The Storm (NUMA Files 10)

“That’s right,” he said. “Let’s just assume that the seat belt sign is on and you’re not free to move about the cabin.”

The captain turned back to the controls, the copilot stared. “What are you talking about?”

“Hands on the yoke,” Kurt ordered. “Eyes forward.”

The copilot complied, but also mumbled something in Arabic to the captain.

“Are you trying to take her?” the captain asked. “To rescue her? You’re a fool to throw your life away for this puny woman.”

“Shut up, jerk!” Leilani growled. “Or, so help me, I’ll fill you full of lead!”

She looked at Kurt, smiling proudly. “How’s that?”

“We need to work on your dialogue a bit, but not bad.”

Kurt glanced out the window. The horizon to the east was starting to sharpen, but the sky was still inky purple, and for the most part it was hard to tell where it ended and the sea began.

He could see the other two jets ahead of them, but only because of their navigation lights. The closest plane looked to be a mile away and maybe a thousand feet lower. The lead plane might have been three miles out and a thousand feet below the other one. The whole squadron was descending. He heard no transmissions and assumed they were operating under radio silence.

“Where are you taking us?” he asked.

“Don’t say anything,” the captain ordered.

Kurt figured that was a dead end, he could hardly threaten to blow up the plane if they didn’t tell him. He checked the altimeter and saw they were dropping through eight thousand feet. Another ten minutes like that and they’d be in the drink. He strained his eyes forward but still couldn’t see a speck of land.

He decided they’d waited long enough. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “If you two want to live, you’re going to do what I say.”

“What if we don’t?” the copilot spat.

“Then I’ll blow up the plane,” Kurt said.

“It’s a bluff,” the copilot said. “He’s a weak American. He’ll never have the—”

Before the man finished his sentence, Kurt backhanded him across the temple. The man’s head snapped sideways, and he put a hand to the fuselage wall to steady himself.

“You think I want to end up back in Jinn’s hands,” Kurt said, “would you?”

The guy held the side of his face and looked back at Kurt like a scolded animal. The two pilots exchanged a look. Kurt was counting on the fact that both men knew what kind of a lunatic Jinn was. He guessed the bodies at the bottom of the well weren’t the only employees he had dispensed of in his day.

An argument broke out between them in Arabic.

Kurt backhanded the copilot again. “English!”

The man glared at him and slowly began to reach for his seat belt lock once again. “You’re right,” he said. “Jinn will make you beg for death if he catches you. But if we let you go, it will be worse for us.”

The seat belt clicked loose, and the man turned in his seat and stood, looming taller in the small cockpit.

“So blow us up,” he said. “Take us all to paradise.”

Kurt looked at the man, trying to stare him down. The man didn’t blink, and while Kurt didn’t blink either it was a standoff he couldn’t win.

“So be it,” Kurt said.

He let go of the spoon and flung the grenade at the copilot. It hit him in the center of his suddenly shocked face. He grabbed for it like a man in a shower trying to catch a wet bar of soap. He knocked it toward the captain.

With eyes as wide as saucers, he lunged for it, only to be intercepted by a mighty right cross from Kurt.

Kurt had put his whole body into the swing, pivoting from the hip and shoulder, pushing off with his right foot and firing his arm forward with every ounce of muscle fiber in his body.