“I’m not bluffing, you bastard,” Justin blurted.
The gunman behind him growled, but Justin was expecting his move. As the gunman lashed with his gun stock, Justin leaned to the right, turning around in his seat. He grabbed the shoulder stock of the mini Uzi with both his handcuffed hands and pulled it hard toward him. The submachine gun slid from between the fingers of the gunman. Once his hands reached the trigger, Justin jabbed the muzzle of the weapon at the gunman’s chest.
“Drop your guns,” he shouted at the two gunmen guarding the Prince.
One of them began to lower his gun. The other pointed his at Justin.
“No, you moron,” the Prince yelled at the defiant guard. “Put it down!”
“Drop the gun,” Justin said.
“No way,” the defiant guard replied.
Justin began to climb up to his feet, when his left knee jerked, hitting the glass table. The bump knocked over the wine bottle with a loud crack. At the same time, a spray of gunfire poured out of the defiant guard’s submachine gun. Bullets hit the aircraft’s walls, ricocheting around the lounge. One of them pierced through the man Justin had disarmed, killing him instantly. Justin was able to slip behind the couch, clenching the mini Uzi in his hands.
“No, no, stop,” the Prince shouted in between shots as he fell to the floor.
His shouts were stifled by more gunfire, coming from the other gunman who had begun lowering his gun. Justin replied with a single shot, through the back of the couch, which struck the gunman. A second later, another single shot came from the other section of the plane. The dark suit guarding the right entrance to the lounge collapsed, as Carrie fired at him through the glass door. She stormed the lounge. Without a word, she planted a bullet in the second gunman’s head and another one in the general’s chest. The last gunman, who was standing by the left entrance, responded with a short burst. Carrie rolled on the floor toward Justin.
“You’re hit?” he asked.
Carrie shook her head. “You are,” she added, glancing at his bloodied arm.
“That’s not mine.”
A barrage ripped through the couch over their heads, just as the airplane leaned to the left. They heard the empty click of the last gunman’s weapon.
“Now,” Justin whispered.
He peeked through the holes in the couch and shoved the short barrel of the mini Uzi in one of them. Then, he squeezed off two rounds. The last gunman let out a muffled scream and fell over the table, his head crashing through the glass top.
“The Prince,” Carrie shouted.
Justin knelt by the Prince, who was whimpering on the floor, lying on his back. Blood was gushing from a large wound in his chest. His golden tunic had turned crimson.
“No, don’t, don’t move,” Justin said, as the Prince tried to lift his head.
The man’s face was losing its color. He tried to speak but was only able to gurgle a bloody cough, followed by a raspy sigh.
“Shhh, shhh, shhh.” Justin reached for a cushion from the sofa. As he tucked the cushion under the Prince’s neck, he noticed the Prince’s right hand twitching. His eyes were glassy and dim; his breathing barely noticeable.
“Zakir’s gone,” Carrie said, before kneeling next to Justin, “You think he’ll make it?”
“No, he won’t.”
Carrie placed her hand on the right side of the Prince’s neck, checking for his carotid pulse. She found it irregular and slow.
“Any last words?” She leaned over the Prince, almost whispering in his ear. “Where’s the attack taking place?”
The Prince seemed to shake his head, but Justin thought it was the airplane shaking as if going through turbulence.
“Tell us,” Justin said, “where’s the ambush?”
“Sa… Sameer… Please don’t hurt… don’t hurt Sameer…” The Prince gasped, his eyes blinking rapidly. He swallowed and a mouthful of blood bubbled in this throat. A second later, his eyes stopped moving, and his head fell to his left side.
“He’s gone,” Justin said.
“And we still don’t know any more about the attack.”
The sound of running startled them, and they pointed their weapons at the right side entrance.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, it’s me,” Abdul shouted, before entering the lounge.
“Abdul, I’m glad to see you.” Justin climbed to his feet.
Abdul shook his head as he observed the carnage. His lips were moving rapidly but made no sound. Finally, he said to Carrie, who was still clenching her pistol, “You killed the Prince.”
“You wish,” she replied. “How’s the kid?”
“What kid?” Justin asked.
“Sameer, the Prince’s son. He’s in the other lounge,” Abdul replied.
“Oh, that’s what the Prince was worried about. Us hurting his son,” Justin said, making sense of the Prince’s last words.
He began to walk toward the next lounge, which was smaller than the first one. Four guards were sprawled against the walls.
“They’re all dead, in case you’re wondering.” Carrie followed one step behind.
“I had no doubt. How were you freed?”
“They made a mistake.”
“Turned their back for a second?”
“Half a second.”
“Where’s Sameer?” Justin looked behind the couches.
“I told you, he’s in the other lounge.” Abdul had caught up to them.
“How many lounges are here?”
“Three. This is the private jet of a Saudi prince, remember?”
Justin looked over his shoulder at Abdul’s grinning face. “Yes, I remember.”
“He’s playing videogames,” Carrie said. “I bet you he didn’t hear a thing.”
Justin looked through a small crack between the drapes. He saw a little boy lying on the floor, in front of a large television screen, frantically handling a controller. Large wraparound headphones rested on his head. The screen erupted in a series of explosions and the boy nodded in satisfaction.
“An eight-year-old is playing Halo?” Justin asked.
Carrie shrugged. “I’m not his mother.”
“Let’s go in.” Justin placed his hand on the door handle.
The voice of the captain coming from overhead stopped him.
“We’re, hmm, we’re experiencing some trouble with one of our engines, but…”
“Trouble? What trouble? Why did he stop talking?” asked Justin.
Carrie turned around, heading for the cockpit. “I’ll check.”
“Go with her. I’ll talk to the boy,” Abdul said.
Justin nodded. “Be gentle with him.”
“Of course, Justin. I have a son of my own.”
They walked back through the two lounges, making their way to the cockpit. Carrie threw open the door, and Justin pointed his mini Uzi at the startled faces of the captain and his co-pilot.
“Who the hell are you?” asked the captain.
“I’m the one giving you orders,” replied Justin. “What’s wrong with the plane?”
“I’m not sure.” The captain eyes bounced between the airplane’s control panel and Justin’s submachine gun. “Two of our engines are not responding. There a slight loss of cabin pressure coming from the Prince’s lounge.”
“The hydraulics system is failing too,” the co-pilot added.
“The shooting,” Carrie murmured.
“What?” the captain asked.
“Nothing,” Justin replied. “How far is the airport?”
“Five miles,” the co-pilot said. “We’re approaching from the north.”
He was a bit calmer than the captain and still manning the tens of gadgets of the control system.
“What’s our altitude?” Carrie asked.
The glass cockpit was wrapped in a thick curtain of gray clouds.
“Almost six thousand feet,” the captain replied after reading the altimeter.