Yield (18 page)

You
’
ve got to be kidding me
, Abd Al-Aziiz cries behind sunken eyes. Shaking his head, the brooding Arab leans as far away from the mother and child as he possibly can. The armrest begins to dig painfully into his right side. But even that is a welcome exchange for the few extra inches of space it gives.

Terra Yun enters the cabin next, soon followed by her mother. A rolling silence moves with them, walking past first class and into coach. Terra
’
s sky-blue eyes look longingly at the plush leather seats of the elite. Reclining footrests. iPhone docks.

“
Not this time,
”
Debbie says, gently encouraging her daughter on.

Terra scowls in protest. She glances over at a tall, black teenager in 8B. Even sitting, the attractive high schooler is almost as tall as she is. Her gaze drifts up his decorated letterman jacket and stops on eyes the color of rich espresso.

Lights around the cabin suddenly flutter and pulse during an on-board systems test. Their faces flash in and out of the shadows.

His mouth still open in mid-conversation to Darius, Chris
’
s words suddenly fade away. Flickering, sapphire eyes and snowy skin seem to light up the cabin in front of him.

Please,
Terra thinks, shaking off the initial surprise of his piercing brown eyes.
Like you have a shot.

“
I just don
’
t think I can handle moving in with Dad,
”
Terra blurts out. She breaks away from Chris
’
s gaze and looks back at the pink carry-on rolling daintily behind her. The exotic teen continues into the plane, refusing to look back at the handsome stranger even though she still feels his eyes upon her.

“
He
’
s such a bachelor, Mom,
”
the 18-year-old model continues over her shoulder.
“
He cleans his condo like once a year. It
’
s seriously nasty.
”

“
Give it a chance, Terra,
”
Debbie sighs. She
’
s had the same conversation with her daughter at least a dozen times before.
“
Spokane is beautiful. Summers on the river. Close to the college you want. You
’
ll be in the dorm in less than a year.
”

“
Dorm life. Right,
”
Terra says blankly. She rolls her eyes.
“
Less room than at Dad
’
s.
”
The teen turns around and pleads with her inescapable charm. Her eyes widen, searching for that predictable sympathy she
’
s so good at finding.
“
You know people catch diseases in those bathrooms, right? Why can
’
t I just have my own place? You know, penthouse with a view
…
”
Terra smiles dreamily as she envisions her perfect new home of glass. Tall windows. Modern furniture. Stainless steel appliances
.

“
You win the lottery, girl?
”
Debbie chides.
“
I can cover tuition. That
’
s it. You
’
ll just have to make some sacrifices.
”

Her dream turns into a tiny studio filled with crap from Wal-Mart.

Terra
’
s eyes stop on an elderly couple sitting on the opposite side of the plane. They hold each other
’
s weathered hands with the love of many decades. Laughing quietly, the couple talks of times long past. The struggles they
’
ve overcome through a lifetime spent together all fall away, replaced by a joy of timeless content.

Terra smiles again as she looks at them.
A marriage that actually made it. Wow. Don
’
t see that much
…
She glances back up to the seating markers just below the luggage compartment latches. 18A 18B. The teenager rolls her heavy pink carry-on expectantly back to her mother.
“
Here.
”

Debbie glares back at her. Her hand refuses to budge. She waits, desperately hoping for some show of respect. Some sign that all of her lessons and parenting efforts haven
’
t been in vain. But the teenager just stares innocently back, oblivious to the parental plea behind her mom
’
s eyes.

“
What?
”
Terra asks. She puts her hands on the hips of her designer jeans and cocks her head.

Realizing it would take far more effort to fight her pampered daughter than to just give in, Debbie silently concedes. She grunts, and lifts the garish suitcase up into the storage compartment.

“
God knows, I can
’
t support your expensive tastes anymore,
”
Debbie mutters.
“
Gucci this. Versace that. It
’
s ridiculous. Go marry some CEO, Terra. Because the rest of us can
’
t afford you.
”

“
Oh, you know I deserve it,
”
Terra says. She kisses her mom
’
s cheek in payment. The model puts
a dainty
handbag on her lap as they sit, pulling out a compact and immediately beginning to examine her flawless makeup.

*  *  *

Standing only 5
’
6
”
but with a poised upper body nearly as broad, Terrence Mann moves discretely into the plane just as the outer door closes. His light gray suit coat covers a black v-neck and faded jeans. The wooden-faced African-American walks with a slow and calculated pace, his tense muscles like rock at the ready. He knows his emotionless eyes and cage fighting build terrifies people. And he loves it. He enjoys knowing he could take out anyone, anytime, and completely get away with it.

