Cost of Life (18 page)

Hellhound-2, up in the trees with Hellhound-1, had the dual jobs of surveillance and time minding. Over the past five minutes, he dutifully bounced his attention from their tropical surroundings, which were hazy with mealybugs and whiteflies, to the digital numbers on his wristwatch as they flitted backward, backward, backward…

0:00.

“Go,” he whispered into his headset.

As there was no telling how dark the interior of the barn might be, Hellhound-8 and Hellhound-7 activated their night-vision goggles, rendering their tunnels a shiny sea green. The next part was easy: All they had to do was stand, and their hands and shoulders—not to mention the submachine guns held firmly in their hands—would poke up through the dirt and they would be inside the barn.

It all rather reminded Hellhound-7 of Groundhog Day. He had always been fond of Groundhog Day. Groundhog Day was his older sister's birthday, and ever since they had both become adults, he'd made sure, every year on February 2, to send her two gifts: one for sentiment—perhaps a bottle of perfume he knew she liked—and one for humor. The humorous gift, naturally, was themed around a groundhog. One year it was an ice cream cake shaped to resemble a groundhog. One year it was a copy of the film
Caddyshack.
And she would moan about his teasing but he knew she liked it. Sometimes finding the proper gag gift for his sister's birthday was the most taxing accomplishment of his year, and for a Delta Force operator, that was saying something. And so, yes, while most of his mind was trained on the task at hand, a small portion of his thoughts, the portion he compartmentalized during exercises like this, dwelled fondly on the many birthdays of his older sister. He had already picked out next year's gag gift. He had found it at a flea market in Manitoba: a handwoven red sweater with a chipper-grinned groundhog in brown-and-black yarn across its front.

This was the last image buzzing through Hellhound-7's brain when he crested over the dirt and some fucker inside the barn promptly shot him twice in the head. Fragments of his skull and brain were kicked to the soil by the bullets, perhaps the very same fragments that had been ruminating about the sweater. His killer, meanwhile, tugged his limp body out of the hole and laid it down on the hot flat dirt.

Hellhound-8 fared slightly better—but only by happenstance. As he was about to stand, his night-vision goggles malfunctioned, the right side flickering for a few beats before solidifying into clear monochrome. Those few beats afforded him the opportunity to hear the two gunshots that felled his fellow reconnoiterer, and so instead of fully emerging from the tunnel and receiving the same double-tap treatment to his brainpan, Hellhound-8 remained crouched, waited another beat, and then sprayed up through the dirt a dozen 9mm rounds from his MP5.

Presumably a twelve-round spray of iron would scare off his personal topside assassin. Either way, for the sake of the hostages, the mission had to carry on. 8 brushed the fallen soil from his goggles and surfaced into the barn.

He leveled his back with the dirt floor and swept his weapon forward. Because all of the passengers' windows had been shaded and the main door had been shut, the only ambient light inside the barn came from the airplane cockpit. 8's night-vision goggles remained a godsend—providing they didn't malfunction again. He spied a middle-aged Middle Eastern man in a T-shirt and jeans sprawled thirty inches to his left. The man was gasping wetly. His chest was a rainbow of bullet holes. 8 quickly added another to the man's right temple but remained on guard. The fucker who had capped 7 was still out here somewhere.

What little cover existed here existed either behind one of the airplane's forty-inch wheels or on top of one of its wings—which would have been especially unfortunate as 8 was underneath one of the wings, specifically starboard. He rolled onto his stomach and pawed at the trigger of his MP5.

Thanks to a tiny camera attached to his night-vision goggles, the boys outside knew exactly what was going down in here. While they weighed their options, Hellhound-8 weighed his own.

The facts were these:

Hellhound-1 must have come to the same conclusion, because Hellhound-8 heard in his earpiece the team leader deliver the order:

“Abort.”

So be it.

8 readied himself for a quick scurry back into the tunnel—but then caught another glimpse of his comrade-in-arms lying out in the open on the other side of the barn. He and his team would retrieve the corpse, no question about it, and rain hellfire on those who dared take the life of an American soldier, but for 8 to attempt to retrieve the body now would have been suicide. On the other hand, in the meantime, if he snatched the corpse of the motherfucker he'd killed, maybe that would provide the terrorists with enough incentive to break cover and come after him. As soon as they emerged from the barn, they would be annihilated, and the mission could proceed.

