Flight into Darkness (Flight Trilogy, Book 2) (21 page)

Barb’s whining started to irritate him. He needed to get her off his back. He had enough to worry about without having to nurse her. He keyed his mike.

“Barb, the captain is not here! I’m flying the freakin’ jet by myself. And there’s no flight control problem, I’m faking it. The captain’s family is being held hostage by some freak who says he will kill them if we don’t crash this plane into the Golden Gate Bridge. The captain is somewhere down there on the 405 racing home, hoping to stop the lunatic from killing his family. So you can tell the passengers anything you want; just keep them calm for 45 more minutes and, hopefully, this nightmare will be over for all of us.”

In a shocked voice, Barb said, “Check your PA button.”

Chuck glanced down at his audio panel. The tiny button marked PA was lit. “Oh crap!” Now the passengers knew everything. He had just announced everything to the passengers. The blood drained from his face, sweat bursting from pores he didn’t even know he had. He could hear muffled screams of passengers coming from the cabin.

Barb screamed, “So you’re telling me…
us
, there’s no captain up there?! You’re all alone?! And we’re all gonna die in forty-five minutes? What am I supposed to do now?”

The phone went dead. He could hear more screams, closer this time, just outside the door, then banging—fist beating against the cockpit door.

CHAPTER 29

11:28 p.m.

The Mitchell house was deathly quiet. Keri’s eyes were frozen on the computer screen watching Ryan’s plane move slowly north along the coast.

The albino startled her when he crept up alongside her gurney. He placed one hand on her arm, attempting to calm her, and then lifted a finger to his lips. “Shhhh.”

Like
I
can
say
anything
with
my
mouth
taped
close
.

He cut his eyes toward the little man, before reaching into his satchel. He then took something with him and disappeared behind her, out of view, headed toward the kitchen. She heard the refrigerator door open and a cabinet door close. He then appeared with a glass of orange juice, which he handed to the little man.

“Here, you should drink this,” he said.

The little man turned from the computer with a smile. “Thank you.” Perhaps it was the salty chips or junk he’d eaten earlier, but he must have been parched, turning up the glass of juice and guzzling it down in a matter of seconds. The albino took the empty glass and returned to the kitchen.

“So, everything is looking good.” Samael called out to Usman from the kitchen.

“Yes. Not much longer and the plane will be making its final turn toward the target.”

Samael returned to the computer and leaned down close. “Beautiful. Whatever Captain Mitchell has done, he has kept the fighters on the ground.” He turned to Keri. “Your husband is doing a wonderful job. You should be proud.”

The thought of her husband minutes from sacrificing his life for his family, her two children drugged to within an inch of their lives, and Evil incarnate standing in her presence saying ‘everything is looking good’ made her nearly faint. Any faith she had left was sucked from her spirit.

How
can
a
loving
God
allow
this
?

“Perfect,” Samael said. “Well, it looks like your job is done, little man. Thank you for your help.”

“My pleasure.”

Within a matter of minutes, the little man began to fidget and squirm. She heard a noise she couldn’t identify, possibly gas erupting from the frail man’s body. He turned, searching for the albino.

“Samael,” he called, “I need to go to the bathroom. Can you come watch the computer?”

Samael said, “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I think so. It’s my stomach.”

“Your IBS acting up again?”

“I guess. Could have been something I ate earlier.”

“That’s too bad,” Samael said. “I believe there’s a bathroom just off the foyer.”

The little man scurried off.

The albino met Keri’s stare. “He has a bowel problem, among other things. I decided that once his services were no longer needed, I’d do his soul a favor and free it from that miserable little body.”

The albino’s eyes revealed a hollowness that was not of this world.

Samael explained, “The little cocktail I prepared him will ensure his body is purified once his soul slips away. The body, you know, is only good for a season.”

The freak had put something in the man’s juice, possibly a dose of the same dirty liquid he poured into the IV tubes. It must have triggered the little guy’s IBS. Of course, the smorgasbord of junk food he inhaled earlier didn’t help.

