Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
There’s a bomb on this plane.
No—no, her brain couldn’t possibly have heard him right.
But the rest of her body had, because her lungs had stopped working. Her heart had stopped. Everything had stopped.
The agent stared at her with those haunted eyes. He looked wrecked. A scar over his eyebrow, white at his temples, years worn into his face.
And unless I can figure out how to stop it, we’re both about to die.
Britta clawed at her seat belt, but he’d jammed the latch. The leather seats were too soft. The cabin too warm. The engine noise too loud. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
He said it again—“Calm down”—his voice low.
“You calm down. I’m going to sit here and panic, thank you very much.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“What do you mean there’s a bomb—”
“There’s a device in the cargo hold. Timer-activated. And the plane is on autopilot. When we reach Fisher Island, it detonates. The plane crashes into your father’s yacht.”
The plan assembled in her mind with horrible clarity. Make President White choose—shoot down a plane with his daughter on board or let it crash and kill them both.
“You’re going to kill me.” Her voice came out strangled. “You’re going to kill my father.”
“I’m trying to save you.”
“By putting me on a plane with a bomb?”
He held up his hand. “I didn’t have a choice. Tomas has my family. If I don’t—”
“I don’t care why you did it. How about we just…get off this plane.” She pointed to parachutes hanging in a nearby bay.
“There are only two chutes.”
“Great. I’ll take one.”
He sighed. “Yes. That was the plan—a parachute, a water landing. Except the pilot also wants off, and…” He stopped. Dragged his hands through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is getting you off this plane before—”
A sound.
From the back of the cabin.
Scuffling. Thumping. Like something heavy moving in the cargo area below.
Britta’s head whipped toward the galley. A sound came from the rear of the cabin, past the seats.
The agent was on his feet. Hand moving to his hip where a weapon should be—but he’d left it somewhere, she realized. He was unarmed.
The thumping got louder.
She turned to her seat belt and started to wrestle with the ties on her wrists.
She twisted around. A panel in the floor lifted, and a hand appeared. Then another. Someone climbing up through the small access hatch.
Okay, think. She’d taken that self-defense class after the UN strike—first lesson had been breaking zip ties.
She brought her wrists up to her chest, then brought her hands down, hard.
It worked!
She pulled up on the seat-belt latch and leaped to her feet—
Oh, woozy.
But she saw a man emerging from the compartment gun first, and then the man shouted at the agent, who was thundering down the aisle.
Dark hair. Broad shoulders. White shirt.
West.
What?
He pulled himself up into the cabin. His dress shirt was torn. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat. He had blood on his knuckles.
And he pointed the gun at the agent—“Don’t. Move, Martin!”
The man seemed to straighten then, become a different version of himself—not the polished agent who’d walked her onto this plane, but someone colder. More lethal.
Martin? As in Alan Martin? She’d heard that name on the boat. And at the condo.
Alan Martin, some kind of mastermind terrorist.
Here. On the plane.
Her knees nearly buckled. “West!”
He looked at her. His expression—
Wrecked.
“Britta, get down!”
Martin moved. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
West’s gun came up. Aimed at Martin’s chest. “Step away from her.”
The man raised his hands. Took one step back.
“West, there’s a bomb—”
“I know.” West’s voice was granite. “I saw it. Cargo hold. Wired to a timer—maybe four minutes on it when I saw it. C-4, looks like.” His eyes never left Martin. “You’re going to make him choose, aren’t you? Shoot down his daughter or watch her crash into his yacht.”
The not-an-agent said nothing.
“Answer me!”
“Yes.”
The word dropped through her like a stone.
“It ends here, son,” Alan said calmly.
“No, not here. Not like this.” West took a step forward. The gun steady. “You don’t get to murder her to make a point.”
Alan lifted a shoulder. “I was trying to save her, but you’re making this complicated—”
“Yeah, I do that.”
And right then, the plane banked.
Britta fell into Alan, who grabbed her and pulled her against himself.
West slammed against the wall of the plane, the gun dropping.
Then the plane righted, and just like that, West lunged.
Britta screamed and jammed an elbow into Alan’s ribs. He jerked, and she squirreled out of his grip, dropping to the floor just as West’s fist connected with Alan’s jaw.
A crack, and Alan’s head snapped back. But he didn’t go down. His hand shot out, grabbed West’s shirt, yanked him off-balance.
They hit the floor. Grappling. Slamming into the narrow aisle.
Find the gun. Britta searched under the seats, trying to ignore the sounds of the fight. Flesh hitting flesh. Grunts. The thud of bodies against leather and metal.
She spotted the gun under the last row of seats, blocked by the two men.
She stood on a seat, ready to climb over, when she spotted West landing on top of Alan, pinning his shoulders.
