Turning back toward the door leading out of the bedroom, Julian slid it open and watched the gunmen. They were still arguing. One of the men held a tablet between them as their heated exchange continued. Julian focused on the screen. Video of a soccer match being played, maybe from the World Cup.
The guns were still on the couch. The man closest to Julian pointed at the video, vigorously trying to make some point to the other gunman who was looking off into the distance as if contemplating the man’s perspective.
Julian felt the familiar anticipation of combat settling through his body, adrenaline pumping as he focused on the slow metronomic beats thudding in his chest. His hand gripped the butterfly knife and he slipped out of the room, easing the door closed behind him.
In two steps, he reached down and swiped one of the guns from the couch with his left hand while plunging the blade of the butterfly knife into one of the men’s throat, twisting then jerking it forward. The rebel dropped the tablet, his hands flying to his throat as his body fell to the ground. Julian pushed the man forward toppling him into the other rebel, who let out a frantic cry. Julian pointed the gun at his chest and pulled the trigger, silencing his wails.
“The lazy fools didn’t tie you up like they should have,” Dr. Quentin Tufa said, rising from the couch. He stretched and yawned, then settled back against the sofa. “I swear if we don’t give specific instructions, things never come out right.”
Julian sat down on the couch across from Quentin, securing the second AR-15 on his body with the shoulder strap. He pointed the gun at Dumay’s co-conspirator in crime and adopted brother.
Quentin taunted, “Go ahead. Kill me. You can’t stop what we’ve already put in motion.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
A loud shot sent a jolt through Mena. She screamed, unable to stop the sound from erupting from her mouth.
Grasping for the silver handle of the bathroom door, she squeezed it tight, turned, and pushed the door open. Had Julian been shot? What was happening out there?
Against the warning bells going off in her head, Mena rushed forward through the bedroom and slid open the door, stepping into the middle compartment of the plane.
The smell of death gagged her. The sickening and overpowering sweet metallic scent mixed with smoke from the rifle lingered in the air.
Scanning the room, her eyes were drawn to two dead men, their bodies crossing each other in a heap on the floor. One man’s neck was mangled and open revealing tissue and muscle as blood continued to ooze from the wound. The other man’s eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling in shock. His neck, chest, and arms covered in dark blood.
Gasping, Mena fought to resist vomiting as she stumbled backward.
“Mena!”
Startled away from the gruesome scene, Mena looked toward the sound and saw Julian standing near one of the couches. Concern clouded his face as he stared at her.
“You shouldn’t be out here. Go back inside the bedroom,” Julian said.
Mena rushed toward him, flinging her arms around him. “I thought you’d been shot. I had to come out and make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine, but you need to go back where you’re safe. I still need to find Adam Russell,” Julian said. He rested one arm around her while he pointed the large assault rifle toward someone behind her.
She looked over her shoulder. Dr. Quentin Tufa was on the couch, his head propped up on his hands as he stared back at them.
“No need to worry about Adam Russell. He won’t be ambushing anyone,” Quentin said.
“You’re lying,” Julian said, stepping in front of Mena shielding her from the view of the two dead bodies and Quentin. Mena peered around Julian’s massive frame, her hand gripping one of his arms.
“Check the luggage closet for yourself. Adam thought he could redeem himself for agreeing to testify against my sister by getting me out of Africa undetected,” Quentin said, shifting his feet to the floor as he sat upright. “My sister is more forgiving than I am.”
Julian turned and placed the assault rifle in Mena’s hands.
“I’m going to tie Quentin up while you hold the gun on him. If he makes a crazy move, you shoot him, center mass. Don’t worry about me. I’ll make sure I give you enough room to make the shot,” Julian said.
“I’ve never shot a rifle before,” Mena said. The rifle weighed a ton as it rested against her forearm.
“Like riding a bicycle, you’ve ridden one, you’ve rode them all. Trust your instincts, okay,” Julian said, then gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
Mena held the gun outward, lacing her finger on the trigger and directed it toward Quentin’s chest. Julian snatched tactical ties from the pocket of one of the dead gunmen and used them to secure Quentin’s hands and feet. He didn’t resist being restrained, allowing Julian to immobilize him without a fight.
Lifting Quentin from the couch, Julian dragged the man past Mena and into the bedroom where they’d been kept for most of the flight. She stood alone in the middle of the compartment, unsure of what to do next. Had Quentin killed Adam Russell? Was the danger over?
The door to the bedroom closed with a loud bang. Mena jumped and turned, pointing the rifle at Julian’s head. He was calm, reaching for the barrel as he lowered it to her side, then slipped the weapon from her hand.
