Cost of Life (9 page)

Larry heard screaming and it sounded like a New Year's party.

Wait. Was
he
screaming?

No. The sound seemed to be coming from the main cabin. The passengers must have been having a party.

Good for them. They were on their way to one of Mexico's most festive ports. Why wait for touchdown to break open the party hats? Nobody ever regretted a premature celebration.

Tonight he and Marie were taking Sean to his first Fourth of July celebration. Larry just had to make sure to be home in time. He didn't want to miss the fireworks reflected in his son's wide, happy eyes.

“So much mess,” sighed an old and familiar voice in the distance. “Blood-bags with legs. And some bags really beg to be popped open. Don't you agree, Captain Walder?”

This shook Larry from his fugue. His vision clarified onto the gore-capped remains of Reese Rankin, which were crumpled at the cockpit doorway like a hill of strawberry jam.

The death of the police officer had sent Larry to vomit; this death, the death of a man he knew, the death of a co-worker, left him feeling utterly scooped out and as cold as the corpse on the floor. Bislan casually stepped over the body, waited until two of his associates removed it, and then shut the cockpit door so that he, his gun, and his blanch-eyed pilot could finally have some alone time.

“Captain Walder, you look pale—well, not pale exactly, of course, given your African ancestry—but you appear, if you don't mind my noting it, quite troubled. I understand. These are troubling times. The violence of this cruel universe leaves us touched in the end. We think we're safe from it, but who amongst us is safe? Certainly not safe from death. No one. We're children and then we realize we're mortal and we become adults and then we die. It's enough to make one envy the comatose.”

Larry matched Bislan's stare for the first time since their first meeting and replied softly with four words:

“What—do—you—want?”

“I want what you want. I want what everyone wants. I want a fair playing field. A little equilibrium. I may be the world's last idealist. But as to what I immediately want, well, it's for you to receive the congratulations you richly deserve!” Bislan held out his mangled left hand. “That was a hell of a smooth landing.”

Larry did not shake Bislan's outstretched hunk of gnarled bone-flesh. He didn't even acknowledge it. He was too occupied searching Bislan's chalk-blue irises for signs of a soul. Because how could a man do what this man had just done and have a soul?

With a heavy sigh, Bislan took back his gesture of friendship. His face became the face of a chagrined cat. Herod must have worn that face once upon a time.

“I don't blame you, Captain Walder. Not too long ago, I was where you are, caught up in someone else's machine. When you're in hell, all promises of heaven start to sound hollow. It is in this spirit that I'd like you to please hand over the key to the other weapons locker, the one not yet open. It appears to be underneath your seat. And be careful, Captain Walder. In times of crisis, foolhardy shenanigans can land a man in an unfortunate circumstance. Just ask First Officer Rankin.”

Larry hesitated, and in that moment smelled something coppery and rank. Was there a leak? What could be giving off such a…

Oh.

The reek was emanating from the gray-red splatter on the floor.

Christ.

Reese's death, like the death of the traffic cop, was on him. Anything dreadful or dire that happened today to anyone on this plane was on him. When Bislan first asked him to do this, to fly here, he should have said no. It was so obvious. And now two lives were lost and for what? For two lives saved?

If Marie and Sean were even safe. It wasn't as if he had been provided with proof of his family's well-being. All he had was the word of this man, this murderer, and that was supposed to be enough? And even if it was enough, even if they were somehow still alive, now that Larry had fulfilled his duty, all incentive toward keeping them alive was gone.

For that matter, all incentive toward keeping
him
alive was gone too, and yet why weren't
his
bodily fluids splashed across the flight deck? Why was this man continuing to attempt to establish, of all things, a friendly rapport?

Was this sadism?

Or was it something else entirely…?

Only one way to find out.

“I bet you're glad Reese didn't call your bluff,” he said.

Bislan frowned. “Hmm?”

“Option B. Shooting through the cockpit glass. You weren't actually going to risk damaging the airplane. Because then you wouldn't be able to take off again.”

“Captain Walder—”

“If it's all the same, I think I'd like to speak with my wife and son.” He rose to his feet and stood eye-to-eye across from the man with the gun. Time for Larry to be unflappable—or at least fake it. Time to go all-in. “Now.”

