Читать книгу Eye of the Beholder - Ingrid Weaver - Страница 8

The pilot’s blood spattered Glenna’s cheek, hot, wet and smelling like copper. Other passengers screamed, but Glenna couldn’t make a sound. The gun that was pressed to her windpipe cut off her breath.

“Ten minutes,” the man in the cockpit doorway yelled into his phone. “You give me an answer in ten minutes or we shoot another one.”

This couldn’t be happening, Glenna thought. No. It couldn’t be real. Any minute now she would wake up to the squeal of her alarm and the aroma from her coffeemaker and the chess problem in the morning paper and—

The pilot thumped to the floor. His white shirt turned crimson. Blood pulsed from the black-rimmed hole in his chest to form a gleaming pool at Glenna’s feet.

It was no dream. It was as real as the red stain that crept up the ivory leather of her high heels. Her legs turned to rubber, but she locked her knees to keep herself upright. She couldn’t fall apart. She never fell apart. She was levelheaded Glenna Hastings, always in control, no matter what problems were thrown her way. She couldn’t let herself show weakness, even if her stomach was congealing to ice and bile was burning her throat.

“Please…” It hurt to talk. She tried to swallow past the cold metal that was jammed to her throat. “Please, let me help him.”

They didn’t. The leader, the one with the phone, issued orders in an unfamiliar language. Two men stepped forward and dragged the fallen man to the open doorway. There was no staircase.

Oh, no. They couldn’t really mean to drop him—

Glenna winced at the sound of the pilot’s body hitting the pavement. Would he make it? Or would his life bleed away on the steaming tarmac before help could reach him?

He had tried to be a hero. Despite his white hair and his grandfatherly paunch, he had done his best to resist the men who had broken through the cockpit door and commandeered his plane. His efforts had earned him a bullet.

Was that what fate had in store for the rest of them? Would they be nothing but statistics on the evening news, faceless names to be read in somber tones, then promptly forgotten?

“You!” Someone propelled her forward with a rifle butt between her shoulder blades. “Stand here in front of the door.”

Glenna stumbled to obey them, grabbing the edge of the doorway for balance as she glimpsed the still form below her. A whimper rose in her throat, but she suppressed it. She couldn’t fall apart, she repeated to herself. She couldn’t.

She squinted against the blaze of afternoon sunlight, straining to fill her lungs with tropical air that was thick enough to spoon. Through shimmers of heat, she glimpsed a squat gray building with a glass tower and a drooping wind sock. A chain-link fence separated the runway from the rest of the airport. As she watched, a white van—an ambulance—rolled slowly through the gate and approached the plane.

Her heart had been slamming against her ribs in an exhausting sprint for the past eight hours. She hadn’t thought it was possible for her pulse to speed up…yet it did.

This was the first sign of outside help since the plane had landed on this godforsaken spot. It wasn’t much—what good could some paramedics do against maniacs with guns? Yet at least it was something. It meant the passengers and crew weren’t completely alone. And if the hijackers allowed someone to give aid to their first victim, then maybe there was hope for the rest of the hostages.

There was a sudden spate of conversation from the hijacker with the phone. The ambulance came to a stop twenty yards from the plane.

So near. So impossibly far away.

Glenna hadn’t realized she had swayed toward the open doorway until a rough hand at her elbow jerked her back. Once more, the muzzle of a gun was shoved under her jaw.

She blinked against the tears that she couldn’t quite control. She didn’t know the name of the island they had landed on. She couldn’t understand the demands the hijackers were shouting. But she did know that unless a miracle happened within ten minutes, she would be the next to die.

She had heard that a person’s life flashed before their eyes when they faced death.

It was true.

But rather than seeing what she had done in her twenty-nine years of living, she saw what she hadn’t done.

Oh, God. There were so many things she hadn’t yet done. She had always assumed there would be time. Someday, she was going to put the past behind her. She would take the chance to live like everyone else, maybe even love.

Love? How could she think of love at a time like this?

Yet if she didn’t think of it now, then when would she?

If only she had another chance, she would do things differently. She wouldn’t always have to be the strong one, the sensible one, the one in control. She would savor every moment of the time she was granted.

Please, God, let it be more than ten minutes.

Someone began to pray aloud. Seconds trickled past. Despair rolled through the fuselage in a choking wave. Fear was a smell in the air. Hope was as distant and unattainable as bedtime stories with knights in shining armor and happily ever after. Glenna swallowed a sob. She had left the fairy tales of childhood behind a long, long time ago.

This was reality.

There were no heroes.

