. The other passengers shift so she can make her way around our little clump of bodies. I focus on Gary who lies at my feet.
“If I call my dog off will you remain calm?” I ask. All-American appears at the other end of my aisle, gun trained on Gary. “Watch it,” I say to him. “Your aim is too close to my dog.”
All-American’s eyes dart up to me and seem to say so? To which I respond,. “Get your fucking gun off my dog.” His eyes widen but he lowers his weapon so that it’s pointed at the floor. “Thank you,” I say to All-American before dropping my attention back to Gary. “So, what do you say? Want to get some zip ties on those wrists and enjoy the rest of the flight in police custody? Or do you want to stay on the ground with Blue’s teeth in your wrist?”
All-American’s lips seem to tilt into something like a subtle smile. No teeth or humor, but maybe a wee bit of amusement. “Call the dog off,” Gary says.
“I’m assuming you have some zip ties?” I ask All American.
He moves a hand from the gun and reaches into his back pocket, pulling one out. “How do you want to do this?” I ask him.
His jaw tightens before he answers. “Call the dog off and get him on his knees, arms behind his back.”
“You hear that, Gary?” I ask.
“Yes.” His voice is choked. I hope he doesn’t start crying.
“Blue, release.” Blue backs off, moving to my side, his mouth stained with blood. That takes forever to get out of his white fur.
Gary moves slowly, like he’s aged a hundred years since he and his buddy started this harebrained terrorist attack. “On your knees,” All-American barks. Wonder if he practices that in the mirror.
Gary’s eyes fall on the aluminum weapon I’m still holding. The thing looks homemade, and an image of Gary working on it in some shitty apartment in LA floods my imagination. So sad.
Gary then does something so stupid, so just fucking stupid. He launches himself at me, powering up from a crouch, his hands out. My instincts take over and I fall back into a fighting stance, swinging the weapon up and slashing his chest. Blood spatters, arching across my new sweatshirt. Dammit.
Gary doesn’t slow down—he’s in the place where adrenaline and desperation keep pain from registering. His hands reach for my throat, grabbing me hard enough to leave a bruise. I drive the weapon into his side.
Gary doesn’t seem to notice. Blue bites onto his pant leg and shakes hard enough that Gary loses his balance, falling forward onto me, his fingers releasing from my neck. I shuffle back, still steady on my feet, but Gary wraps his arms around my waist, the same way Daisy did moments ago. Blue gets behind him and yanks, pulling down his pants but not dislodging Gary.
The man has lost his ever-loving fucking mind.
The weapon is still stuck in his side, Blue has his pants, and Gary hugs me like I’m his mother. I am not.
Blue drops the pants and looks at me, wanting a command. “Let go,” I say to Gary. If I pull the weapon, blood will gush everywhere and he might die. Probably not, but he could. I’m already going to have a lot of questions to answer when we land…killing Gary will not help me.
I reach around to my back and grab one of Gary’s thumbs, twisting it, forcing him to release. Gary yanks both hands back and I step away, creating a little distance between us. He starts to rise from his knees, using the armrests of the seats on either side. The weapon still protruding from his side makes the movement awkward and I see him wince with pain.
“Stay down,” I advise him, my gaze flicking to All-American behind Gary, who still has his gun aimed at the floor. Smart man. Blue is in between the gun and Gary. If All-American shot my dog there would be consequences.
“Come on,” I say slowly. “Get back on your knees.” He doesn’t listen, just keeps rising up. Ah, fuck it. I kick out with my front foot, driving my heel into his chin. Gary’s head whips back and his body follows. He lands on the floor with a solid thud, unconscious.
Blue barks his excitement and looks at me with adoring eyes, then leaps over the fallen terrorist. He taps his nose to my hip before maneuvering to stand on my left. Ready. All-American comes forward, his gun aimed at Gary. “Want help with that zip tie?” I ask.
All-American’s eyes flick up to mine and there are a lot of questions in them.
Someone starts to clap. And quickly the rest of the cabin joins in. Suddenly there are whoops and cheers. I scan the cabin; people are nodding at me, others are holding up phones, recording.
This is not going to end well…
CHAPTER NINE
I overhear All-American telling Angel his name is Peter Drunfeld. But in my head I’m calling him Air Marshal Petey because it makes me smile and after that shit show I need a little humor.
Crutch Man and Gary spend the rest of the flight, which is only about thirty minutes, with Petey guarding them while Blue and I sit in our pod. Red comes over as our descent begins, her hair put back into place but her smile unsure. “Thank you,” she says.
“You’re welcome,” I answer. Her gaze falls onto Blue. “You can pet him if you want,” I say. “He’s not actually dangerous unless you’re attacking someone.” I smile, trying to make that into a joke but she doesn’t get it. Or at least doesn’t find it amusing. When her hand touches the top of Blue’s head her lips turn up into a smile, though, genuine and kind. She’ll be fine.
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