11. Chapter 8 – Nikki
Present Day …
Was that a gunshot? Surely not.
My head was still a bit swimmy from being out cold for however long, even after waking up in the comforting landing pad of Marley’s supple breasts.
Thirst was my first urgent need, but not for water. The tiny bottles of vodka neatly tucked in the compartment at my feet called to me, warring with the urgent push to follow after Marley.
Gingerly moving my arms, I winced at the pain. Every muscle ached from the sheer terror that was falling to the earth with only a thin layer of metal and a fabric seat belt to protect me.
I’d been sure the rattling cutlery and jagged metal serving trays would take my head off long before the plane actually hit the ground. Joke was on me – here I stood, alive. Bruised to all hell, but alive.
But a gunshot fired within two moments of waking was certainly a shock. If I’d survived and she’d survived, then surely there must be others. The only passenger on board with a carrying permit was Detective Diaz — or as Captain Adams had named him — Detective Dick.
Had he fired the shot? Had someone found his weapon and decided to off themselves instead of carrying on?
Had Captain Adams survived? If Marley had lived from the cockpit, surely, he had a chance, too?
Needing answers to all my questions, I strode behind Marley as quickly as my lethargic limbs would allow, determined to step in and save her should the moment warrant it. My thirst could wait. Chivalry was not dead, and I intended to prove it.
“Are you stupid?!” Marley hollered as I rounded the corner to witness her feminine frame towering over the infamous Detective Dick, her body stiff and vibrating with rage.
Apparently, my chivalry wasn’t necessary, although she might need a bodyguard with that mouth, shouting vulgarities in at least three languages. Had she always had this side and I’d missed it? How I wished I could watch her face as she tore him a new asshole.
How I wished I could see much at all. I’d need to return to the cabin crew to retrieve my glasses. The world beyond ten paces might as well be five hundred away.
As I moved closer, passing a sobbing woman with her arms around a body, I could just make out that it was not just the detective, or officer, or whatever title he was called, on the carpeted floor.
A buff tanned man – Ambrose Park – according to the manifest, was tangled up in his limbs, his handsome face molded into a scowl as he pushed up off the floor to standing, a handgun dangling casually in his right hand, stance mirroring Marley’s fury.
“Are you stupid?” she repeated, slowing her words as if Detective Dick were a small child. “Firing a loaded weapon into a ticking time bomb? Do you realize this whole structure could go up in flames any second?”
She waved her arms in the air in exasperation, pointing to the ceiling with dangling wiring and errant sparks flying every which way.
The mayhem in the passenger seats finally registered. Half the passengers hadn’t been as lucky as we were, blurry bodies all askew, their last breaths drawn on the way down. A pang rippled through my chest, but I ignored its burn. Focusing on the dead was a distraction from the living.
The fuselage was level, but Marley was right – we were standing in a bomb just begging to detonate.
The jagged hole on the right side of the plane was jarring enough.
Through it, I could barely make out the disheveled faces of those who’d already descended onto the ground below.
I couldn’t tell the distance without my glasses, but it had to be a manageable leap for an able-bodied person.
The two men, the prisoner, Marley, and me were the only remaining passengers at the front, save for the sniffling woman still behind me.
Another heart twinge, this one pulling taut. Where was Jamie?
Drawing in a deep breath to dull my rising panic and desperation for a drink, I slid into the empty bank of passenger seats two rows from the front to get a better view.
Detective Dick, the tall, dark, and truly insane man, had the intelligence to at least look sheepish as he rose to his feet and stared down Marley, who was half his size, but twice as fierce.
He gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw in the obnoxious way television detectives did before saying something profound.
“It was a warning shot,” he said tersely. He nodded toward the man cuffed to the chair. To Ambrose — the plane’s apparent hero with a savior complex — he waved his hand in a “come hither” motion. “Give me my gun back.”
Our American passenger’s dark eyebrows shot up, the entitled expression of someone used to running the show.
“Not a fucking chance. I sat behind you the whole flight, dickhead. You threatened to kill him every ten minutes unless he” — he dipped his head toward the prisoner who looked to be listening in silence — “does everything you say, when you say it. You even threatened his family. I’d trust a child with this gun more than you. ”
So, Detective Dick was indeed a dick. No surprise there. By the way he was turning an interesting shade of maroon, I was quick to agree emotional management was not within his range of abilities.
