Omorphi (81 page)

He exited the bathroom and hobbled back down the hall, only to halt and step back again when someone exited the locker room.

“Hey, Tom!” the guy called down the hallway. “I’m outta here!”

“See you tomorrow!”

“Naw, it’s my day off. See you the day after.”

“You remember to scan out?”

“Ah hell, I forgot. Do it for me, man.”

“Gary, you know I hate doing that! I could get my ass fired.”

“Come on, man. I won’t forget again. The badge is in the top of my locker.”

“Ah hell, get your lazy ass outta here. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks, man. I owe you.”

“That makes about six hundred you owe me, Gary!” He slammed the outer door at the end of the hall as he went back out onto the tarmac.

Michael slunk back into the bathroom and closed the door as Gary walked by. When he heard Gary say good night to the concierge, he snuck back out of the bathroom to the locker room.

There it was. Right where Gary said it would be. He hung the badge around his neck, deliberately putting it on backward so the ID wasn’t readily visible. Taking a deep breath and gathering his courage, he made his way down the hall and out onto the tarmac.

M
ICHAEL
couldn’t hear anything with the industrial earmuffs on and pushed one back behind an ear. The whine of the idling jet engines was deafening, and he slid it back in place. He looked around and decided he’d make himself a fixture by helping the baggage handlers do their jobs.

He tossed a bag onto the conveyor belt, and one of the guys gave him a thumbs-up. He returned it, reached for the next piece of luggage, and froze. It was a light blue duffle bag.

Fury ignited Michael’s spine, and he silently called Yosef every profane word he could think of. He thought simply to pick the bag up and run. The guy on the other side of the conveyor belt shook his head and pointed to the tag on the handle. It said “cabin.” Michael gave him a thumbs-up, lifted the bag with some effort, and carried it to the stairs. Every part of him screamed
run!
But he knew he’d never make it off the tarmac without being caught. The cast simply wouldn’t let him move fast enough.

Negotiating the five steps up to the plane’s cabin carrying the duffle was an exercise in excruciating pain and a waking nightmare. He was losing strength fast, and pain sought to overwhelm him. But that wasn’t the worst part of it. He could very well be carrying Christy to his death.

He entered the cabin to find Yosef lazing in an armchair with a goon sitting across from him, the doctor sitting to his right. The other three goons were nowhere in sight.

“I cannot leave the country with you,” the doctor whispered insistently.

“You will do as I tell you or you won’t live to see tomorrow,” Sanna said icily.

“As soon as I’m gone, my wife will call the authorities.”

“For the amount of money I’ve paid you, she’ll do nothing of the sort.”

Michael cleared his throat. “Excuse me.” He pointed to the duffle bag.

Yosef glared at Michael, as if he’d committed a cardinal sin by interrupting him. The goon sitting across from him stood.

“Sit down, Demetrius. Let the lazy American work. After all, I’m paying them a fortune. It goes in the aft cabin. Set it on the bed, and be careful with it. It’s fragile merchandise.”

No shit, asshole.
Michael walked as steadily as he could down the aisle and through the door at the back of the plane. It was a bedroom, and Michael cringed at the thought of leaving Christy there. The room also contained several other duffle bags of the same type and color, two of which were also on the bed.
What the hell?

He set the duffle on the bed carefully and checked the doorway behind him. A steward served drinks and snacks to Yosef and the others. Michael nonchalantly pushed the door so it rested ajar. He glanced at the door one last time before he quickly undid the Velcro and unzipped the bag six inches.
Books?
Antique books? Damn books?

He quickly moved to the next bag on the bed. His hands shook as he undid the bag and found more books. He checked the next bag on the bed.
More books!
He turned and reached for the first of the bags on the floor.
More fucking books!
There were books in every bag, and Michael nearly burst into tears. He took the hardhat off, shoved the earmuffs down to rest on his neck, and wiped his face with the back of a forearm.
Where are you, Christy?

