Yield (16 page)

He swallows hard.

Devin forces his eyes away, glancing back up to the morning
’
s news on the television set. Masked Middle Eastern gunmen wave machine guns brightly back from the corner-mounted LCD screen above him. The flickering video strobes throughout the cafe, momentarily pushing back shadows before giving ground again.

“
Several I.E.D. attacks in the Middle East early this morning killed 11 Americans,
”
a news anchor says calmly. The imagery of ash and charred remains is anything but.
“
The violence against U.S. citizens and military personnel continues to mount in the region amid new instability concerns.
”

More masked Arabs fire into the air over a downed helicopter. They dissolve into burnt husks that once were tanks along the road. The U.S. flag decal on one of the doors is blistered and peeling.

“
Six soldiers died when their Blackhawk helicopter was shot down Sunday morning,
”
a British reporter with a flak jacket and helmet barks into his mic just in front of what used to be a chopper.
“
Their bodies were later found mutilated. The attack came on the heels of a call for peace by leaders of several Islamic groups.
”

Video from a destroyed mosque fades to pictures of bodies inside an Arab hospital. Their beds create long rows of pain down the dirty hallways.

Armed riots soon erupt on screen. American troops fire into the air above the clustering people as the reporter
’
s voiceover continues.
“
Sectarian violence had de-stabilized much of the region, but renewed calls for the U.S.
’
s complete departure have seemed to encourage more unified violence against
both
civilian and military targets. Estimates for total troop withdrawal have been pushed back several years.
”

Clouds of tear gas hide thousands of protesters teeming along Middle Eastern streets. Several shadows emerge quickly from the billowing gas. They cover their mouths with bandannas, throwing fire bombs back into the troops.

Devin shakes his head.
Such hate,
he thinks. Flames shoot through the clustered bodies.
How the hell did we let it get to this?

Mankind
’
s cycle of violence spreads into the ranks, its retribution feeding. Consuming. It attacks bodies and minds with an equal passion.

Flickering colors from an explosion catch Chris
’
s deep brown eyes. His fingers pause. Just above his name on the computer screen, the essay title reads: GLOBAL THREAT.

The paging system sounds loudly above them. Its cold female voice sounds almost robotic, trying to impose order on the morning
’
s frenzy.
“
Flight 661 to Seattle now boarding passengers in groups one and two.
”

*  *  *

Passengers board the slender Embraer E75 aircraft through an oval door behind the cockpit. Some lift luggage into compartments too small to fit much more than a backpack or handbag. Others push past in search of cramped seats and strange company for the next hour.

Devin looks familiarly over at Chris and Darius as he walks toward 12A, four rows behind.

“
No damn leg room,
”
Darius mutters.
“
These planes are made for midgets! Knees all up in my chest. I mean, come on!
”

“
Sometimes, D, you
’
re worse than a woman,
”
Chris grumbles back.
“
You give me all the bitchin
’
, but none of the benefits.
”

Darius squints suggestively.
“
Didn
’
t know you swung that way, big boy. Give me some sugar.
”
The tattooed hoops star leans over and throws his arms around
Chris
.

“
You best back off me, D,
”
Chris growls. He pushes Darius off and glances around. Color rises to his cheeks.
“
And don
’
t let me catch you grabbin
’
my leg again,
”
he says in a lowered voice.
“
Or we
’
ll have some words.
”

“
Hey, man,
”
Darius says. He puts his hands up innocently.
“
That turbulence don
’
t mess around. You know I get claustrophobic in these things.
”

“
Claustrophobic,
”
Chris scoffs.
“
Gonna turn me homophobic if you grab my leg again.
”

*  *  *

Devin looks out his window from just in front of the left wing. Rain streaks down. It blurs the rhythmic motions of the ground crew as they make their final checks. Lights pulsing from the wings and equipment burn a fiery orange, bathing the side of Devin
’
s face in flame.

His thick shoulders and fireman
’
s build spill over into the next seat. Devin tries to scoot closer to the glass as a 300+ pound, balding man in a dark gray business suit squeezes down next to him.
Jesus, friend. Have a little respect for the rest of us.
His own seat rocks as the obese man works his body between the slender arm rails.

Devin smiles and forces a welcoming nod. A small part of him is glad to have some company. At least that may quiet his racing mind. But the round businessman doesn
’
t even acknowledge him. He immediately pulls out his PDA and seeks the comfort of emails instead.

Two rows behind Devin, a young mother holds her 9-month-old baby against her shoulder. She gently pats her child
’
s back. The baby
’
s attention is captured by a bearded face sitting next to them.

You
’
ve got to be kidding me
, Abd Al-Aziiz cries behind sunken eyes. Shaking his head, the brooding Arab leans as far away from the mother and child as he possibly can. The armrest begins to dig painfully into his right side. But even that is a welcome exchange for the few extra inches of space it gives.

