Hostages of Hate (10 page)

She looked over at Pauline Fox, who had also come alive in her seat. The newswoman was very interested, too. But when Callie looked at her and raised her eyebrows, Pauline could only answer with a shrug.

As snack time approached, Callie found herself getting more and more nervous. The terrorists were doing something nice for their captives. Why were they acting so out of character? Callie was convinced that whatever would happen, it would probably be bad. Not that she'd be able to do anything about it, though. The hijackers would be able to spread poison on every sandwich, and she wouldn't be able to get up and stop them. Or maybe she would. Dying from a bullet would at least be faster.

Then she was rudely shaken from her thoughts by Habib, who was walking down the aisle with a big bag, stopping at every seat. "We be nice to you, you help us. Money. Jewelry. You put it all in the bag, please."

Please. He walks down the aisle with a bag in one hand and a gun in the other, and he says please.

The man by the window in Callie's row dug out his wallet, pulling out a fat wad of bills. He passed them to the woman next to him, who took bills out of her purse, slipped off a gold ring, and handed the pile to Callie.

Reaching into her own pocket, Callie pulled out the money she had brought along. It wasn't much — she had left most of her money with Mr. Hardy. She had planned to hit the shops in Georgetown.

"That's all?" Habib said.

Callie nodded.

Habib pointed with his gun at the man. "You have a gold watch."

The man's face turned the color of dough as he quickly stripped the watch off. His hand trembled as he passed it over.

Then Habib looked critically at Callie. "Nice chain," he said.

Callie fingered the silver filigree chain she was wearing. Frank had given it to her when they had started going out. She wore it every day. It had cost Frank good money, but she knew it really wasn't very valuable. For a second, Callie thought of arguing. But she looked at Habib's gun and the bag he was shaking impatiently.

She sighed and started to slip it over her head.

"Achh," growled Habib. He grabbed the chain and yanked it off her throat, breaking it. He shoved it into the bag and went on to the next seat.

Callie stared after him, fingering the welt at her neck. If I get the chance, I'll make him pay for that, she promised herself.

"Stop. They're coming." Lars's voice was actually showing emotion. Why was he getting so excited over a food delivery?

Lars went into the first-class cabin, positioning himself to cover the door. Habib covered the passengers again.

They could hear the sound of footsteps coming up the access ladder.

"We bring tidings of the new day!" a voice called up.

"Then hurry the dawn!" Lars called back.

Callie blinked. A recognition code? Her heart chilled. The deliverymen must be reinforcements for the terrorists! How had they gotten past all the cops and guards outside?

Two men in gray coveralls came in, bent under the weight of a huge box.

"You heard? They knew the code!" Lars's face split in a big smile.

"Comrades! Brothers!" cried Habib.

The two newcomers put down the box, opening it. Then they stood, with machine guns of their own in their hands. "Yeah, right," said the blond-haired one, who turned to face Habib.

Callie froze in her seat. It was Joe Hardy!

FRANK HARDY HOPED that the smile on his face didn't look as phony as it felt. Every muscle in his body was strained to the bursting point. He kept one hand in his pocket, clutching his secret weapon.

"You brought more weapons and ammunition?" asked Lars.

Frank nodded to the blond terrorist.

"Any food?" asked Habib.

"Everything," said Frank.

"We think you'll especially like this. It's a surprise." Joe Hardy stood by the box of supplies and reached deep inside. He hauled up the Dutchman, bound and gagged, with an assembly of electronic equipment strapped to his chest.

The whole plane became silent as the two terrorists gawked at their leader, stunned to see him brought so low.

Lars turned to face Frank Hardy. His face was at its most dangerous — totally devoid of emotion. But his eyes glittered with menace, and his fingers were white around the grip of his Uzi. "Your government has made a great mistake," he said.

"Oh, we're not government guys," Frank admitted cheerfully. "This is a strictly freelance job."

"Even more foolish." The muzzle of Lars's gun inched up.

Frank didn't move his gun. Instead, he just held out his fist. Barely visible was a small remote-control device, about the size of a disposable cigarette lighter. Frank's thumb was over a small stud at the top.