On impulse, he thought to check the bathroom. Then he heard it: a faint moan coming from the closet. He hobbled over the bags and tripped, nearly sending himself crashing to the ground. He caught himself on the closet door and opened it quickly. Another blue bag! He bent and undid the Velcro and unzipped it quickly. There was his pretty little Christy, his face bloody and beaten. Christy moaned softly, “
Oh-he allo, oh-he allo.
No more.
Ego tha ypakouso.
I will obey.” Michael nearly burst into tears for the second time in a matter of minutes.

“Christy,” he whispered as he stroked his face with gentle fingertips. Christy slowly opened his bruised and swollen eyes. “We’re going to get you out of here,” he whispered behind the bandana. Christy’s eyes went wide with recognition, and Michael quickly clamped a hand over his mouth. “Just a little bit longer, baby. Be strong, and we’ll get you out of here. Okay?” Christy’s eyes darted around the room behind Michael, and he began to shake his head and then stopped. That’s when Michael saw the bloody bandage around his neck. The son of a bitch had reopened Christy’s neck wound. Michael bit back tears. “Can you stay quiet for a few more minutes? Just a little while longer?” Christy nodded once.

“Find out where that cabin boy went.” Yosef’s angry command drifted through the door. Michael kissed Christy’s forehead quickly, zipped the bag, and closed the closet door. He made it into the bathroom and flushed the toilet just as the goon swung the bathroom door open.

“Sorry. You know how it is,” Michael said sheepishly as he brushed past the goon and out the cabin door.

M
ICHAEL
hopped down the stairs on his good leg and looked around when he hit the tarmac.
Who to tell, who to tell?
He didn’t know who Smitty’s guys were, and he didn’t know if any of the ground crew were police or FBI.

“There he is!” someone shouted.

“Hey, you!”

Michael turned just as two of the ground crew apprehended him.

“Who the hell are you?” one guy demanded.

The other guy yanked the bandana down, reached for the ID tag, and turned it around. “You ain’t Gary! Get him inside, Fred, and have Dan call airport security! Find out who he is and what he’s doing out here!” The men all but dragged him back into the terminal.

“Wait, wait! I can explain! Do you guys know Smitty? Do you work for him? Wait! Someone’s being kidnapped on that plane!”

“Don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about, kid, but you have no business being out here.”

They dragged Michael down the hallway past the locker room, the water fountain, and the restrooms and into the lobby. “Dan! Call airport security! This guy got onto the tarmac! How the hell did he get past you?”

Dan picked up the phone and dialed just as the police, the FBI, and General Sotíras, followed by a livid Nero Santini, came through the doors.

“T
ELL
us again, Michael. Where exactly is he in the plane?” Nero ordered.

Michael repeated himself for the third time, his fury and anguish overriding his calm. “We’re wasting time! Get him off that plane! He’s hurt! He’s bleeding!”

“If we storm the plane, we run the risk of creating a hostage situation,” Agent Simmons said calmly.

“Have customs take the blue bags off the plane!”

A sharp rap sounded on the door of the claustrophobic little office, and Agent Simmons opened it. He exchanged heated words with a voice Michael recognized only too well right before one very angry Smitty entered the room.

“You disobeyed me, Michael.”

Michael looked away. He had no excuse and didn’t give a damn.

“Who are you?” General Sotíras demanded.

“He is the one I told you of. Lisa’s Uncle Smitty,” Nero said calmly.

The general’s eyes narrowed on Smitty. “You have spies with the plane?”

Smitty winced at the statement and turned to Agent Simmons. “We can’t delay the plane any longer.”

“Has customs searched the plane?”

“Yes. They did not find Christy.”

Michael shot out of his seat and nearly fell. Agent Simmons steadied him on his feet. “That’s bullshit! He’s on that plane! He’s in the closet in the back cabin. I saw him!”

Agent Simmons shook his head slowly. “Immigration verified everyone’s passports?”

Smitty nodded.

“Search the plane again!” Michael tried to push his way through everyone to get to the door and came face to face with Detective Davis. “Get out of my way, Detective. If you aren’t going to get him off that plane, I will!”

The detective merely shook his head. Michael tried to go around him, and Detective Davis stopped him easily with a firm grip to his arm. A cop grip.

“Have customs check the plane one more time,” Agent Simmons said softly.