Terra Yun enters the cabin next, soon followed by her mother. A rolling silence moves with them, walking past first class and into coach. Terra
’
s sky-blue eyes look longingly at the plush leather seats of the elite. Reclining footrests. iPhone docks.

“
Not this time,
”
Debbie says, gently encouraging her daughter on.

Terra scowls in protest. She glances over at a tall, black teenager in 8B. Even sitting, the attractive high schooler is almost as tall as she is. Her gaze drifts up his decorated letterman jacket and stops on eyes the color of rich espresso.

Lights around the cabin suddenly flutter and pulse during an on-board systems test. Their faces flash in and out of the shadows.

His mouth still open in mid-conversation to Darius, Chris
’
s words suddenly fade away. Flickering, sapphire eyes and snowy skin seem to light up the cabin in front of him.

Please,
Terra thinks, shaking off the initial surprise of his piercing brown eyes.
Like you have a shot.

“
I just don
’
t think I can handle moving in with Dad,
”
Terra blurts out. She breaks away from Chris
’
s gaze and looks back at the pink carry-on rolling daintily behind her. The exotic teen continues into the plane, refusing to look back at the handsome stranger even though she still feels his eyes upon her.

“
He
’
s such a bachelor, Mom,
”
the 18-year-old model continues over her shoulder.
“
He cleans his condo like once a year. It
’
s seriously nasty.
”

“
Give it a chance, Terra,
”
Debbie sighs. She
’
s had the same conversation with her daughter at least a dozen times before.
“
Spokane is beautiful. Summers on the river. Close to the college you want. You
’
ll be in the dorm in less than a year.
”

“
Dorm life. Right,
”
Terra says blankly. She rolls her eyes.
“
Less room than at Dad
’
s.
”
The teen turns around and pleads with her inescapable charm. Her eyes widen, searching for that predictable sympathy she
’
s so good at finding.
“
You know people catch diseases in those bathrooms, right? Why can
’
t I just have my own place? You know, penthouse with a view
…
”
Terra smiles dreamily as she envisions her perfect new home of glass. Tall windows. Modern furniture. Stainless steel appliances
.

“
You win the lottery, girl?
”
Debbie chides.
“
I can cover tuition. That
’
s it. You
’
ll just have to make some sacrifices.
”

Her dream turns into a tiny studio filled with crap from Wal-Mart.

Terra
’
s eyes stop on an elderly couple sitting on the opposite side of the plane. They hold each other
’
s weathered hands with the love of many decades. Laughing quietly, the couple talks of times long past. The struggles they
’
ve overcome through a lifetime spent together all fall away, replaced by a joy of timeless content.

Terra smiles again as she looks at them.
A marriage that actually made it. Wow. Don
’
t see that much
…
She glances back up to the seating markers just below the luggage compartment latches. 18A 18B. The teenager rolls her heavy pink carry-on expectantly back to her mother.
“
Here.
”

Debbie glares back at her. Her hand refuses to budge. She waits, desperately hoping for some show of respect. Some sign that all of her lessons and parenting efforts haven
’
t been in vain. But the teenager just stares innocently back, oblivious to the parental plea behind her mom
’
s eyes.

“
What?
”
Terra asks. She puts her hands on the hips of her designer jeans and cocks her head.

Realizing it would take far more effort to fight her pampered daughter than to just give in, Debbie silently concedes. She grunts, and lifts the garish suitcase up into the storage compartment.

“
God knows, I can
’
t support your expensive tastes anymore,
”
Debbie mutters.
“
Gucci this. Versace that. It
’
s ridiculous. Go marry some CEO, Terra. Because the rest of us can
’
t afford you.
”

“
Oh, you know I deserve it,
”
Terra says. She kisses her mom
’
s cheek in payment. The model puts
a dainty
handbag on her lap as they sit, pulling out a compact and immediately beginning to examine her flawless makeup.

*  *  *

Standing only 5
’
6
”
but with a poised upper body nearly as broad, Terrence Mann moves discretely into the plane just as the outer door closes. His light gray suit coat covers a black v-neck and faded jeans. The wooden-faced African-American walks with a slow and calculated pace, his tense muscles like rock at the ready. He knows his emotionless eyes and cage fighting build terrifies people. And he loves it. He enjoys knowing he could take out anyone, anytime, and completely get away with it.

The sky marshal
’
s gaze flickers around the narrow cabin. His fierce eyes are always moving. They cut into the faces of potential threats, almost pleading for a challenge.
Grandmas and school kids,
he sighs in disappointment.
Just give me another Jihadist.
Or some drunk suit pissed off at his life. I
’
ll shove that damn, designer pinstripe down his over-educated throat
…