Barely a leaf rustled as Master Sergeant Rafal Marek moved through the undergrowth. On his belly, using his elbows and knees, he inched toward the chain-link fence that marked the perimeter of the airport. Ignoring the sweat that trickled down his temples and the insects that whined around his head, he brought his binoculars to his eyes and focused on the plane.

The wide-bodied jet sat in isolation at the very edge of the tarmac. Black skid marks on the pavement showed where the pilot had desperately tried to bring the aircraft to a stop on a runway that was never meant for a plane that size.

Flight 481 had left Jamaica at dawn and had been scheduled to land in New York eight hours ago. Instead, it had been diverted to this crumbling strip of asphalt on a map speck in the Caribbean, its tanks so empty it was running on fumes. At this point it was unknown how the hijackers had gotten past the security measures in place at the airport and on the plane. Rafe suspected someone had been bribed or coerced into looking the other way. But how this had happened wasn’t his concern. What happened next was.

“Three in the cabin, two in the cockpit.” The voice crackled through Rafe’s earpiece. It was Captain Sarah Fox, relating what she could see through the windshield of the ambulance.

Rafe adjusted his earpiece and activated the attached microphone. “Weapons?”

“I can see two automatic weapons that look like Kalashnikovs,” Sarah said with her usual brisk efficiency. “The target in the doorway has one handgun, possibly a .45 calibre.”

“Seven minutes left to their deadline,” Flynn announced, laying his hand briefly on Rafe’s shoulder.

Rafe lowered the binoculars and glanced to his left. He hadn’t heard a whisper of sound as Sergeant Flynn O’Toole had approached. For a large man, Flynn could move with uncanny silence, a useful trait in their business. They had watched each other’s backs on more missions than he could count.

“We need to move in six,” Rafe responded. “Is everyone in position?”

Flynn melted into the shadows of a fern grove. One by one, the rest of the strike team from Eagle Squadron, Special Operations Delta, reported in. Rafe couldn’t spot them any more than he could see Flynn or Sarah. Good. The longer their targets were unaware of whom they were dealing with, the better the chances of this succeeding.

Usually the team planned a mission more thoroughly before embarking on it. They liked to consider every possibility, account for every potential flaw, and then practice the sequence of action until they could do it in their sleep. But the situation was deteriorating too rapidly to risk a prolonged standoff, so they didn’t have the luxury of practice time.

Worse, they were operating with no support. The Rocaman government hadn’t wanted to allow the U.S. military onto their soil in the first place, despite the fact that all the hostages were American citizens. The foreign secretary had done some heavy-duty arm-twisting, and eventually the locals had grudgingly agreed to permit Delta to send a small contingent, yet it was understood the team was on their own. There would be no backup. They would have to think on their feet, but then, that’s what they were best at.

The hijackers were demanding the release from an American prison of a convicted Central American drug lord, as well as ten million cash in American dollars and enough fuel to allow them to disappear. The negotiations were a farce—there was no way in hell any government was going to give in to those demands. Unfortunately, it looked as if the hijackers had realized that. They had already shot one hostage. In less than seven minutes, they would undoubtedly shoot another.

Rafe moved his binoculars to the body on the tarmac. White shirt, gold-on-black epaulets. Obviously the pilot. Hard to guess which had done more harm, the bullet or the four-meter drop from the plane door. The man’s chest was moving, so there was still a chance he might live if he could get medical attention.

The ambulance rolled another few feet closer to the plane, halting once more when threats were shouted from the open doorway. Rafe didn’t believe the hijackers would agree to let anyone tend to their victim, but the team hadn’t expected them to. The primary purpose of the ambulance was to provide a distraction.

Rafe moved into a crouch, stowed his binoculars in his rucksack and took out the wire cutters. One link at a time, he snipped an opening in the fence. He had readied the grappling hook and checked the sweep of the minute hand on his watch, preparing to go into action, when he caught a movement at the open door of the plane.

The hostage in the doorway was being repositioned by her captor to serve as a shield. Rafe retrieved his binoculars and focused on the woman.

She was right on the edge of the four-meter drop—one slip of her high heels and she would certainly fall. Good thing she didn’t look like the hysterical type. In fact, even with her business suit wilted from the heat, and her auburn hair straggling out of its clasp, she gave an impression of coolness.

She must have been one of the passengers traveling first-class. Classy was a good word to describe her. In other circumstances, with those clothes and that upswept hairstyle, she would exert the natural authority of royalty. Her elegant height and her body language marked her as someone more accustomed to giving orders than to following them.