With the midget in the bathroom busy tending to his spastic colon, the albino pulled a syringe and a glass ampoule from his satchel. He twisted off the needle guard, and pierced the cap of the ampoule. Keri strained against her straps. Terror filled her eyes. She didn’t want to sleep.

Focusing on the hypodermic as it filled with fluid, he said, “Oh, dear, this is not for you, it’s for Usman.” He drew the plunger deep, filling the barrel of the syringe. “Lidocaine is my favorite.”

Although adverse drug effects from lidocaine were rare, if administered correctly, the dose the freak had sucked into the barrel of the syringe would stop a person’s heart in a matter of minutes. It was definitely not a pretty way to go.

The albino squirted some of the solution into the air then headed in the direction of the foyer, disappearing from Keri’s view.

She listened intensely.

Voices first, then a couple of thuds against a wall, very little struggle. Keri imagined the large albino had little trouble subduing the man before lancing him with the lethal dose of barbiturate, especially if the man had been seated on the toilet with his pant legs down, acting as shackles around his ankles.

The sound of the bathroom door closing against its frame, like a coffin, was followed by footsteps. The albino strode calmly into the room as if he’d simply been to the bathroom to relieve himself, nothing more.

A dead man was in her bathroom. She felt sick, nauseated. She forced her mind to think on something else, knowing the tape across her mouth might cause her to drown on her own vomit.

The
computer
screen
.
The
little
airplane
.
Ryan
.

“It looks like it won’t be much longer now.” He moved next to Keri’s bed. “I’ll ask you one last time before I go.” He leaned in close, taking a deep breath through his nostrils, smelling her like a flower. His voice lowered to a whisper. “Do you want to sleep?”

Keri shook her head.

“As you wish.” He raised up. “Keri, death of the body is not something you should fear. Your body is nothing more than a shell. Your soul will live on.” He stroked her head. “We all have a purpose, which I have learned can take more than one lifetime to discover.”

After picking up his satchel, he made one last look around the room and then flipped off the lights. The glow from the two computer screens provided enough light for Keri to keep watch over David and Martha. They were sound asleep—hopefully not in a coma. The freak disappeared behind her, headed toward the foyer.

She heard the front door open followed by the freak’s voice “Good luck dear.” The door slammed closed.

She checked the glowing digital clock on the computer screen:

11:32:05

11:32:06

11:32:07

11:32:08

Less than 28 minutes remained.

* * *

With his work finished, Samael checked the door after pulling it closed.

Good
.
Locked
tight
.

From the street it would appear to a passerby that the Mitchell household had turned in for the night. He embraced the cool, fresh, night air, taking a full breath, filling his lungs, and then exhaling. It was a wonderful night. He smiled as he strolled to the Suburban, whistling quietly as he walked.

He gazed into the sky, rewarded by the sight of a crescent moon—the same crescent moon that, as Mehmet, he had seen in 1453. It was the beginning of a new month, the end of his long struggle. No more hiding. No more shame. He would finally be whole, just as his beloved grandmother, Io, had been changed back from the hideous white heifer and freed from the maddening stings of the gadfly—the curse of Hera—he too would soon be rid of the torment of the white carcass that imprisoned his soul.

Before climbing into the Chevy, he looked back at the Mitchell house. Thanks to him, three more souls would soon be freed from their earthly bondage. At midnight, the computer program would activate the three infusion pumps.

He had lied to Keri about the two conditions that would trigger the infusion pumps. Regardless of what happened to the jet, she and the children would die. It was the only way.

He closed the door to the Chevy and cranked the engine. He thought of Usman, knowing the little man’s soul must be rejoicing. The thoughts of death made him jealous. He shifted into DRIVE, pulled away from the curb, and eased through the quiet streets lined with darkened houses, bodies sleeping, souls resting, all waiting for their glorious day of death and release.

The clock in the dash read 11:40. He flipped on the radio and scanned the channels, searching for a local news broadcast with a clear signal. Shortly after midnight, every station across the country would be broadcasting the crash. He didn’t want to miss the frantic drama.

