Flight 741 Read online

  Well, fuck 'em all.

  They didn't have his stake in how this all turned out. Not one of them was looking forward to a life in prison, or a one-way gurney ride. They didn't have the faintest damned idea what it was like inside.

  But maybe they were learning. And maybe they would learn some more before survival class was finally dismissed.

  The runner had returned, and he was followed by the one who called himself the Raven. Silently, the hijack honcho studied Maxwell's escort, peering at the body through his Nixon eyes before he raised his head to scan the cabin proper.

  "You have seen the price of foolish, impotent resistance," he declared in ringing tones. He gestured in the direction of the corpse. "This man committed suicide."

  An angry murmur, quickly stifled, from the middle rows.

  "I had intended to restore your privileges. Instead, you give me no alternative but to impose a strict security."

  He hesitated, and beneath the Nixon mask, Maxwell could have sworn the bastard licked his lips.

  "I must protect my men, myself, from any others who may carry weapons on their person." Relishing the words, he took his time. "You will remove your clothes at once, and pass them to the aisles."

  There was a momentary silence as they took it in and realized the terrorist wasn't playing games. Then the outraged voices drifted back from every quarter of the cabin.

  "No!"

  "You can't do that!"

  "I won't!"

  "You can't be serious!"

  Three Ingrams, cocked and leveled, cut the protest off before it had a chance to go beyond the hot-air stage. The Raven let his automatic dangle casually at his side, but when he spoke to them again his voice was taut.

  "At once."

  No one in the cabin missed a syllable. They couldn't cope with what had been demanded of them, women weeping silently, men attempting awkwardly to comfort them, or simply glaring at the gunner with a kind of numb hostility.

  It wasn't nearly fast enough to suit the Raven, and he swiveled toward the nearest hostage, picking out a stewardess who occupied a jump seat just behind him. Reaching down, he hooked his fingers in the neckline of her blouse and gave a vicious yank. As she recoiled, her own momentum helped him do the job. A ripping sound, and he was stepping back, the tatters of her blouse and bra like pennants in the victor's hand. She raised her arms instinctively, but Bobby Maxwell caught a flash of rosy breasts before she covered herself.

  The Raven had his automatic leveled at her.

  "The rest," he said, and there was sudden hunger in his voice.

  "You bastard!"

  Maxwell swiveled toward the angry voice in time to see a flight attendant rising from his seat, advancing toward the Raven in a rush, fists clenched. The nearest gunner took him out without a second thought, his Ingram slamming into the hero's forehead, dropping him. The stutter gun was pointed at his head, the gunner's finger tight around the trigger, when the Raven called him off.

  "Enough," he growled, forgetting about the woman for the moment and turning on her would-be savior. He was on the guy in half a dozen strides, and when he kicked him in the ribs, the movement was a smooth extension of his gait.

  The impact literally lifted the attendant. Rebounding off some nearby passengers, he slithered to the floor. The Raven stood above him, and landed two more vicious kicks against the flight attendant's ribs.

  The absence of resistance seemed to bore him, and he left the hero lying where he fell, returning to the stewardess.

  "Stand up."

  She did as she was told, eyes fixed on the pistol, arms hanging limply at her sides. From where he sat, the prisoner could see it all. He felt his own erection rising as the Raven ripped her uniform away in shreds and left her standing nude in front of everybody.

  The Nixon eyes examined her, the disembodied voice demanding that she turn, display herself, unmindful of the tears that streaked her pallid face. When he had seen enough, the Raven turned to face the other passengers again, his automatic aimed somewhere between the ceiling and the floor.

  "The rest of you. Right now!"

  It all caught up with Bobby Maxwell then, and his erection wilted like an orchid in a heat wave. He was on his feet before he had a chance to think it through, his hands outstretched to show his chains before the Ingram muzzles homed in on his chest.

  "Hold on a second, okay?" He pitched his voice to sound subservient, and settled for a slavish whine. "I can't get out of these. I'd like to go along, but you can see I have a problem here."

