“How much does he eat?” Daisy asks.
“Um.” I swallow, still staring at the guy. He stares back.
“Honey, stop bothering her,” the mom says.
“It’s fine,” I say again, forcing my gaze away from the stranger. “He loves steak.” I smile.
“Oh, Sal loves steak too, but I’m not supposed to give it to him. Mom says that feeding dogs from the table will make them think they are humans.”
“You should listen to your mom,” I say, my focus wandering back to the stranger again. He has moved to wait outside the bathroom. Which makes me suddenly need to pee. “Nice to meet you,” I tell Daisy. “We will come visit again in a little bit. We walk the aisles about every two hours.”
The mom’s gaze drops to my stomach—the bulge is hidden by the big sweatshirt I’m wearing, but a hint of a smile crosses her features. When her eyes rise to mine there is nostalgia in her gaze as if her memories of walking to ease the strains on her pregnant body are fond.
“Bye Blue,” Daisy says, leaning over to kiss his snout. He closes his eyes and then licks her cheek as she backs away. Daisy laughs and we continue down the aisle, headed right for the killer. He must be ex-military; there is something about the way his sweatshirt fits, the way his jeans hug him. The words all-American come to mind. He’s like a USA poster boy.
As I pass his empty seat I glance over. There are two women in his aisle, leaning on each other, asleep. There are no magazines or other diversions on his seat. No headphones either…
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes trained on Blue and me as we move toward him. “Hi,” I say, smiling.
His brown eyes narrow. “Hello.” The man’s voice is deep, his accent American.
We stare at each other for another long moment. Then the bathroom door opens, releasing an elderly man into the cramped space with us. We all shuffle around, making room for him to leave. “You can go ahead,” All-American says.
“You were here first,” I point out.
He works his chiseled jaw for a second as though he is about to argue with me but then steps into the tiny space. Blue sits next to me and I place a hand on the top of his head. “What do you think, boy?” I ask in a whisper. Blue, as usual, has no verbal response. “Could be an air marshal,” I point out. Blue leans against my side. Could be a terrorist…a white supremacist. The guy is not an incel…if he’s celibate, it is voluntary.
But why would a terrorist be on a flight to Fiji? We are over the Pacific for the entire flight. Sure, theoretically a terrorist could turn the plane around and use it as a weapon for a target on the West Coast, but wouldn’t they have done that closer to land? And haven’t enhanced security and hardened cockpit doors eliminated that risk?
Plus, he wouldn’t work alone. I scan the passengers again, just seeing the backs of their heads. “Doesn’t make sense,” I say. But something is making me and Blue uneasy. And we know how much trouble likes us.
The door opens and All-American steps out. Blue and I shift to make more room. He gives me one more hard, long look before heading back to his seat.
A flight attendant appears next to me. “Do you want me to hold his leash for you?” she asks. “So you can use the facilities.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks.” I hand the leash over and she coos at Blue while I step into the lavatory.
When I come back out the flight attendant is down on one knee talking baby talk to Blue who is eating it up, his eyes at half mast as he accepts the generous pettings and love. “He’s amazing,” she says to me as she stands. Blue wiggles so that he is now sitting on her foot.
“Yeah,” I say with a smile, accepting the leash back.
“He’s a really special guy. What’s his name?”
“Blue, and I’m Tara.” The lie rolls right off my tongue. “What’s your name?”
“Angel.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“Thanks.”
Blue and I return to our seat and the flight drones on. I doze occasionally, waking up with that same sense of something being not quite right.
An hour before landing, Angel passes us. She talks with one of the first-class flight attendants—a tall redhead. The passenger across the aisle stirs from his nap. He shifts in his seat, grabbing the crutch next to him, then uses it to stand.
He has curly hair and dark skin with a wide nose. At about 5’9” with a narrow frame, Crutch Man is only a few inches taller than me, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with a flag on it. Red, white, and blue but with only one star and seven stripes. I don’t recognize it.
He starts to stretch toward the ceiling with one arm, the other holding onto the crutch. I lean forward trying to see the passenger next to him, but my view is blocked by the divider between the seats. Why am I getting trouble vibes? My gaze falls back on the passenger…he seems not nervous…but something. Blue growls so low only I can hear, his attention also on our neighbor. I’m not the only one getting the sense something is up.
The fasten seat belt sign dings on. Crutch Man continues his stretches. Angel and the other flight attendant push a trolley in front of the restroom, blocking the path. The cockpit opens and the captain comes out—the woman I heard over the intercom has her dark hair up in a twist. Angel slips into the cockpit and the door closes behind her while the captain steps into the bathroom.
The flight attendant with bright red hair and broad shoulders stands guard by the trolley. The plane drones on.
Crutch Man finishes his stretches and starts toward the blocked bathroom. “Please have a seat,” Red says.
“I’d like to stand,” Crutch Man responds, his accent something I don’t recognize.
“I’m sorry, sir, but the captain is using the facilities, you’ll need to take your seat.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he says.
The flight attendant raises one shapely brow—damn I wish I could do that. “Sir, you need to sit down.”
“And if I don’t?” Crutch Man asks.
Okay…
“Sir, it is a federal crime.”
The guy snorts. Snorts. Then his hand is on her neck, her back hits the trolley, and his face is in hers, snarling something I can’t hear. I don’t need to hear it, though. I get it.
Blue and I stand as one, our bodies locking into formation—him in the lead, me right behind. The bathroom door opens and the captain begins to emerge. Her eyes widen and mouth opens in surprise when she sees the altercation taking place right outside her door.
