Oh no!
Through the gaping holes he saw patches of blue from a daytime sky. What he thought would be the shelter of darkness was not. He had simply misjudged his timing by relying on his barometric sense, thinking that low humidity meant night. It was simply a cool day.
Basilio kept his head on a swivel, moving from one shadow to the next, often seeking the cover of dead machinery.
From above the birds alit quietly on the overhead beams, watching. Everyone once in a while one would lift its wing and preen itself. But they mostly studied Basilio without sentiment.
And then it occurred to him: The plant was too quiet. One would think that in an area so large voices would surely carry or footfalls would echo.
But there was nothing.
Suddenly the birds took flight and landed on a neighboring beam, as if to acquire a better view. The unexpected noise of their wings flapping caused Basilio to start.
Immediately he looked up, looked at the birds, and then felt the cold muzzle of an assault weapon pressing against the base of his skull.
“Stand up,” the voice said. It was deep and menacing. “Or I will kill you right where you kneel. It’s your choice, kid.”
Basilio no longer hunkered behind the colossal machinery, but slowly got to his feet raising his hands in submission. He had failed his family, his father. Now he had failed himself.
“Turn around.”
Basilio did so, slowly, his eyes on the verge of tears as his mind raced with the terrible thought of his life coming to an end.
The man holding the weapon was large and extremely muscular; his shirt threatening to split at the seams. His features were monkey-like with a broad, flat nose, and a brow that sloped in a simian sort of way. “Yeah, well, nice try, kid.” Al-Rashad then struck Basilio hard across the face and split his lip, the blow driving Basilio to the floor. Then in a quick and fluid motion, al-Rashad reached down and ripped the shirt right off of the boy’s back.
She had been ringing her hands since Basilio left and paced the room like a caged feline. If she had the athleticism, grace or agility, she would have climbed after him and brought him back down.
Even if Basilio was trying to find himself, she would not have allowed him to take such a risk.
The lock in the door began to click, the noise reverberating throughout the room as the bolt began to retract.
A large man with incredibly broad shoulders and massive arms had to duck to enter the room. In his hands was a bloodied shirt; Basilio’s shirt.
Saying nothing, the man tossed the shirt in her face and left the room, the lock moving back into position after the door closed.
She could smell the scent of her son on the shirt; feel the wetness of fresh blood.
And in agony that was all consuming, Vittoria Pastore cried out in a horrible wail that echoed throughout the entire plant.
Kimball hardly determined the matter to be that of divine intervention. He simply chalked it up to one man’s panic.
In one of the forwarding rows, a bishop from the Holy See began to cry nonsensically, his words a rambling series of pleas to God as he tried to leave his seat with a disturbing preoccupation to his eyes, not realizing what he was doing. Other bishops reached up and tried to force him back down. But the bishop’s ramblings became more intense, more agitated, which brought the ire of the Muslim Revolutionary Front, who raised their weapons and ordered the man to take a seat or take a bullet.
When the bishop did not obey the screams of the terrorists heightened, as if their sharp inflections would have more affect. They did not. The bishop moved along the seats mumbling, his eyes totally detached from reality, his lips crying out ‘why’ and ‘how’ this could be happening. Why was such a pious man as he being punished? Did he not live by the Lord’s doctrines?
Immediately, the Muslim Revolutionary Front gathered around the bishop, including the one guarding Kimball, with their Glocks directed on the panicked man. With intensity they cried out in Arabic, their orders going unheeded as alarm began to set. The bishop tried to scale his seat in order to get to the rear of Shepherd One, away from the terrorists and their guns, away from reality and toward a false sense of salvation.
With one leg looped over the back of the seat, the bishop managed to fall over into the subsequent row, and then scrambled for the next seat to mount. The man was getting closer to the plane’s rear the hard way. The moment he raised his head he was bludgeoned, his world going dark, his lips silenced, the bishop rendered unconscious with a blow from the barrel of a Glock.
After the bishop was secured, the guard who had been watching over Kimball returned to his seat at the rear of the plane. However, when he got there Kimball was gone. The only things left in his place were a tie left on the seat, and a bloodied tie still attached to the armrest.
After Kimball Hayden freed himself from his binds, he immediately went aft to the kitchen area. To his right, next the door of the wine vault was the elevator. Although narrow for the wide breadth of his shoulders, Kimball managed to fit inside and pushed the button to the lower level of L-1, trying to form an agenda in his mind.
For his entire life he had always been in control, always knew which direction he wanted to go in. But there was no military text, outline, or step-by-step directions describing how to take out a group of terrorists on a plane leveled at thirty-three thousand feet.
At L-1 he found himself in a well-stocked pantry, and then locked the elevator in place. At the small stainless steel sink he ran his injured wrist under tepid water, the blood diluting to a pinkish fluid as it spiraled down the drain. Flexing his fingers and massaging his wrist, he could feel the warmth returning, the effects of pins-and-needles subsiding. Soon he would have full mobility of his hand.
After shutting off the water, he placed his hands on the sink and leaned forward with his eyes closed, his mind trying to find a way to neutralize the situation. There was no doubt they would come looking for him. And no doubt he would be ready. He had counted six able men who were armed. He on the other hand had nothing but his combat skills, which would take him far. But in the end he would be no match against a hollow point, if one should find its mark.
Leaving the pantry area, Kimball found himself standing before a flimsy door that led to the baggage area. It was locked. So with a powerful forward thrust of his left hand, he struck the door and broke the latch, causing the door to hang drunkenly from a single hinge.
Inside the cargo bay marginal light filtered in through the porthole windows, illuminating the baggage area which seemed impossibly long, given that he was standing in the jet’s aft area looking forward. Stepping into the hold, Kimball found himself with ample space. Reaching up, he could not touch the floor of the level above him. On both sides he had the wide expanse of the airplane. The problem was that it was too ample, too wide open, leaving little place to hide with the exception of a few tethered crates and strewn baggage. The entire level was simply too hollow and possessed few shadows to hide in. Perhaps on the lower level, he thought, perhaps on L-2, he could make a stand against his enemies.
He quickly made his way through the luggage hold and callously tossed aside some bags, searching for his own. On the bottom of the pile he found what he was looking for, a specifically modified piece of luggage with a molded interior to safely keep his hardware safe. Beneath his clothing, beneath the cleric shirts and Roman collars, was a false bottom that held his specially designed pair of black-bladed KA-BAR combat knives and Kydex sheaths.