The sky marshal
’
s gaze flickers around the narrow cabin. His fierce eyes are always moving. They cut into the faces of potential threats, almost pleading for a challenge.
Grandmas and school kids,
he sighs in disappointment.
Just give me another Jihadist.
Or some drunk suit pissed off at his life. I
’
ll shove that damn, designer pinstripe down his over-educated throat
…

Terrence approaches a pregnant stewardess finishing her pre-flight rounds from behind. He lays a solid hand upon her shoulder,
leaning close to her ear.

Laughing at one of her fellow stewardesses
’
baby jokes, Isabel flinches in surprise from the touch. Her smile fades. The stocky black man
’
s torso feels like a block of ice against her back, his voice a gravelly whisper.

Isabel slowly turns.
“
Yes, sir,
”
she says just loud enough for those around her to hear.
“
Let
’
s find your seat.
”
She
’
s gripped by the violent resolve in the marshal
’
s pitch-black stare. The eagerness is intense, frightening even. Her chocolate eyes thankfully leave his and dart around the plane. Her stomach begins to churn. She doesn
’
t see him anywhere.

Almost on cue, the unmistakable color leans out farther down the cabin.
“
You
’
re right back there,
”
she says with a trembling voice. Isabel points aft toward a bright blue Seattle Mariners jersey and the fidgeting Arab sitting in 14B.

Terrence follows her eyes to Abd Al-Aziiz. He starts toward his prey without another word. As their eyes lock on one another, the instincts of hunter and hunted ignite,
challenging each other across the withering distance. Discrimination, survival and hate all blur together. Terrence
’
s black eyes burn across the cabin, their ferocity crackling. Begging.

Abd lowers his eyes, distracted by the baby crying loudly beside him. When he looks back up the fierce black man is gone. Abd glances around
, but
h
e
’
s nowhere to be seen. The Arab settles back into his sweaty seat and closes his eyes, muttering a quiet prayer.

*  *  *

Bloody hell I hate this part!

Devin
’
s red hair is thrust back into the headrest. He grits his teeth as the roaring jet engines outside his window rapidly begin to accelerate. The bald businessman next to him shakes his head and smiles back condescendingly. The fat bastard just watches on, entertained by Devin
’
s deathlike grip on both armrests.

The fireman
’
s body shifts and sinks, nauseated by gravity
’
s euphoria. Devin opens his emerald eyes to look out the small oval of glass beside him. The wheels skip and shriek before finally leaving the rough tarmac.

Structures and suburbs quickly shrink under the plane. Clouds thicken around the wings. The rain
’
s fury continues onto the rising aircraft. Drops of moisture slam into the windows then roll off as the plane bounces in the crosswinds. The world soon disappears beneath the vapor, completely erasing humanity and all of its achievements just below.

8:59
a.m.

Dense fog hangs low over Seattle, blotting out the scarlet sun. Jonathon
’
s glasses streak with rain as he lumbers up to the KOMO 4 News building downtown. His long legs take the last few steps to the entrance in a single leap. Brilliant fluorescent lights pour through the television station
’
s stately glass entryway.

Jonathon ducks out of the weather beneath an overhang. He wipes several drops from his cherished Rolex with the corner of a pinstripe jacket, shaking the water off his charcoal suit collar. The creative director rummages into his pocket for a thin, magnetic security card.

The man
’
s legs look almost too tall for his body, pushing his broad torso closer to a third of his 6
’
4
”
height. He doesn
’
t mind his odd proportions though. At least not anymore. Now all of his suits are custom-tailored; he prefers them that way. The perfect fit. The flawless lines. He wipes the rain off his forehead and up through his salt-and-pepper hair.

“
At this point, just give her what she wants,
”
he shouts into the cellphone at his divorce lawyer. His eyes darken. He
’
s had to repeat the same damn thing over and over all morning after talking to his estranged wife
—
first to the legal aid and now his attorney. It festers. Like a sore picked too many times.

Jonathon scrubs at his glasses with a pristine white silk cloth always kept in his inner left pocket. He folds and replaces it carefully, turning to look out at the blurring lights moving along 4th Avenue. He runs a hand down his graying goatee.
“
I don
’
t care. I need to be done with it.
”

“
She
’
s the one that left you, Jonathon,
”
the lawyer reminds. He can almost feel the victory slipping away.
“
We have some real leverage there.
”

“
You think I don
’
t know that?
”
Jonathon barks.
His stomach twists.
Am I really letting her do this to me?
He closes his navy blue eyes, the memories of a broken marriage flashing through his mind. Rain thunders down off the blackened sidewalks. It roars like static in his ears.
“
All I want is custody of Chris. She can have everything else,
”
Jonathon whispers. He holds his security key and ID badge to KOMO
’
s exterior sensor, pinning the phone to his ear so he can grip the door handle.

Beep.

“
Need help, Jon?
”
a silky voice asks from behind him.

Without turning, Jonathon opens the door and steps back. His eyes go wide as the familiar scent of Bulgari perfume wafts up to him.