Rafe adjusted the focus on the binoculars, zooming in on her face. Her chin was angled upward. The gesture was likely due more to the pistol that was pressed under her jaw than to defiance. Still, she didn’t look beaten. There were signs of spirit in the tight set of her lips and the angle of her brows.

She turned her head to the side, as if searching the surroundings. He knew she couldn’t see him behind the concealment of the foliage, but as her gaze swept past, he felt a jolt of reaction at the raw terror in her eyes.

He reconsidered his initial assessment. On the surface, she appeared in control, but it was the deceptive calmness of a charge of Semtex. There was a hell of a lot more to this lady than the elegant exterior she presented to the world. And she was no fool. She had to know that in a matter of minutes, she could be sharing the pilot’s fate.

Urgency gave an added push to Rafe’s pulse, but he breathed deeply until it steadied. Even in the best-case scenarios, there was always a risk of civilian casualties. That was the reality of high-stakes hostage rescues. He needed to keep his head clear if he wanted to do his job.

He was a soldier. That was his profession, that was his life. This was a mission. She was a stranger, no less and no more important than any of the other thirty-six hostages who remained on board the plane.

Yet as he looked at the woman across the heat shimmers that rose from the pavement, his reaction wasn’t that of a soldier. It was the reaction of a man. He wanted to save her. He wanted to protect her and erase the terror from her gaze. More than that, he wanted to learn what she kept hidden beneath that layer of control.

What would her lips look like when she wasn’t pressing them into a tight line? How would her cheeks move when she laughed? And her voice…what did it sound like?

Who was she? Why was some nameless redheaded hostage stirring feelings he’d had no problem controlling until now? He knew better than to let a woman distract him, especially a woman who looked like that.

“Thirty seconds,” Sarah said.

Rafe forced his thoughts back to business. He stowed the binoculars, pulled the black hood of his assault jumpsuit over his head and carefully pried apart the edges of the fence.

Glenna took shallow, panting breaths, trying not to inhale the smell of her captors as another one of the hijackers pressed close to her back. The ambulance was inching forward again. Despite the shouted commands of their leader, the men were peering past her in order to see what was happening.

A trim, blond woman dressed in a doctor’s white coat emerged from the van. With her arms raised over her head, a black leather bag clutched in one hand, she called out to the hijackers in what sounded to be the same language they had been using. Gesturing to her bag and then to tarmac, she obviously wanted permission to tend to the fallen pilot.

A heated discussion ensued. Glenna didn’t need to understand the words to get the gist of it. Permission was being denied, yet the feisty blond doctor kept arguing, despite the rifle that was thrust past Glenna’s shoulder to point straight at her.

The doctor seemed oblivious to the danger she was in. In fact, she appeared almost pleased with the reaction she was getting. What was wrong with her? It seemed as if she were deliberately trying to gain the hijackers’ attention.

A muffled clang vibrated through the plane. It was followed a heartbeat later by the thud-whump of an explosion.

The pressure of the gun at Glenna’s throat eased. She twisted to look behind her.

Dark smoke rolled through a hole in the opposite side of the plane. Glenna coughed, blinking to clear her eyes. There was a momentary glimpse of blue sky, then the opening was filled with moving figures. Before Glenna could blink again, a group of men, dressed in black from their boots to the ski masks that covered their faces, burst into the plane, brought their weapons to bear on the hijackers and opened fire.

After that, everything went by in a fast-forward blur. Bullets thudded into the seats and clanged into the fuselage as the hijackers fired back. Several of the black-clad men advanced on the cockpit. The other half guided the passengers toward the back of the plane, where an emergency exit was opened and an inflatable escape chute unfurled.

They were leaving. Against all odds, it was actually happening.

Glenna threw her weight to the side, trying to jerk away from the man who held her. He hooked his arm around her neck and yanked her back, wedging them both into the doorway. Using her body to shield himself, he fired at the retreating hostages and their rescuers. Glenna’s ears rang from the noise of the gun and her eyes were streaming from the smoke, but she continued to struggle, doing what she could to throw off his aim.

More quickly than she could have believed, her fellow hostages had funneled through the opening at the tail and disappeared, leaving her trapped between the hijackers and safety. Screaming in frustration, the man who held her jammed his gun to her cheek.

The gun barrel was hot now. It burned her skin. Glenna had another flash of awareness, another moment of clarity when she knew she was about to die.

But the bullet she expected didn’t come. Instead, a staccato burst of gunfire came from the direction of the cockpit and the arm around her throat went slack. And then Glenna was falling through the air. She had a split second to brace for the shock, but with the blood that was pumping through her body by her elevated heartbeat, she barely felt the impact with the ground. On some level, she registered agony as the pavement ripped the skin from her knees and her right ankle crumpled beneath her, yet the pain didn’t matter. She was alive. She was free.