“Captain Walder, you seem to be under the misconception that we are negotiating…”

“We're not negotiating at all. I've made a request. I'm waiting for you to honor it.”

“Please tell me, Captain Walder, that you're not staking your life on a strongbox key.”

“Oh right. The key. Here.”

He reached into his pocket, withdrew the key, and tossed it with as much nonchalance as he could muster. Because Bislan's good hand was occupied with the gun, though, the old man had to rely on his bad hand to catch the key, which he managed to do—but he couldn't close his twisted fingers in time to keep the small piece of metal from bouncing off his palm and clattering to the floor. In those few moments that Bislan bent down to pick it up, Larry could have probably rushed the old man, tackled him, seized the gun, et cetera—but to what end? No, if Reese Rankin's sacrifice had been for anything, it was to underline the futility of cowboy diplomacy, at least right now. Aggression had its place, but it was not the only tactic one could play at the card table.

“Sorry,” said Larry. “I didn't mean for that to happen…”

The look in the old man's eyes—one part humiliation and one part fury—could have seared through steel.

Larry swallowed deep and persevered:

“It's just…whatever it is you're here to do, you're going to need to escape and the way I see it…you're going to need a pilot to do it…and I'm guessing you never took flying lessons…”

Bislan pulled himself to his feet, squared back his small shoulders, and gently smiled—although the temperature of his blue-hot glare did not diminish one degree. “Are you offering up your services, Captain Walder?”

“Let me see my wife and son. And then…it's like you said…everything is negotiable.” Which was clearly bullshit—Larry had no intention of helping this bastard do so much as cough—but a wise man played the cards in hand and worried about the next hand later. The trick therefore was simply to make sure there was a later.

Bislan stepped aside and waved toward the door.

Larry didn't move. Had he failed?

“Captain Walder, what are you waiting for?”

Waiting for? What the hell was that supposed to mean? In what way was this a viable response to his request? Christ, had he miscalculated?

Then Bislan added:

“Do you want to see your wife and son or not?”

“You know I do.”

“Then go. See them. Speak with them.”

“How?”

“Oh, Captain Walder, haven't you figured this part out yet? They're on the plane. They've been on the plane all along. Row Fifteen, to be exact. Bye now.”

Around the same time that Bislan shot Reese Rankin in the face, the thug spat in Xana's, and a full wet wad too, all bubbles and slime. The glob of spittle splashed against her left cheek and drooled its way down her smooth tan jawline.

To be fair, she
had
instigated him.

A heartbeat after zeroing in on his barcode tattoo, Xana had preened toward the prisoner, set her hands on the table, and given him a dismissive once-over. Then she rattled off in bona fide Chechen:

“So this is the little bitch who thinks he's a bear.”

Thus the aquatic mouth-bullet.

Still, as irritated as he was, his rage was but a raindrop compared with the Biblical Flood roaring now inside Lieutenant Dundee. He had imparted to this woman, this guest, whose presence he had neither requested nor accepted, a series of specific instructions, and as if she were once again behind the wheel of a car, she'd disregarded authority and plowed straight into catastrophe. He wanted to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze until her pretty little head popped off. Surely this qualified as justifiable homicide…

But then he felt Officer Chiles clandestinely tug on the back of his sports jacket. He didn't have to ask Chiles what she meant. He knew. Damn it, he knew.

After this man before them, this cop-killer, had in broken English confessed his crime and led them to the Audi and the murder weapon, he'd clammed up, not even muttering the god-awful phrase
I want a lawyer.
There was that spattering of phrases he'd spewed once they'd bound him with zip-ties to the chair, but neither he nor Chiles spoke whatever language
that
was—and this woman, this guest, this impudent and reckless hag did speak it.

And so Lieutenant Dundee did nothing. For the sake of a fallen policewoman, he'd give Xana Marx five minutes to gab some vital truth out of the prisoner. That said, he was in no way entitled to tell her that she had only five minutes. If her time ran out, well, no one could say he didn't cooperate.

He checked his wristwatch.

Four minutes and fifty seconds.

Xana ran an index finger across the thug's tattoo. “Where did you get this? Eh? Some shit-stained parlor in the back of a Grozny whorehouse?”