"I hear you guys know all about bombs," he said. "So I guess you'll know a detonator when you see one. But maybe you haven't looked at your boss too carefully. You ought to check out the jewelry he's wearing."

Lars and Frank locked eyes. "Do it," Frank suggested. "Before you do something stupid."

Silently, Lars walked over to the Dutchman. The head terrorist had been bound so that he had absolutely no freedom of movement. Each of his wrists was securely bound to one of his thighs. Strapped to his chest was a mass of electronics hardware. Wires led up to his mouth. Dribbling from his lips was just the faintest trace of grayish yellow plasticine. . ..

Lars's eyes went wide.

"You do recognize it, don't you?" Frank asked. "Yes, it's CN. Used to belong to your friend Lonnie. He showed us his getaway bomb— before we took him down. We saved a little bit, though. Enough, say, to blow a man's head off."

Frank and Lars locked gazes again, both their faces grim. "Don't kid yourself," Frank said softly. "If I have to, I'll push the button."

Lars stepped away from the Dutchman, his face slowly going pale with the realization of what the Hardys had done. "And you call us terrorists," he whispered.

"Actually, he was the one who gave us the idea," Frank said, nodding at the Dutchman. "He said we'd never beat you by following the rules. So we decided to take a page from your book—where anything is allowed."

"Yeah," said Joe. "You've got everybody aboard this plane sitting on top of a bomb. So don't go complaining because we didn't treat your boss with kid gloves."

Lars glared, but his gun went down from firing position.

Frank nodded. "Now, that's being reasonable. And I can be reasonable, too. I offer you a trade. My detonator for yours. Your boss's life for the briefcase bomb." He grinned without any humor in his eyes. "And I don't want to rush you, but I want it now. It shouldn't be so hard to make up your mind. I hear you guys make split-second decisions about human life all the time."

Lars glanced over at Habib, then at the Dutchman. Frank held his breath. This was the big gamble. He knew that the two hijackers were willing to die for the Dutchman. But would they sacrifice their own leader? Frank didn't think so—and he was risking his life on that hunch.

He knew that if the Dutchman could speak, he'd order his people to take out the whole plane. But the Dutchman had his mouth full right then.

Slowly, unwillingly, Lars's hand crept into his shirt pocket. He drew out a detonator that was almost a twin to the one Frank held.

"Good," said Frank. "Put it on the floor. And I'll put mine down."

They crouched to deposit the killer buttons, staring at each other, fingers on the triggers of their guns. This was the crucial part. If Lars got hold of both detonators, Frank and Joe would die. And Lars was convinced that the same would happen to him and Habib if Frank got both detonators.

"Okay." Frank's voice grew tighter as he gave the last instructions for the exchange. "Now we stand. Both of us step away from the detonators." They moved away. "Now, on the count of three, we pick up the one we want. One — two — three!"

Both of them pounced. Frank snatched up the small electrical component, holding it tightly in his hand. He had done it! He had pulled the terrorists' fangs! This was their main threat to the airliner, and now it was neutralized. He almost went limp with relief, but still he kept a sharp eye on Lars.

"No!" Everyone's eyes shifted to Habib, who was backing up the aisle, his gun leveled at the group at the front of the plane — Frank, Joe, the Dutchman, and Lars. "We need the bomb," he said. "Our guns are not enough. Only the threat of the bomb will keep the policemen away."

He stared at Frank, sighting down his weapon. "You will put the detonator down," Habib said, almost parroting Frank's earlier instructions. "Then you will step away."

Frank opened his hand, studying the detonator for a long moment.

"Drop it, I say!" The ragged edge to Habib's voice was far more convincing than the volume he used.

Shrugging, Frank turned his hand, letting the detonator fall.

Passengers gasped or screamed as they saw the instrument of their destruction drop to the floor. Even Habib flinched, drawing back from the half-expected explosion.

When Habib jumped, his gun no longer covered the group. Frank used that second to complete phase two of his movement. He stomped on the detonator, crushing its radio microcircuits. Then he dove for the floor, praying that Joe would take his lead.

Habib shrieked in fury, triggering his Uzi. The hammering of rapid fire drowned him out as his bullets tore first into the ceiling, then sprayed randomly around the cabin. It also masked the cries of the passengers. They huddled on the floor as wild shots whizzed overhead.