But for how long?

She glanced around. Beyond the belly of the plane she could see the drooping orange emergency chute. At its base, the last of the passengers were clambering into the back of a large, canvas-covered truck. The blond doctor who had arrived in the ambulance helped load the pilot’s limp form, then leaped onto the running board just as the truck pulled away. Clods of dirt flew up from its tires as it left the tarmac and careened toward a gap in the fence that bordered the runway.

Even at this fast-forward speed, how could it all be happening so quickly? Glenna tried to stand, to run after them, but her ankle collapsed, sending her back to the pavement. Biting her lip, she had started to crawl forward when someone thudded to the ground behind her.

Panic that she had managed to suppress until now suddenly surged through her veins. Whimpering, she dragged herself another yard, only to stop short when her fingertips struck a black-booted foot.

“Give me your hand,” a deep voice said. “I’ll help you.”

Glenna looked up. One of the men who had stormed the plane just minutes ago was standing over her. Like the others, he was clad all in black. If she hadn’t already been terrified, his appearance would have been enough to send chills through her heart. His size, his black clothes, the rifle he held would have made him look menacing in any circumstance.

But right now, she knew he was her only hope. She grasped his hand and came to her knees, attempting once more to get her feet under her. “I…I can’t,” she said. She hated the weakness that put the quaver in her voice. “My ankle…”

He didn’t wait for the rest of her explanation. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he leaned down and slipped one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. “Hang on to my neck.”

She looped her arms around his shoulders. Beneath the tightly woven black fabric, there was no softness—his muscles were bunched like steel cables. His face was hidden behind the black mask. Only his eyes were visible.

But oh, Lord, he had beautiful eyes. Vibrantly blue and full of life. His gaze was as solid and confident as the rest of him. It glowed with strength, it made her want to trust him, hold him, perhaps even believe in heroes….

Glenna inhaled sharply. She was losing her mind. How could she be staring at his eyes while bullets were flying around her?

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes, except my ankle.” She glanced toward the rapidly retreating truck. There was no way they could catch up to it.

He cradled her against his chest and straightened up in one smooth motion. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of this. I promise.”

Normally she didn’t believe men who made promises. She had learned the hard way to rely on no one but herself.

But the rules she had lived her life by had become irrelevant eight hours ago. His voice affected her like his pure blue gaze. She wanted to believe him.

“Keep your head down.”

She did as he said without hesitation. Tucking her head under his chin, she pressed her cheek to the hollow of his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, princess. We’ve got a long way to go.”

It didn’t seem possible, but the muscles that had felt like steel hardened yet further. Crouching to shelter her with his body, he jogged toward the ambulance that sat abandoned on the pavement.

A sudden high-pitched whine drowned out the staccato pops of gunfire from the plane. The man carrying Glenna dove to his left. An instant later, the ambulance exploded in a fireball. Black smoke billowed upward while twisted shards of debris rained down.

“Oh, my God!” Glenna cried.

The man staggered sideways and muttered a curse. “Where did that shell come from?” He recovered his footing, then glanced toward the airport gate. “Oh, hell.”

Glenna saw the answer to his question at the same time he did. Two olive green pickup trucks, their cargo areas filled with armed men, sped toward them from the direction of the airport gate. At first she thought more help was on the way, but then she saw that the weapons were aimed directly at her and her rescuer.

He veered in the opposite direction, increasing his speed from a jog to a sprint. Glenna tightened her hold on him, doing her best to keep from flying out of his grasp as he lunged into a zigzagging path toward the fence.

Puffs of dust burst from the ground on either side of them. Glenna felt something whiz past her ear. They were almost at the fence when she felt the man jerk. A shudder went through his body and his grip on her slackened.

Desperately Glenna clung to his neck. Would this nightmare never end? Had she put her trust in the wrong man again? “Please. Oh, please, don’t leave me now. We’re nearly there.”

He grunted. “I’m not leaving you, princess,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe.”

Behind the black mask, his expression was invisible, yet his eyes shone with determination. He spared her only a glance.

It had the same effect on Glenna as before.

He managed another three limping steps before his leg buckled in midstride. He shifted as he fell, taking the impact of their combined weight on his back, then rolled over, rose to one knee and thrust Glenna behind him. While she pressed as close as she could to his body, he unslung his rifle from his shoulder and faced the trucks full of armed men that were bearing down on them.