The Destroyed

CHAPTER 22

APRIL 12 th, 2006 ATLANTA, GEORGIA

“That’s it right there,” the woman said. She had introduced himself as Ms. Hafner, but by the way she’d stumbled when she said it, it was clear to Mila the woman had never used that name before.

Mila didn’t care. That was the business. Some people were just better at it than others.

The package was a square box no more than two inches high. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. It reminded her of those old-time packages she’d seen in the movies. Parcels, they’d called them.

What it contained, she didn’t know, nor was she even curious. That wasn’t her job. Couriers seldom were told what they were carrying. It was better that way.

Having already been informed that the item being transported was small, she’d brought along her brown shoulder bag. She picked up the box and deposited it inside.

“Anything else?” she asked. There seldom was, but she always checked.

“No, that’s it. You can go.”

A dismissal. That didn’t sit well. She may have been just a courier, but that didn’t make her any less important than the woman. Still, she stifled the response she wanted to give, and left with a smile. Work was work. No sense in pissing off a client.

More times than not, she would travel by commercial airliner. In a way, it provided a bit of a thrill as she passed through various airport security checks carrying packages filled with the unknown. Not once had she ever been stopped and searched.

Sometimes her clients would arrange for her to fly on a private jet or even on a governmental aircraft. Those trips never required a security check. She would simply be ushered on board and directed to a seat. Those kinds of flights were a mixed bag. Sometimes they were relaxing and enjoyable, other times they were uncomfortable and boring.

On this particular assignment, she’d been instructed to go to a private airfield just outside of Atlanta, where she would be hitching a ride on a noncommercial flight to Lisbon, Portugal.

As she drove through the city, she hoped and prayed the trip would not be completely horrible. A small private jet would be nice, something with cushy seats and a stocked bar.

She was well out of the city and into an area of farms and scattered homes when she finally reached the turnoff for the airport. The drive had taken her longer than she’d expected, causing her to push the outside window of the time she’d been given to catch the plane. So when she crested the hill and saw that it was still waiting at the airport just a quarter mile away, she was both relieved and annoyed. She was going to make it, but she certainly wasn’t going to be flying in style.

Though there were no markings on the side of the aircraft, Mila had no doubt the plane belonged to the US military. It was a modified commercial passenger jet. Not large like a 747, but the smaller type.

737? 727?

She wasn’t sure. Identifying planes wasn’t one of her specialties. What she did know was that military flights were devoid of any extra comforts. The best she could hope for at this point was not getting stuck traveling over the Atlantic with a troop of soldiers. That had happened to her once, and she’d been the recipient of a nonstop barrage of bad pickup lines.

The airport was surprisingly low-key. There wasn’t even a fence around the outside, and the only building of any size was a single hangar barely large enough to house more than a handful of small private planes. There was no tower, no terminal. Just a metal roof-covered concrete slab that was home to a few picnic tables. Truly a private airfield, albeit one with a runway large enough for a full-sized passenger jet.

Mila parked the car where she’d been instructed, grabbed her shoulder bag, and headed for the plane. Before she could get even halfway there, she was met by three military-looking men in civilian clothes.

“May I help you, ma’am?” one of the men said.

“I’m Mila Voss. I believe I’m expected.”

“ID?”

She pulled out her passport. She was traveling as herself on this trip, her client having told her this was a straight pickup and drop-off with no need to go covert.

The talker examined her ID, took a hard look at her face, then nodded and handed the booklet back.

“We were beginning to wonder if you were going to make it.”

“Farther out here than I was led to believe,” she said with a shrug.

“Hobart will show you aboard.”

Hobart, the youngest-looking of the three, motioned toward the plane and said, “This way, ma’am.”

They climbed the stairs and went inside. Mila had been expecting to see at least some of the seats filled. Given her late arrival, she had assumed she was last. But the plane was empty.

She looked at Hobart. “This flight’s not just for me, is it?”

“No, ma’am. The others will be here in just a few minutes, and we’ll be airborne shortly after that.”

She felt strangely relieved by that. If the plane had been for her alone, she would have really begun to worry about what was in the box she was carrying.

“You’re welcome to any seat in the first ten rows,” Hobart said. “And if you don’t mind, please use the facilities at the front of the plane during the flight.”

“No problem,” she said. “Thank you.”

She selected a seat next to the window in the seventh row. After strapping on her seat belt, she leaned over and raised the armrests that bracketed the middle seat. Once they were in the air, she could stretch out and get some sleep.

From her bag she pulled out the book she’d been reading- Goddess for Hire by Sonia Singh. She’d plowed through several pages when she finally heard more people coming up the metal staircase. She looked up, curious to see who her fellow passengers were. The first two who entered were large men dressed in dark suits. Military, perhaps, or law enforcement. Behind them came a third, similarly dressed man, only he was walking backward as he held on to the end of a metal pole that stuck out the door.

When the other end of the pole appeared, Mila couldn’t help but gasp. It was attached to a ring that was latched around a person’s neck. Though a black bag was over the person’s head, she could tell from the body it was a man. His hands were cuffed behind his back, while an additional restraint was wrapped around his chest, holding his arms to his side. His steps were short, almost a shuffle. She took this to mean his ankles and legs were also secured. Behind the prisoner came two more men in suits-one who looked to be in his late fifties, and the other younger but with the definite air of authority.

As the parade turned down the center aisle, Mila subconsciously slunk lower in her seat and pressed against the curved wall of the plane, wanting to stay as far from the prisoner as possible. But if he was as violent as the extreme measures seemed to suggest, he certainly wasn’t putting up any resistance.

When the prisoner drew abreast of her seat, she heard a noise coming from under his hood. Not his voice, but stuttering, gulping breaths as if he’d never been so scared in his life. Even more surprising were the clothes the man was wearing-jeans with a casual, cream-colored shirt, not a prison jumpsuit or something similar. Then she noticed the man’s fingers. They were manicured.

Who the hell was he? And where were they taking him?

Must be an extradition, she decided-a non-American prisoner being transported to Europe to answer for past crimes. She tried to remember if she’d heard about any upcoming prisoner transfers, but nothing came to mind.

It doesn’t matter, she thought. It’s not important. You don’t need to care.

That was right. She was just here to do her job and deliver the box to a woman she’d meet the next morning in a cafe in Lisbon.

Whoever he is, I don’t care.

As the prisoner passed, the young, authoritative-looking man approached her row and stared at her, as if surprised by her presence. She tried to nod a greeting, but her head barely moved. The man leaned over to his older partner and whispered something. The other man glanced at Mila, and whispered back as they walked by.