“Package arriving from the north,” he muttered into his mike. For 8 to maintain optimal sight lines inside the barn, he needed to shove the corpse into the hole first and then follow it down. He grabbed the body by an arm and tugged the deadweight toward the tunnel.

A bullet zapped 8 in the left shoulder. His clavicle shattered into a dozen puzzle pieces. Only then did he see the asshole by the airplane wheel. 8 fired back a short burst of rounds but his aim was way off, although he did manage to poke a few holes in the wall of the barn.

The corpse was less than a foot from the hole. One good shove and it would slide in, headfirst. If his message had been received, someone was already in the tunnel to take the body.

Another bullet splattered dirt an inch away from 8's right boot. He was quickly regretting having implemented this plan. One saving grace of it all was the white earpiece he spotted in the corpse's right ear. No wonder the terrorists were so eager to stop 8 from snatching the body. They wouldn't be able to communicate as effectively if that transmitter fell into enemy hands.

The corpse's head leaned into the tunnel. This action caused its mouth to open wide. 8 shifted a hand under the body's right arm to achieve leverage and as he succeeded, a pellet of hot lead punched him in the sternum and knocked the wind clean out of his lungs. His Kevlar vest kept the bullet from actually entering his lungs, but it sure didn't protect him against its brute force.

8 tasted blood.

He must've bitten his tongue.

He tried to sit up but couldn't.

He couldn't see or hear his opponent but that didn't matter. Only the mission mattered.

If he couldn't sit up, if he couldn't use his arms to push the body into the hole, then goddamn it, he'd use his legs. He lifted his left boot and brought it down between the corpse's thighs and with a modicum of satisfaction kicked his foot back into the body's groin as hard as he could.

The body slid into the hole.

8 flashed a bloody grin.

The grin remained on his lips even after the next bullet took his life.

As soon as they heard the first gunshots, the passengers crouched down in their seats and covered their heads. Those in window seats leaned away from the windows. And of course came the screaming. Even after everything they had been through so far today, they still had enough shock left inside to scream.

Of course, not everyone screamed in terror. One gentleman near the back of the plane cried out: “Place your seats in their upright positions, 'cause the cavalry's arrived!”

And not everyone flinched or crouched. Two passengers who didn't move at all were Sean and Marie Walder, although every now and then the muscles of their eyelids fluttered. Larry sat beside his son and held his hand. The boy's flesh was wet like mud.

Bislan had been interviewing a bruise-eyed sorority girl when the gunshots began. He simply turned the camera on himself and cheerily informed the viewing audience: “Stay tuned! We'll be right back.”

He turned off the camera, waited for a break in the gunfire, and then took to the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he calmly said, “I would like to take this opportunity to remind you for your own safety to keep the blinds for your windows down. This interruption should be over momentarily.”

That said, Bislan disappeared behind the business-class divider. Another burst of gunfire erupted outside, and this time a few of the passengers cheered. The cavalry
had
arrived, and none too soon. Still, none of the terrorists appeared especially perturbed by this most recent development. Marie and Sean's burly handlers weren't fidgeting. Murad and Edil were maintaining their posts without batting an eye.

And then: one more gunshot.

And then: soft weeping.

What did it mean? Hypotheses spread like plague. Kip and Kenneth Wood reached for their window shade, but their older brother Davey managed to slap them away before they could succeed in raising it. Other passengers had returned to their cell phones. Larry couldn't help but wonder how much juice those gadgets had left in them before their batteries ran dry. His own phone was still in Bislan's possession.

Speaking of Bislan, here he came, back from business class, back from dealing with the crisis outside, ever-placid, ever-cheerful.

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

The murmuring quieted.

“I apologize for any inconvenience this interruption in our proceedings may have caused. Let me assure you that although the video accompaniment has been temporarily halted, the website itself has remained active and the world has been showing its love to you in the form of charitable contributions. Wouldn't it be wonderful if the sizes of our wallets were proportional to the sizes to the hearts?”