“You know nothing,” he growled.

She wiped his germs from her skin and sat down across from him at the metal desk and leaned her head on the lectern of her palms. Frankly, she appeared bored.

The thug glanced at the detectives and then back at her. So they'd deduced he was Chechen. He had peasant features, although it had been years since anyone had teased him about them, not since his growth spurt, not since he took Durgali Chechenets out back behind the school and beat him repeatedly in the testicles with a cone-shaped rock. After that, everybody knew to leave Giant Nezh alone. Giant Nezh was crazy.

And of course these Americans would choose a lady to go at him. Once they had identified his native tongue, they had probably pegged him as some kind of misogynistic Neanderthal, buying into Russian propaganda. Well, he wasn't about to be their stereotype. He exhaled through his nose until the tendons in his neck and shoulders loosened.

Xana replied by yawning.

“Am I boring you?” he asked.

“Hm? Oh. No. I mean, yes, but it's not your fault. It's my fault. I saw that ink on your neck and for a second I actually believed it was authentic, but that would have to mean you were an inmate at The Oprichnina, and you…well…you wouldn't have lasted an hour there. I mean, don't get me wrong—that is a real tattoo on your neck.
You're
the fake.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What do you know about The Oprichnina?”

“Probably more than you—that's for sure.”

“That is unlikely. The Oprichnina is not a place for women.”

“Tell me then. Frighten me with the story of what a badass macho criminal you are that the Russians had to lock you up there.”

“Gladly. And then I will tell you where I was born, what my favorite flavor of ice cream is, and also reveal the identities and intentions of my comrades aboard the airplane.”

He showed her his teeth.

She couldn't tell if he was happy or hungry.

She leaned forward.

“Do you want to know why I called you a ‘little bitch'?” she asked. “It's not because of your tattoo. You needed to use a thirteen-ounce handgun to shoot a police officer in broad daylight. You know who needs to use a fifty-caliber handgun? Someone with a fifteen-caliber cock. And even that's not why I called you a little bitch. No. The reason I called you a little bitch is because you were someone's pet dog and you misbehaved. You had one errand to run. Bring the pilot to the airport. There is no amount of calculus that factors in the death of the police officer in whatever nonsense your comrades have planned aboard that airplane. I'll bet you're even supposed to be there now, little bitch, but your master punished you for misbehaving and now you're stuck here with me.”

“I will not be goaded.” His rictus grin remained firm. “I am only chatting with you right now because I choose to be chatting with you right now. There is no information you have that I don't want you to have. You should also know that the gentleman behind you has been checking his wristwatch every twenty seconds or so ever since you came in, but he hasn't checked it in over a minute now. I think the moment I stop chatting with you, he is going to tell you that your time is up. Let's find out.”

He shut his mouth and leaned back in his metal chair.

Xana didn't bother glancing back. “I don't think you understand just how bad your situation is about to become. You killed one of their own. They are going to crucify you. I'm the last friendly face you're going to see for the rest of your life. Now, I might be able to get you transferred to a federal facility, but I'll need your cooperation in order to make that happen.”

He didn't budge. He didn't even blink.

“The petulant child routine? Really? I'd have expected better from someone who claims to be a hard-core ex-con from The Oprichnina. From what I hear, they make you stand in your cell bent over and staring at the floor. I hear they make you sleep like that. Well, if you think that's the epitome of suffering, you've obviously not been paying attention to the world news. We've gotten very, very good at torture, but you don't have to learn that firsthand if you give us something to go on about your comrades in the plane.”

Nope. Nothing.

“Don't make this mistake. It's not worth it. Whatever you think you owe to your friends, the fact of the matter is they left you here. They—left—you. But hey, if you want to just sit here and take it, let them throw you away like a piece of garbage, that's your choice. It's not the choice I would make, but I guess I'm more of a man than you are.”

But he refused to be goaded. He crossed his arms and remained tight-lipped and suddenly Xana had a hand on her shoulder and she knew it belonged to Lieutenant Dundee and that she had failed.

She had failed.

Without a word, Lieutenant Dundee escorted her from the interview room. As the door shut behind her, Giant Nezh finally spoke, shouting out to her:

“Good-bye, little bitch!”