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“That’s what I thought.”
“What do you want?”
“What I want is to get the fuck out of here. I want to be over the Atlantic right now. I want you and everyone else to be in my fucking rearview.”
“Everyone, like Sheridan? You wanted him to go down for this, didn’t you?”
This time, Henry stays quiet. Next to me, Sheridan glares hard down the runway, a dark brutality wavering from him.
“I’m opening the aft cargo door. You, and only you, Reese, will approach the plane. Leave your weapons on the tarmac and come inside.”
“Fuck you—”
“If you don’t, I’ll put a bullet in his skull.”
Henry, more than anyone, knows what Brennan means to me. “I want to hear his voice. I want to know he’s alive.”
“No. See for yourself if he’s alive or not when you come aboard.”
“Henry—”
“If anyone else comes near the plane, I’ll throw his body out of the cargo hold for the world to see. You have five minutes.”
He hangs up.
My forehead falls to my BlackBerry. Why wouldn’t he let me hear Brennan? He knew I’d ask for proof of life. It’s a standard part of hostage negotiation. Is Brennan—
Don’t think it.
Sheridan’s fingers brush the inside of my forearm. “You can’t go in there.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
“We don’t have to listen to him—”
“Sheridan, Brennan’s life is measured in minutes right now. He was useful to Henry and the Russians when they could hold him as a hostage outside the US, but his value is dropping exponentially the longer they sit in that plane. Henry has to know he can’t get out of here alive. What’s his next play? What are his options? What does he have left?”
Sheridan puts it together, the horror show that could ensnare the world in the next few minutes. All around the airport perimeter, cameras are pointed at us.
“We need to stop him before he executes Brennan on live TV,” I say.
His eyes widen. His lips thin, and his chest rises and falls, faster, faster.
“Henry has trained on our hostage rescue procedures. He knows how we’re supposed to breach. He’ll be waiting for us, ready for anything we try from the book.”
“Then what do you suggest, sir?” Nuñez asks.
I trace the schematics, the lines of the wings, the cargo doors. The open interior of the 707 unfolds in my mind as Nuñez described it: one large, cavernous bay. Cargo decking. The two sealed overwing emergency exits. Forward of the wings, the plane is split into two levels: cargo below, first-class seating above.
“Henry will be holding the most defensible position.” I point to the center, behind the wings and the wheels. “Here. This is where he’ll have Brennan. He’ll position guards on the upper level in first class and at the left and right doors along the fuselage.”
“What about the cockpit?” Nuñez asks. “We’re not seeing any movement, not since she ran off the runway. He has to be watching us from somewhere, and the cockpit has the best vantage point.”
“He’ll have a spotter in there. Maybe two. He’ll also want to maximize his firepower at the breach points.” I point to each of the doors forward of the wings and the aft cargo door where he told me to enter.
My time—and Brennan’s—is running out. A minute is already gone. Somewhere in that plane, Brennan is waiting for me.
“Here’s what we do.”