Marley turned to the man. “Ambrose, please give me the gun. We need to store it safely.” She held out her hand with an open palm, beckoning it forward the same way Detective Dick had.
Ambrose retreated in the tight space, his back landing against the one portion of unbroken wall while his grip on the weapon tightened further at his side.
“I’m sorry, now you’re deciding to be our captain? Because the woman I saw racing into the cabin at the last minute went down with the plane instead of saving our lives.” He spat the words like acid, and she shrank away from them as if they’d burned her.
I bristled at the tone, but even more at the insinuation. The captain I knew — Captain Amelia West — most assuredly would not have put a soul in danger.
Before I could defend her honor—before she could defend herself, more like—the Detective lunged for the weapon in Ambrose’s fist. It was impossible to miss the flash of vicious violence that bloomed in his eyes, the bitterness of his sneer so cutting it brought a shiver down my spine.
I’d witnessed that kind of violence before.
This man was far more dangerous than we’d assumed.
Ambrose dropped to the floor like a stone, gaining a split second of surprise, just enough to slide the gun down the aisle to land at my feet.
Crouching, I picked it up, released the magazine, and removed the sleeve of bullets. I dropped the ammunition into my left pocket, and slid the cooling metal into the right pocket of my trousers. Defiantly folding my arms across my chest, I stood tall, blearily glaring at the tussling men.
I had experience with guns, but not in a carrying capacity. Guns were for hunting. They had no business being in the hands of emotional men who would make our situation worse than it was.
“I’ll be keeping this.” My assertion brokered no arguments, glaring blurrily at the point where Detective Diaz’s soul should be.
He sneered at me with a lip well-practiced in sneering, but it was much tamer than the flash of hatred a moment before.
He remained silent, his lack of a weapon shrinking his bravado.
Turning my gaze back to Ambrose sporting a bloodied lip, I softened my delivery. If he was brave enough to stop an armed man, we could use him for whatever came next. I respected the honor behind his actions, but trust had to be earned. And I certainly didn’t like the way he spoke to the Captain.
“Ambrose, thank you for protecting our safety, but please refrain from making accusations to the one woman who is actively trying to save your life — all our lives — at this moment. I, for one, would like to see what my chances are off of this plane.”
The man’s brows scrunched in thought, and his glare morphed into resigned contemplation. Finally, he nodded, although he offered no apology to Marley.
“We need to get him out of here.” Marley announced, turning our attention back to the prisoner cuffed to the seat.
“He’s not safe, and we’re responsible for him, too.
” She sought out Detective Diaz’s stony gaze, which seemed to relax, if only for a fraction, for her.
“Please uncuff him from the chair, Detective Diaz. He will need his hands and feet to get off the plane safely.”
“No.” The prisoner — Maddox Torres’s — single word declaration was announced like the command of a king. Forceful, yet casual. A man used to being in charge, not unlike my father.
Marley turned the man. “Sir, we need to get you off the plane. Whatever your crime is, I’m not willing to let you die here.”
Maddox turned his head, and even from this distance and limited eyesight, the thunderous expression held visceral hatred — but it was not directed at Marley. The loathing bitterness is his stare was a laser trained on Detective Diaz.
“This detective” — he spat the title — “has been drugging me for days. Do not trust him.” The clear, ice-blue eyes changed direction to our spitfire leader, blinking out the hatred all together to become earnest, convincingly sincere.
“Please uncuff me, Captain. I will not be a problem for you or your crew. But I make no promises for him.”
Like a snake dilating its eyes, hatred filled his gaze again as he jutted his jaw towards Diaz in visible challenge.
So, stay on his good side. Noted.
And drugging him? The man absolutely looked a little knackered when he entered the plane, but I had limited experience with the temperaments of handcuffed prisoners and had just assumed he was simply a little deranged.
I hadn’t considered drugs, given he had a police escort, but the glaze in his eyes was familiar. Perhaps a little too familiar.
“This man is a psychopath,” Detective Diaz argued when Marley looked toward him expectantly, hand outstretched for the cuffs. “You’re believing a criminal over an agent?”