Larry had never wanted to punch anyone in the face so fiercely as he did in that moment.

“As you may have deduced,” continued Bislan, “an attempt was made just now to end our time together. Such an attempt was inevitable, as was its likelihood of failure. That said, this is a Newtonian universe and so a rude and violent action demands a reaction equally rude and violent.”

On cue, Murad and Edil ratcheted their weapons.

“I don't like it any more than you,” Bislan added, “but the physics can't be denied.”

He pointed to Row 12, Seat E, and Edil marched forward and yanked the woman with the bottle-black curls to her feet.

“What's your name, love?” asked Bislan.

“Lucy Snow,” she replied.

Her voice carried with it a sonorous determination. She was not about to be cowed by this man, not Lucy Snow, chief purser, senior flight attendant, once stranded at a nightmarish hovel in Cancún; Lucy Snow, all of thirty-two years old and about to receive rude and violent action.

“Please know, Lucy, that what is about to happen is not personal. It comes not out of anger or hatred but merely—”

“That's bullshit,” she spat in his face, “and you know it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The cabin went silent.

“You're so polite. Why don't you politely tell everyone there are names missing from the website?”

Bislan's calm grin twitched at its edges.

“You think we wouldn't notice? Huh? Well, I'll give you a hint. There's five of us and we're all wearing the same uniform. But now it's a coincidence that you happened to choose me for your little physics experiment or whatever.”

Larry gripped the back cushion of the seat in front of him. Part of him was begging her to shut up—but part of him was begging her to shame this psychopathic freak—and part of him wanted to help her do it.

Lucy turned toward the passengers and declared: “Don't you get it? They need expendables! They need people they can scapegoat or sacrifice or downsize or whatever the hell they want to call it and the five of us happen to be convenient.”

She matched gazes with Maryann and Deja nearby and then with Addison and Francisco sitting near the back and then to the passengers at large.

“You need to stop encouraging them! Why are you talking to his camera? Why are—”

Edil set the barrel of his weapon against the side of Lucy's bottle-black curls.

Lucy sighed.

Shut her eyes.

And Larry stepped into the aisle.

“Stop,” he said.

Bislan set his hands on his hips. “Captain Walder, this is hard enough as is. Now if you could return to your seat—”

“No.” Larry walked forward. His mind was blank but for one thought. “Tell your man to put the damn gun down.”

“Forgive me, Captain, but it's usually the man with the gun who gets to decide when to put the gun down.”

Each step brought Larry slowly closer, closer, closer. His heart bounced against his rib cage. He didn't care. He was not going to let this parasite take another person away from him.

“Captain Walder—”

“Just stop. You can't threaten me. You still need me. And that means you need her.”

“Is that so?”

“That depends,” said Larry, now within an arm's length of them all, “on whether or not you want to be able to take off again. Do you know how to conduct a thorough safety inspection? Not for nothing, buddy, but you landed us in an orange grove. All it takes is a little defect and you're suddenly stalling at five thousand feet. How many trees do you think our wings smacked into? Twenty? Thirty? And you better pray your friends outside with the guns didn't poke any holes into the fuselage. Not to mention—”

“Enough.” Bislan took a step forward, closing the distance between himself and Larry. “You have made your point.”

He mumbled a few words in Chechen to Edil, who lowered his barrel and returned to his post.

Lucy Snow squeezed Larry's shoulder in gratitude and then returned to her seat. Larry was about to do the same when Bislan leaned in to his ear and whispered:

“You could have asked for me to release the hostages.”

Larry felt the color drain from his face. “Would you have?”

Bislan replied with a shrug and a smirk.

“I…I can still ask for it. Nothing's changed. You still need us. You especially need me.”

“I needed an everyday American pilot to bring us here—and for that I am grateful. But to take us to our next destination, all I require is someone who knows how to fly a plane. Do you see my friend standing guard by the lavatory?”

Larry glanced back at Murad.

“Aside from ably standing guard, my friend also is here because he is a graduate of a very respectable flight school. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Yes.

Larry understood.

He was as expendable as anyone else on that plane.