Mary screams as her back slams into the wall over the toilet. Sam is thrust forward. But he’s quick to extend his arms, the palms of his hands halting his forward momentum. It takes all his strength to prevent himself from crushing Mary’s ribs. Then, just like that, the pilots manage to level the plane out. The ceiling opens, and a translucent oxygen mask drops out. The ‘Please Fasten Your Seatbelt sign’ is flashed on, and a voice speaks over the PA.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Captain speaks, his tone urgent, concerned. “We have suffered an in-flight emergency. It is imperative that everyone take their seats immediately and fasten your seat belts.”
“Oh my God, are we going to die?” Mary asks, her eyes filling with tears.
They quickly redress. When Sam pulls his leather coat off the door, Mary sees his gun. It’s a semi-automatic, and it’s situated in a shoulder holster like she sometimes sees plainclothes detectives wear whenever they come to the parole agency.
“You have a gun,” she says.
“Goes with the job,” he says.
“What the hell are you, Sam?”
“I’m a sky marshal,” he says. “I’m the one who’s responsible for your safety, Mary.”
He then orders her back to her seat, immediately. “Don’t ask questions. Just go,” he says and opens the lavatory door for her.
As soon as she steps out, the stranger’s arm wraps around her throat.
He’s one of the black-bearded men dressed in a cheap suit. Mary was able to get a quick enough look at him as he was grabbing hold of her to confirm this. He’s holding a small penknife to her throat, and he’s dragging her toward the aft of the plane where his partner was sitting.
Sam draws his weapon and follows at a safe distance. He doesn’t want to appear so threatening to the would-be terrorist that the bastard ends up cutting Mary’s throat.
“What the hell do you want?” the sky marshal asks, holding the gun, not on the terrorist but aiming it at the floor.
The oxygen masks have descended from the ceiling. Some of the passengers are trying to put them on. Most are either stunned, or crying, or both. Either way, they are terrified. Even with the arm wrapped tightly around her neck, Mary can spot the Asian flight attendant standing at the very back of the plane along with the tall male flight attendant. Expressions of horror paint their faces. But that’s not what captures her complete attention.
Instead, it’s the gaping hole that’s been blown out of the fuselage wall. The window is completely gone. So is the man who was seated there. He must have been sucked out of the plane after the bomb detonated.
The noise coming from the hole in the fuselage is deafening. Mary doesn’t know much about the physics of flying or the principals behind flight in a modern jetliner, but she does know this—the pilot must have purposely descended to an altitude that was more breathable because, at thirty-plus thousand feet, they’d all be choking and freezing.
The terrorist pulls Mary to the empty seats that exist beside the gaping hole in the wall. He shoves her down into the aisle seat, wraps the seatbelt around her waist, buckles it, and adjusts the strap so it’s a tight fit. He then reaches for his laptop, which is still set out on the seatback tray.
“Hold this,” he demands, in his Middle Eastern-accented voice. “Press it flat against your chest.”
Mary gazes into Sam’s eyes.
“Just do what he says, Mary,” he instructs with a wink of his eye. “He’s got the upper hand, for now.”
She presses the laptop against her chest. That’s when the terrorist squats, reaches into a black carry-on bag that’s shoved under the seat directly in front of Mary. He comes back out with a roll of duct tape. He proceeds to wrap layers of tape around the laptop and Mary’s torso, including her arms, securing the device to her body. When he’s finished, he places the roll of duct tape back in the bag and comes back out with a device that looks a lot like a television remote.
He holds the device over his head, causing the passengers to issue a collective gasp.
“This plane will now change course!” he shouts. “We will fly to Yemen. If it does not change course, I will detonate the bomb that is hidden inside this laptop computer. It is a much more powerful bomb than the one that sent my brother to be with Allah. Do you understand?”
“We don’t have enough fuel to get to Yemen,” Sam says.
“Yes, you do,” the Terrorist insists. “Do not lie to me, Infidel.” Once more, he holds up the trigger device. “You are no doubt the sky marshal. You will drop your weapon, Sky Marshal. You will do it now.”
“Okay, okay,” Sam says, slowly lowering himself, setting the semi-automatic on the carpeted aisle floor. Then, raising himself just as slowly, his hands held over his head. “Calm down. What’s your name?”
“I am Abd al Bari,” the terrorist reveals. “It means child of Allah. I am here to do Allah’s work. I am here to destroy the infidel who attempts to destroy our caliphate.”
“You’re ISIS,” Sam says, swallowing hard as though something dry and bitter is lodged in his throat.
“Call it what you want,” Abd al Bari says. “But one thing is for sure.”
“What is that?”
“You will do as I say,” he insists, “or this plane will explode in the sky. For me, it will be a glorious death. But for you, the infidels, it will be a horror.”