  The Raven looked him over, glanced in the direction of the fallen marshal, and Bobby realized that the bastard understood at once. His eyes were glittering inside the Nixon face. A shackled prisoner would have no weapons, pose no threat. The honcho could decide to leave him as he was, or fish around inside the marshal's pockets for a key, permitting him to strip once all his chains had been removed.

  It would be worth the brief embarrassment to get the cuffs and shackles off.

  "Sit down."

  Maxwell slumped back in his chair, unable to control the trembling in his limbs.

  It was a victory of sorts — and never mind the burning, hate-filled stares of those around him. They were doubly angry with him now. Not only had he foiled the marshal's bid for freedom, but he sat among them fully clothed, as they themselves were forced to strip.

  He would have liked to ditch the chains, but that would come in time. The Raven had decided he was harmless, and it just might prove to be the next best thing. The guards would take his cue and they would concentrate on others, finally ignoring him until he was invisible.

  He liked the feeling. It was like something from a fantasy.

  The invisible man, and in the middle of a frigging nudist colony.

  He almost laughed aloud, but choked it off, preserving the charade of mock humility. Around him they were getting down to skin, and Maxwell settled to watch the show.

  He'd missed the in-flight movie, after all; the goddamn Raven owed him one. And it was paying off right now.

  * * *

  The pain had no specific point of origin. It radiated from his skull in throbbing waves. His face was swollen, aching, and his rib cage felt like broken glass. When Korning tried to move, the shock waves left him dizzy, nauseated, on the brink of consciousness.

  He wasn't dying, Steve was sure of that. It wouldn't hurt this much if they had broken anything of consequence inside. He had observed the aftermath of lethal accidents, the victims hanging on despite their obviously mortal wounds, and knew that shock was nature's anesthetic for the doomed. He had been hurt but he would live — unless the bastards took it into their heads to waste him as an afterthought.

  He finally realized that he was nude. The nylon carpet felt rough on his skin, and even in the muggy cabin he could feel a draft that raised the gooseflesh on his back and arms. He lifted his head, experienced a nauseating burst of pain behind his eyes before he brought them into focus.

  He was staring at the naked legs of passengers, just inches from his eyes. He followed feet to ankles, calves to knees... and closed his eyes, embarrassed, when he found the men and women staring back at him with curiosity, shame and hot resentment mingled on their faces.

  Someone must have stripped him while he was unconscious ... but the rest? It was bizarre, a form of degradation dredged up by a twisted mind.

  And yet it made a certain kind of sense.

  Undressed, they were defenseless. There could be no hidden weapons passed from hand to hand, no boots or belts, no secret items tucked away in pocket books to serve in the alternative. A woman stripped of clothing in a crowd of strangers would devote her time to salvaging some vestige of her dignity as best she could. A man, no matter what his skill or training, would think twice about confronting enemies buck naked.

  Korning couldn't catch a glimpse of Julie Drake from where he lay, but he hoped they hadn't hurt her any further.

  He struggled to his knees, and it was as far a
s he got before the pain washed over him in giddy, gagging waves. The spastic pain of cracked or broken ribs reminded him to take it slow.

  He had to find a seat before his captors got the urge to play some soccer with his skull. Then he had to look for Julie Drake, suppress the dread that undulated through his bowels.

  He had to know the worst, and knowing that, he would decide upon a course of action, a reaction to the enemy. There might still be a shock or two in store for Mr. Raven and his greasy backup team.

  If they had injured Julie Drake. If they had...

  Korning concentrated on his empty seat, and closed his mind against the pain, the picket fence of naked legs that formed the boundary of his narrow world.

  It all came down to first things first, and Korning had to put himself together before he could be any use to someone else. He needed time, a measure of the strength that had been beaten out of him, before he got around to evening the score.

  Chapter Seven

  Huddled on the narrow jump seat, Julie Drake was trying desperately to make herself invisible. Eyes closed, her arms and legs all folded in upon themselves, she salvaged what she could of her tattered dignity. Humiliated, terrified, she dared not raise her head to face the scrutiny of passengers and crew.