Crutch Man looks up—I can’t see his expression but Captain’s face pales when she does.
Blue closes the distance between them and growls low and close. Crutch Man’s head whips around, his attention turned to Blue. He kicks out. Blue dances back, avoiding the messy attempt. “Let her go.” I say it calm and quiet but loud enough for him to hear.
“Fuck off,” he says.
“Let her go immediately,” Captain says.
He’s still holding the crutch in his hand but it doesn’t seem like he needs it. His weight is evenly distributed on both feet and he just kicked out at Blue…
All-American, the guy in the Eagles sweatshirt with the eyes of a killer, appears at the head of the other aisle. “Back away from the cockpit,” he says in that deep voice of his.
Crutch Man turns to him, shifting his weight but still holding onto the flight attendant’s neck. All-American’s nostrils flare. His eyes dart to Captain and then back to Crutch Man. He’s standing with his arms loose by his sides but in the blink of an eye there is a gun in his hands, cupped the way it’s supposed to be, and aimed at Crutch Man’s chest.
“Back away from the cockpit,” he says again, his voice just as deep, just as calm. Air marshal.
Crutch Man loosens his hold on the woman but doesn’t step back. “Shooting guns inside aircrafts is dangerous.”
“Don’t worry,” All-American says. “The bullet will get stuck in you.”
Oh damn. I like this guy.
Crutch Man releases Red’s neck, his hand drifts down her chest. Nope. Not okay. She whimpers, and I move. It’s only one long step and I’ve got the guy by the wrist. Because his focus is split between the air marshal and Red’s breasts, he’s distracted. So when my hand slips around his wrist, surprise is the first emotion that registers on his face.
It morphs into pain quickly when I take that wrist and break the fucking thing. “Holy fuck.” All-American’s voice is a mix of awe and surprise. Crutch Man is on his knees in front of me. That’s what happens when a person grabs your wrist, then slams their free hand into your knuckles, forcing the fingers toward the inner elbow. It drops you to your knees, and breaks your wrist. One scone feeding two birds.
Crutch Man screams—high and pained. Sweat breaks out at his hairline. His other hand, the one wrapped around the crutch, jerks and Blue leaps forward, pushing between us.
Blue’s teeth latch onto Crutch Man’s other wrist, which is when I see that he’s holding a sharpened metal stick—must have been hidden in the crutch. Blue bites down hard and the weapon drops to the floor. All-American comes up behind Crutch and wraps a strong forearm around the man’s neck. Crutch’s eyes bulge and his skin mottles.
“Off, Blue,” I command. He releases Crutch Man and moves to my side. The weapon lies on the floor. Red kicks it away so that it spins and slides, stopping at my feet. I’m not touching that thing.
I do stare down at it, though—it’s not store-bought. Someone smarter than this moron crafted it specially for the occasion. He’s not alone. Blue growls and my head whips up, looking back into the cabin. The passengers in first class are all seated but those with a view up the aisles are highly alert to what is going on in the front.
All-American glares at me over Crutch Man’s head. “There are more,” I say. His eyes narrow as if I’m involved—as if I’m a part of that “more”. Dumbass.
That chiseled jaw of his works for a moment and then he nods, recognizing not only my logic but also the fact that I am not working with the guy whose wrist I just broke and my dog mauled. That would be some deep fake shit right there. I am not that good…and neither is Crutch Man. He’s still on his knees, cradling his useless hands against his chest while All-American holds him tight around the neck.
I begin moving down the aisle, heading toward my seat, scanning the other passengers for crutches or some other means to conceal a weapon. A scream from economy class draws my attention and I push through the curtain separating the cabins. A man of similar build as Crutch Man stands in the aisle, his eyes wild, holding Daisy—the little girl who petted Blue—with a makeshift weapon of that same silver aluminum pressed to her throat. Daisy’s mom sobs, her hands pressed to her left eye like she just got punched.
I hold up my hands to show I don’t have any weapons. “That’s a kid,” I point out.
“Don’t come any closer,” the man says. “We are taking this plane to West Papua.”
I have no idea where that is.
“Okay,” I agree. “Let’s go tell the captain. She’s right back there. Your friend got a little fucked up.”
“I heard him scream.”
“Yeah, he got hurt. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.” That’s a lie. I want to hurt him.
Blue growls low as if he agrees with my thought, though it’s probably more to do with the fact that Terrorist #2 is tightening his hold on Daisy and the sharp metal is pressing into her neck. “Loosen up,” I say. “If you kill her, you’ll be all out of bargaining chips.”
“Shut up!” he yells at me, but eases the metal from her skin just a little.
My gaze rises from Daisy’s neck to her eyes. Raw terror. Fuck.
“It’s going to be okay,” I promise her.
“Do something!” her mom screams, still standing at her seat, though she’s dropped her hands from her face. Her left eye is swelling badly but her jaw has firmed. She’s not crying now.
“Come with me.” I wave my hand toward the cockpit. “We can go talk to the captain.”
“Free West Papua!” Terrorist #2 says.
“Not within my powers,” I point out. “I’m just a fellow passenger with a big dog. But I am a fan of freedom.”
The desperation in the man’s face tugs at something in me. He’s different than Crutch Man—there isn’t any ego here. He’s threatening the life of a kid to free a place I couldn’t find on a map. A place that obviously he thinks is worth dying for…if we hadn’t met under these circumstances and if his friend hadn’t assaulted a terrified flight attendant, his cause might even be one I’d agree with. But he is threatening a kid’s life, his friend did just cause mayhem outside the cockpit, and I’m going to have to stop him.