Habib wasn't even aiming. He just swung his gun around in a wide arc, holding the trigger down. His fire was wild, the gun staying at shoulder height, sometimes rising above his head. Everyone on the plane had hit the floor, even the Dutchman. Somehow, Lars had pulled over the box that held the bound leader before the bullets started flying. Then he dove for cover.

Even though Habib's bullets had missed all human targets, they did do tremendous damage. The wild shots tore through the thin metal walls of the plane. They smashed lights, throwing sparks and fragments. And they shattered window after window.

Finally, Habib's forty-round clip ran out. He stood in the aisle, blinking in the sudden silence. The screaming had stopped. Only whimpers and a few terrified moans carried through the air.

Lying flat on the floor, Joe made some desperate calculations. Did he dare try a shot back at the terrorist? No, he didn't dare. Habib was standing right in the middle of the passengers.

Any off-target shot might hit an innocent bystander. What if a stray bullet hit Callie?

If only he could run down there and take this guy on hand to hand. He'd beat him to a pulp!

But Habib was too far away. Before Joe could get halfway down the aisle, the terrorist would have the new clip in. Then it would be Joe who'd end up dead.

Joe sighed. He was still angry, but he wasn't stupid.

A new sound entered the airplane—the scream of sirens outside. Blinking red lights sparkled through the windows where Habib's bullets had torn through the shades and glass.

Habib ran down the aisle, hosing down the windows again with a new clip. "Stay away, police!" he screamed out the windows. By the time he was finished, the whole starboard side of the plane had lost all its windows. They seemed to explode as Habib's bullets hit them, flying outward in a hail of fragments.

Frank Hardy held his breath. What if the cops outside started firing back? They could leave the whole plane looking like Swiss cheese. He desperately wished he had seen Callie before this all started happening. But before everything started, he hadn't had time to look. And now — well, if he stuck his head out, he'd probably get it blown off. Not that there'd be anything to see. All the passengers were hugging the floor. Even Habib's fellow hijacker was sprawled on the ground. Still, he'd like to see Callie, even if it was one last time—The gunshots ended again—early, it seemed to Frank. He risked a quick peek, to find Habib muttering in his native tongue and smashing at the bolt on his Uzi. His gun had jammed!

Frank swung up, bringing his own gun to bear. Habib caught the motion and hurled his gun at Frank's head. While Frank ducked, Habib dug something out of the pocket of his pants.

He held it up before him in both hands. Frank froze. A grenade!

Habib's right thumb gripped the grenade, holding the handle in. His left thumb was hooked through the ring of the firing pin. One jerk, and the grenade would be armed. If he opened his right hand, the handle would fly off, the timer would begin, and ten seconds later the grenade would explode.

Frank shuddered to think of what the storm of shrapnel would do in an enclosed space.

Habib slowly walked forward, his eyes wide, madness behind them. "You destroyed our bomb. But I brought a bomb of my own, you see?" He actually had a smile on his face as he talked to Frank. "Now you, Mr. American Tough Guy, you get to die." Habib laughed wildly.

Right then, he passed Callie's seat. She wasn't in it, of course. Like everyone aboard the plane, she was crouched on the floor. And because she was a weak, nonthreatening woman, she was on the aisle.

From her vantage point, she couldn't see what Habib had in his hand. All she knew was that Habib had a weapon and that he was threatening Frank. So, as Habib came past, she did the only thing she could think of.

She tripped Habib.

His hands thrust out wildly as he lost his balance. The pin tore loose from the grenade and went flying. Habib managed to keep his grip on the grenade as he toppled forward, his eyes wide with terror.

Frank dashed forward as Habib hit the floor. The grenade was armed and trapped under the terrorist's body!

HABIB LAY MOTIONLESS on the floor. He didn't even tremble. He was paralyzed with terror.

Frank Hardy was the only one who moved. He sprinted down the aisle of the airplane, dropping to his knees and skidding the last few feet. Before he had even stopped, he was flipping Habib over.

Frank took a long, deep breath of relief when he saw Habib's hand still tightly clenched around the grenade. "Okay," he said, reaching out his hand. "Just loosen up a bit. Give me that thing."