  The passengers were lucky, seated in their sardine rows and facing forward. Only those to the left and right could stare at any individual; the others — those in front, behind — were blocked by high-backed seats, their own aversion to a sudden move that might attract attention to themselves. For Julie, planted on her jump seat near the forward galley module, there would be no fortuitous escape. She was at center stage, a piece of meat displayed before 350 pairs of prying eyes.

  Of course, she realized that each and every passenger aboard was frightened and humiliated, stunned by what had taken place around them in the hours prior to dawn. The federal marshal's body had been dragged away, but leaking blood had stained the carpet where he fell, and piles of rumpled clothing in the aisles did nothing to conceal the mark of sudden death.

  Their captors hadn't bothered sorting through the clothes. She realized that caution, fear of hidden weapons, had been secondary to the degradation of their hostages. As gunners moved among the cast-off items, they would pause from time to time and lift a lacy undergarment or a dingy pair of boxer shorts, displaying their discovery and chattering among themselves in Arabic.

  It helped that she did not understand their words, but she could read their faces well enough. The tall one in particular had hungry eyes, and he had made a point of brushing past her several times, his submachine gun dangling beside him so its muzzle brushed her ribs, her thigh.

  He wanted her, the flight attendant knew that much. There might be other, more attractive women on the flight, but he had witnessed her humiliation by the Raven, something in her helpless posture touching off a spark inside. Something told her that he would love to finish what his master had begun.

  Please, God, not here. Don't let it be like this.

  She thought of Steven, knew he had been beaten by the terrorists for trying to protect her. She was frightened for him, worried, but she dared not face him now. Her own embarrassment eclipsed the gratitude, concern, the warmth she automatically experienced when thinking of him. It almost masked the fear of death.

  Almost.

  Steven might be dead, she realized. They hadn't shot him, she was sure of that, but he could have died from the beating just as easily as from a gunshot wound. He had received a savage stomping from the Raven. And suddenly, she had to know. She opened her eyes and found the hungry gunner standing just in front of her, the buckle of his belt level with her face.

  "You come with me," he said, and jerked his head in the direction of the lavatories to the rear.

  "I won't." Her voice was tremulous.

  The Shiite raised his submachine gun, nudged the stubby muzzle toward her face. "Do what I say."

  One of his comrades rattled off a warning, but the gunner sneered, dismissed him with a grunt. "You come."

  "I won't!"

  She didn't see the backhand coming, and it rocked her on her perch and brought a galaxy of colored stars behind her eyelids. Julie was attempting to recover when his fingers tangled in her hair and she was lifted from her seat.

  Desperately she fought him, clawing at his hand, his face, unmindful of her nudity before the others now. She raked his chest, was briskly shaken in return. It felt as if he might be ripping out her hair by handfuls, and a muffled shriek escaped between clenched teeth as Julie fought.

  He twisted her off balance, then struck her with a stunning forearm from behind, across the shoulder blades. It drove the wind from Julie's lungs, propelled her several feet along the aisle. Before she could recover or turn to face her captor, he stepped up and kicked her from behind, his boot heel making solid contact with her buttocks, driving her to her hands and knees.

  Another jarring kick, and Julie scuttled down the aisle through heaps of cast-off clothing. Tangled slacks and shirt sleeves tried to snare her, tangling around her hands, her legs. Already blinded by the burning tears of shame, she groped her way along until a hidden sneaker turned beneath her hand and dumped her on her face.

  "Get up!"

  A kick rebounded on her thigh, and Julie struggled to all fours. Disoriented, she attempted to recoup her strength. Her captor, with his wounded macho pride, could not resist the target that she offered, crouching on the floor in front of him, her pelvis raised.

  The boot exploded in her groin, propelling Julie forward to slither facedown among the shirts and shoes and tangled underwear. The pain was everything; she couldn't catch her breath, and now she knew that she was dying.