His drive north to L.A. promised to be exhilarating. Assured there were plenty of hotels near the airport with vacancies, he looked forward to a restful night before his flight back to Istanbul in the morning.

CHAPTER 30

11:25 p.m.

Ryan pushed the Omni hard, the accelerator spending most of its time against the floorboard. But even with that, the sick engine could do no better than 70. If he slowed, he might be able to conserve fuel, but the minutes lost could make the difference between life and death for his family.

The fuel gauge needle had eased ever so slowly below the top of the ‘E’. Every muscle in his body was wound tight as a spring. With 28 miles to go, he prayed the dregs of the tank would offer up at least one more gallon.

Three thoughts constantly revolved in his head, all interconnected: time, fuel, family. He raised his wristwatch and, using the headlights from the car behind, checked the time—11:26. If the vapors in the tank would last, he should arrive at the house approximately ten minutes before midnight.

The thought of killing felt wrong, but he had no reservations. He took Chuck’s cell phone, flipped it open, and punched in 9-1-1 on the keypad. He lifted it to his right ear and heard the first ring, then a beep. He looked at the face of the phone. It was black. The battery was dead.

“Great!” He threw the phone out the window. “I guess I’m on my own.”

He felt his pocket to learn of another problem. His house key was on the ring with his car key. Chuck had both. “What else?”

He raised his left arm into the beam of light from behind—11:28. Each agonizing minute knotted his stomach tighter. He reviewed possible scenarios. He would park the car a couple of houses away, then ease around to the back of his house. The sliding glass door, leading in from the patio, should be unlocked. If not, his only other choice was the outside door that led into the garage. From the garage, he could enter through the mudroom. Other than that, his entry would be noisy robbing him of any advantage over the lunatic.

A flicker of light on the car’s instrument panel drew his attention inside. Everything looked normal. He stared for a minute, hoping to see the flicker. The thought of the engine overheating and seizing crossed his mind. He dismissed the thought. Suddenly, a yellow light next to the fuel gauge burst from the darkness. It was the fuel low-level light.

“Come on! You can make it!”

The needle had plummeted well below the bottom of the ‘E’. He turned the steering wheel slightly from side-to-side, causing the car to gently swerve in the lane. If any fuel was trapped in a crease in the bottom of the tank, he might be able to slosh it into the fuel line. With most cars, the warning light meant there was enough fuel for twenty to thirty miles; with the beater, there was no guarantee. He needed twenty.

There
is
no
time
to
stop
.

He pounded the steering wheel. “You’d better not die on me! Not now!”

CHAPTER 31

11:35 p.m.

Chuck ignored the screaming and banging coming from the cabin. The reinforced door should keep them out of the cockpit. He also stopped answering Barb’s calls. She’d have to deal with it the best she could.

The thought of passengers scrambling for the phones to call for help sent a shock of panic. If a passenger called the local news media or 911, they would discover the captain’s name, where he lives, and alert the police, FBI—the world. Ryan’s family would certainly die.

He reached for the overhead panel, pulling a circuit breaker, disabling the air-to-ground telephone system. Chuck knew it was still possible for a passenger to connect with the outside world using a cell phone.

He checked the flight computer. POINT B was 84 miles ahead—twenty minutes to go. Glancing to the navigation display, he noticed the name FARRA. He knew the location to be near the Farallon Islands. The ETA to POINT B was 11:55. He checked the clock—11:35. Once the jet made the turn over POINT B, the computer would increase the speed to 325 knots. At that speed, the last leg would take five minutes, arriving at the bridge as planned—12:00 a.m., midnight.

“Angel five four heavy, this is SoCal Center.”

Chuck had forgotten about the bogus flight control problem. ATC probably wanted an update. He really didn’t have time for games. He needed to get the jet on the ground.

“SoCal, this is Angel five four. Go ahead.”

“Angel five four, we received information that you might have a situation on board. Is this correct?”

“NO! All we have is a flight control problem. No ‘situation’. I repeat, no ‘situation’! Everything is under control. We plan to turn toward the coast, circle east, and land at Oakland.”