West hit him, and she winced but leaped over the first seat on the way to the back.
West drew back his fist and Alan bucked. Threw West sideways into a seat. Scrambled up.
“Calm down!” Alan’s voice was ragged. He wiped blood from his split lip. “Just—calm down and listen—”
West came at him again.
Alan ducked. Grabbed West’s arm. Used West’s momentum to slam him against the cabin wall face-first, arm twisted behind his back.
The plane shuddered.
They stood there. Breathing hard. West pinned. Alan’s voice low and urgent in his ear. “I have this…under…control.”
“Control?” West’s laugh was bitter. Furious. “You call this control?”
“I’m going to get her off this plane—”
“By making her father shoot her down?”
“By giving her a parachute and jumping before the F-16s get here!”
West twisted his head, fighting the hold. “Have you lost your mind?”
Britta’s heart stopped.
Parachute. Jump. F-16s—as in Air Force jet fighters?
Outside the windows, movement caught her eye.
Oh. And there they were, two fighter jets.
Sleek and deadly. One on each side of the Westwind. Close enough that she could see the pilots. The missiles under the wings.
F-16s. Falcons. She knew because she’d once toured an Air Force base with her father. Had to be. Scrambled from—where? Patrick Air Force base? She’d been in the air less than ten minutes. How had the military responded so fast?
West asked the same thing. “How did—”
“York knows about this.”
West stared at Alan. “No, he doesn’t. I was with him an hour ago at the wedding.”
Alan just held his gaze. “No. That’s not right.” But he drew in a breath, swallowed. “Unless that really was Timea on the phone.”
Britta stared at the man. He looked punched.
The pilot stepped out. He had a gun. Smaller than West’s. But just as deadly at this range.
And she still hadn’t reached West’s.
“Enough.” His accent thickened, the cold command of a man done pretending. “Both of you. Sit down.”
West and Alan froze.
The pilot gestured with the gun. “The plane is on autopilot. It will reach Fisher Island whether you fight or not. Whether you live or not. The only question is how much pain you want before you die.”
“The fighters will shoot us down,” Alan said. His voice was steady despite the blood on his lip. “Before we reach the yacht.”
“Then the girl dies anyway.” The pilot smiled. He reached into his jacket and grabbed a parachute, slid it on. “Her father watches his daughter explode in the sky. Still works.”
“Unless we jump,” Alan said.
“You won’t,” West said.
“Watch me,” Alan said.
Alan shoved West into the pilot. West stumbled. Alan spun toward Britta.
The pilot fired.
The gunshot exploded, deafening in the enclosed cabin. Britta’s ears rang. Her vision went white.
Alan jerked. Grabbed his gut. Blood spread through his fingers, soaking the white shirt under the suit jacket.
He’d been shot.
Britta couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Just stared at the blood.
So much blood.
Alan straightened. Looked at the wound. Back at the pilot.
“That was stupid.”
Alan moved. Faster than Britta would have thought possible for a man who’d just been shot. He lunged for the pilot. Grabbed the man’s gun hand. Slammed it against the cabin wall once, twice.
The gun clattered to the floor.
Alan’s fist connected with the pilot’s face. He crumpled.
Alan stood over him. Breathing hard. Blood dripping onto the cream carpet.
West was moving. Scrambling for his weapon where it had fallen during the fight.
“Don’t.” Alan’s voice stopped him. “I’m not the enemy here.”
“You put a bomb on a plane with an innocent woman—”
“And I’m getting her off before it detonates!
” Alan turned. Looked at Britta. His face was pale.
Sweating. The blood kept spreading. “It doesn’t matter if you kill me.
The plane is on autopilot. It’ll reach Fisher Island.
The fighters—” He gestured toward the windows.
The F-16s still pacing them. “They’ll shoot us down in about three minutes. Maybe less. The only way out is off.”
“You’re insane,” West said.
“Enough.” Alan moved toward the emergency exit. Started working the handle. “We’re doing this now.”
“Doing what?”
Alan looked at Britta. His eyes were dark. Desperate. “I’m sorry.”
He grabbed her.
His hand—slick with blood—closed around her wrist. Yanked her toward him.
Britta screamed. Fought. Her free hand clawed at his face.
“Stop—let me go—West!”
West lunged for them.
Alan’s elbow caught him in the solar plexus. West doubled over. Gasping.
Alan hauled Britta toward the door. She kicked. Twisted. Her nails raked down his arm.
He didn’t let go.
Hurting, weak from blood loss—she didn’t know how he had the strength—he grabbed something from the emergency locker. The parachute pack. He pulled it on and clipped it.
West found his feet, lunged at them. Alan kicked him in the chest and he reeled back, gasping.
“No—no, no, no—”