  No.

  It couldn't hurt this much to die.

  With almost superhuman will, she pulled her body up into a fetal curl, her wounded genitalia cupped in trembling hands. Convulsively she retched, dry heaves, with nothing in her stomach to absorb the pain. Julie told herself that if she lived through this, she could survive anything.

  The spasms passed, and Julie wavered on the brink of consciousness. It would be so damned easy to slip away and leave it all behind. Embrace the darkness for a while, and never know or care what happened to your aching body in the meantime.

  Fingers tangled in her hair again, igniting angry brush fires in her scalp as Julie's captor started dragging her along the aisle. She had no strength to fight him now, her arms too weak to try and slow him down.

  It couldn't be much farther to the lavatory now. Inside, she would at least be safe from prying eyes, until he finished with her.

  And would she have to face the others, then? Would they be lining up and waiting for their turns?

  They reached the lavatory, and she heard or felt her captor force the door. In sudden desperation, Julie Drake began to scream.

  * * *

  From his seat along the aisle, Mike Blanski watched the Shiite gunner drag his female captive toward the lavatories. He had watched them scuffle, seen her kicked and beaten while the anger churned inside of him like something animate and hungry, clawing to get out. His gut demanded that he move, do something — anything — but he was thinking now, and sitting on the gut reaction, knowing any sudden move could spark a wholesale massacre.

  A sudden movement caught his eye, and he turned in time to see the flight attendant who had drawn the Raven's wrath some hours earlier erupting from his seat. It was a foolish move, but the damn guy had an overdose of guts. He must have known he wouldn't make it, but he couldn't leave the lady on her own.

  A second gunner saw him rise and moved to intercept, approaching from the rear with silent strides. The Shiite whipped his autoloader in beneath the steward's ribs, impacting on a kidney. The attendant staggered and stumbled to the floor. The pistol rose and fell mercilessly against his skull, his neck, his shoulders, until his arms and knees gave way before the onslaught.

  It interested Blanski that they had not simply gunned the flight att
endant down. The Raven must have issued orders after he had finished stripping down the stewardess. Another death among the passengers or crew might weaken his position when it came to bargaining on faith.

  Or did he simply want the next kill for himself?

  No matter. If the gunners had been ordered not to fire...

  A ragged scream disrupted Blanski's train of thought, and suddenly he realized that he had let the woman and her captor slip away. They were behind him now, grappling in the narrow entrance to the lavatory. In another moment, they would be inside.

  He didn't think about the movement — didn't dare to, anyway. If they were under orders not to fire, he had a chance. If he was taking too damn much for granted... well, he might be dead before he made it halfway down the aisle. But even so, the desperate scream had banished any options that he might have had.

  He moved, acutely conscious of his nakedness and trying hard to put it out of mind. It was a psychological advantage for his enemies, the fear of injury enhanced by the removal of his clothing. At a conscious level, Blanski knew the risk of injury was only slightly greater, if at all — a pair of jockey shorts and jeans would not protect him from a boot heel in the groin — but he could not suppress a shudder as he closed upon his human target, cringing inwardly against anticipated pain.

  First contact broke the spell. He tangled his fingers in the Shiite's hair and dragged him backward off the woman, grappling with his free hand to immobilize the shooter's weapon. His opponent back-kicked, scraping Blanski's shin before he drove the Arab's face against the doorframe. Twice. A third time. And the jamb was slick with blood now as his adversary folded, slumping in his grasp.

  Somehow the bastard kept his death grip on the Ingram, and there wasn't any time to pry his fingers loose. Blanski heard the rush of footsteps from behind and braced himself against the flying tackle, knowing that he didn't stand a chance of staying on his feet. The impact drove him through the lavatory doorway, banging face and forehead on the stainless sink, and he was lying on the prostrate woman now, one knee between her thighs, as someone pistol-whipped him from behind. He struggled, fought to rise and heard her moan beneath him as he rammed her with his knee before he shook the human burden off and tumbled clear.