When in doubt, antagonize and capitalize…
“Just for my own peace of mind, before we go any further… there’s still someone flying the plane, right?” I ask him.
His gun doesn’t move an inch. He smiles. “Yeah, the pilot’s fine,” he replies and then shrugs. “For now.”
He’s got an American accent, and my spider sense is telling me he’s not with Hussein… I wonder if he’s with our mystery four-star general?
“That’s a relief,” I continue, genuinely unfazed. “So, you gonna introduce yourself?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Oh… okay. Well, I’m Adrian Hell.”
“I know who you are.”
“Of course you do. Or do you simply think you do? I mean, no offense, but let’s be honest here — you’re still vertical and awake purely as a courtesy, because I want to know what’s going on. Should I deem it necessary, you’ll very quickly be laid out on the floor.”
He smiles at me again. “I know exactly who you are. But you seem to be missing the point. You don’t know who I am, or why I’m here. You’re also approaching your third year of retirement, am I right? You’re not a threat to me. And, no offense, but you’re only alive because my orders are to ensure you stay that way until we land. But make no mistake — you will behave, as my orders don’t specify whether you need to be conscious when we land, just breathing.”
“Nice speech.”
I stand in front of him a few moments longer before I turn my back and walk over to my seat. I want him to know I’m sitting down because I choose to, not because he ordered me to. I sit casually in the seat and stretch my legs out, crossing my ankles and resting my arms across my chest.
“So, where are we really going?” I ask.
He says nothing.
“Okay, how about telling me who you work for?”
Still, he remains silent.
“Well, the rest of this flight isn’t going to drag at all…”
I close my eyes and let my head relax. I doubt he’ll move from covering me. The pilot can’t do anything — he’s going to fly where told. I suspect any communication with people on the ground is out of the question as well. But, we’re on a plane in a pressurized cabin, so there’s no way he’s firing his gun at me, which means I can simply dismiss him as a threat until we land. The total lack of respect and credibility I’m affording him, as my apparent captor, will likely start to eat away at him before much longer. Then he’ll get all emotional and make a mistake. Then I’ll pull his arm off and beat his brains out with the wet end.
But until then, I might as well get some sleep.
I wake up, sitting in the same position as when I dozed off. I glance out the window and gather my senses, gently rubbing my eyes and coming round. My body clock says I’ve been out nearly three hours.
Across the aisle from me, slumped in the chair with his wrists and ankles bound together, is the co-pilot. He seems to be alive, but I’m guessing he’s taken at least one other blow to the head since I last saw him, because I doubt he’d still be out after all this time from that initial blow to the head.
The cockpit door is closed again. I’m guessing our mystery guest is in there, probably pointing his gun at the pilot. I look down, and see my bag’s missing, which has my phone in it.
Great.
I stand up and stretch, bending down to look out the window properly. I don’t recognize anything that I can see, but we’re not over the ocean anymore. Down there is also closer to up here than the last time I looked, so I’m assuming we’re making our descent.
I sit back down just as the cockpit door opens, and the mystery man with the gun walks through.
“Get your beauty sleep?” he asks sardonically.
“I’m beautiful enough,” I reply. “I was just bored of talking to you.”
He smiles humorlessly, reaching behind him and producing his handgun again. He holds it loosely at his side.
“We’ll be landing soon. When we do, you’ll exit the plane and kneel down on the ground, crossing your ankles behind you and placing your hands behind your head, interlocking your fingers. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you. Is that clear?”
Hmmm… professional instructions — I get the impression he’s used to dealing with hostages… He seems very comfortable and confident giving out commands. I reckon he’s American military of some kind. I suspect he’s special ops, as this kind of thing is a bit too risqué for a standard grunt. He’s not the leader, but he’s high-ranking, and probably well respected by his peers. Very experienced. Not intimidated.
I’m starting to get the feeling I should be worried.
I nod silently, shifting in my seat to get comfortable. There’s bound to be a team waiting for me when we land. If we are looking at an off-the-books operation to apprehend me, the team will consist of four or five guys, who will take me to an undisclosed location to either meet with someone more important, or simply to torture and kill me.
The guy sits in the chair opposite me, regarding me impassively; his gun resting on his leg. Next to us, the co-pilot stirs, groaning quietly from what I guess is a pretty bad headache.
“So, you not gonna give me any clues as to who you are and what you want with me?” I ask, testing my luck.
“When we land,” he replies, matter-of-factly. “My job’s to get you there, not tell you why.”
“Get me where, exactly?”
He smiles but says nothing. The pilot’s voice interrupts our little exchange, sounding over the speaker system.
“We’ll be landing in a few minutes,” he announces. “Stay seated until we’re on the ground please.”
He sounds terrified — I hope he’s not too shaken up that he crashes…
He’s not, thankfully. A few minutes later, we land unscathed and taxi to a stop. I look out the window, seeing we’re on what appears to be an abandoned runway of some kind. It’s dark, but there are floodlights placed sparingly around the perimeter, bathing the area in a faint glow.
Like lightning, my captor is out of his seat, turning slightly and firing his gun, putting a bullet in the co-pilot’s head. His body lurches away from us, hitting the side of the cabin, and falling to the floor, leaving a crimson stain in its wake.
He then dashes into the cockpit, and I hear another bullet — the pilot clearly meeting the same end. Before I can move, he’s back in the cabin and aiming his gun at me.
“Move to the door,” he says. “Nice and slow.”
I do as he says, not having any real alternatives. He’s keeping his distance from me, anticipating an attempt from me to disarm and disable him.
“Now open it,” he instructs.
I spin the handle in the center of the door, unlocking the metal levers from the top and bottom, and push it open. It makes a hissing noise as the cabin depressurizes, the door swinging out and down automatically as steps unfold from it and rest on the ground.
I feel the barrel of his gun push against my lower back.
“Move,” he says.
I sigh heavily, clenching my fist momentarily in anger, and tensing my jaw muscles in frustration as I realize how helpless I am right now. But I descend the stairs nevertheless.
As I step onto the blacktop, I look around, trying to find some clue as to where I am, squinting into the distance. There’s a small building just ahead of me with an array of antennas on the roof. It looks abandoned — the wood and brick damaged and discolored; what looks like a result of years of neglect.