Agent Brewer, who had been silent up to this point, left the room, and Smitty turned to go.

“I’m going with you, Uncle Smitty!”

“No.”

“I know where he is!”

Smitty looked at Agent Simmons, who merely shrugged. “Dress him back up. He’s familiar to them now.”

“I don’t believe it is safe for Michael,” Nero interjected.

“If he knows where Christy is, it’ll make this go faster.”

Nero turned to Michael. “You can’t, Michael.”

“I have to, Mr. Santini,” Michael implored.

M
ICHAEL
stood at the end of the hallway and listened to Agent Simmons give orders to his men, the police, and customs. “Whatever you do, do not turn this into a hostage situation.”

“He has diplomatic immunity,” the fat customs official said.

“That only means we can’t arrest him. It doesn’t mean that we can’t arrest everyone else and remove Christy from the plane. Remember, two thumbs-up if you’ve found him.”

Michael watched as two of the FBI agents dressed as ground crew unlocked their weapons, stored them in the front waistband of their pants, and left their jumpsuits partially unzipped.

“Your job, your
only
job, Michael, is to escort the baggage handlers to the back cabin and show them where the closet is. When they instruct you to do so, help the other baggage handlers remove the blue bags from the plane calmly and quietly.”

“Got it.” Michael tied the bandana around his lower face again and put the hardhat on. He left the earmuffs around his neck. He wanted to be able to hear everything said on the plane.

“Let’s go.”

Michael followed the customs official through the plane with two of Smitty’s men in baggage-handling uniforms. An immigration official brought up the rear.

“Mr. Sanna,” the customs official greeted officiously.

Yosef shot from his reclining chair. “I will see that none of you has a job if you don’t clear this plane for departure within the next five minutes!”

“Sir, if we may see your diplomatic coronet one more time?”

Yosef angrily withdrew it from his breast pocket and threw it at the man. It bounced off his rotund belly and fell to the floor. The customs official retrieved it and handed it back to the immigration official, who turned and left the plane with it.

“Unfortunately, we cannot do that until we have searched the plane one more time.”

“Why in bloody hell do you need to search the plane again?”

“Unfortunately, we have reason to believe there are animals aboard that have yet to be cleared by CITES.”

“Animals? What bloody animals? There are no animals aboard! And who the hell is CITES?”

“The Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora, sir.” He motioned to Michael and the two other men to search the plane again.

Michael made a beeline for the back cabin and opened the door. The blue bags were gone, and books lined the room in neat, orderly piles.
What the hell?
He made his way to the closet and opened it. It was empty save for the neatly folded and stacked blue bags. He turned around and headed for the bathroom. Nothing.

His panic began to rise as he turned back and looked around the bedroom. There was nowhere to hide Christy. Even the bed had a solid wood frame built into the floor. He turned back to the bathroom and opened the small shower enclosure. Nothing. He scoured the room with his eyes. The eight-by-eight inch ventilation grill overhead was no help. He looked down at the floor and found a trap door. Working the latches quickly he lifted the door and was immediately taken aback by the smell. It was the access for the toilet refuse tank. He closed it quickly, and something tickled his hand. He looked down and found a single, long blond strand of hair. He lifted it into the light of the small room and instantly knew it belonged to Christy. His anger soared, and he lifted the trap door again. “Christy!” he hissed. A muffled moan sounded from below.
Fuck!
“Five minutes, Christy! Five more minutes and we’ll have you out of there,” he hissed.

He left the hatch open and left the restroom. He peered around the bedroom door and motioned to Smitty’s guys to join him. They strode to the back cabin, and Michael pointed to the open refuse tank hatch in the bathroom. One of the guys gaped at him. Michael pushed him toward the bathroom and whispered, “He’s in there.” The man was at the hatch in two steps and dropped to his knees. “Christy?” he whispered.

Christy moaned softly again. The guy stood quickly with furious disgust on his face and spoke into his shoulder radio quietly. “This is Sam. Pull the refuse tank. The kid’s in there.” He clicked the radio off without waiting for a response. “You stay in here and act busy. When you hear the air valve hiss, close the hatch or the tank won’t release.”