The Destroyed

CHAPTER 24

APRIL 12th, 2006 30,000 FEET ABOVE THE ATLANTIC OCEAN

It could have been the chicken dinner, or the turbulence. Most likely it was both. But whatever the reason, Mila’s stomach was twisting and turning in ways it was never designed to do.

Shortly after takeoff, she’d been given a cardboard tray with her less-than-appetizing meal, but she’d been too hungry to set it aside. What a huge mistake that turned out to be. Upon finishing, she put the cardboard container on a seat in the row across the aisle, then stretched out and closed her eyes. Sleeping on planes was not something she had a problem with, so in less than five minutes, she was out.

The first bump invaded her dream, but didn’t pull her back to consciousness. But the second-a drop of what felt like at least a dozen feet-woke her with a start. She sat up, and immediately pulled down the armrest on the open side of her seat.

A speaker in the ceiling crackled to life. “This might last awhile. So everybody just hang on.”

It was a no-nonsense announcement that, if given on a commercial flight, would have probably resulted in the pilot being fired. No one on this plane was complaining, though.

For the next several minutes, it felt like they were bouncing along a dirt road full of potholes and bumps that threatened to shake the plane apart. It was somewhere in the middle of this that she felt her stomach clench.

She breathed deeply and evenly, her fingers gripping the ends of the armrests. The plane suddenly dipped again, and she almost lost her dinner. As soon as she had tentative control of her system, she looked around for a barf bag but there was none.

She began panting, hoping that would settle things down.

The plane jumped up and down, up and down.

Sudden movement at the front of the cabin caught her attention. One of the three men who had questioned her when she arrived at the airport had jumped up from his seat, and was weaving over to the toilet. If she was closer, she was sure she’d hear him retching, a thought that caused her own stomach to flip again.

Oh, God, she thought. It wasn’t going to stay down this time.

Putting one hand over her mouth, she used the other to unfasten her seatbelt, and lurched out into the central aisle. She started to turn toward the front, but remembered the man who’d staggered into the only toilet there.

She whirled around, and headed toward the back, her mind focused solely on finding the closest open receptacle. Her free hand grabbed the top of each seat, steadying her as she moved down the aisle.

In her head stay down, stay down played over and over. She could feel sweat gathering on her brow and above her ears. She wanted to wipe it away but both her hands were occupied.

She was getting close now. She could see two toilets in the back, one on either side. Even better, the indicator next to each handle was green, meaning they were unoccupied.

The plane slid suddenly to the left, nearly throwing her into an empty row. When she straightened herself up again, she saw with surprise that someone had moved into the aisle in front of her. It was one of the suited men with the prisoner, the young guy who’d stared at her as he’d passed her seat. In her distress, she had totally forgotten about her fellow passengers.

“You can’t be back here, miss,” he said. “You need to return to the front of the plane.”

“I can’t,” she eked out through the fingers that covered her lips. She’d never make it that far.

“There are facilities up there.”

“Someone…is using them.”

She could feel her stomach squeeze and everything inside boil in anticipation of its impending exit. She pushed it back down, but knew it might be the last time the effort would work.

“Please,” she said, the word not much more than a squeak.

From a seat nearby, the older guy said, “Olsen, let her through.”

“Sir, the orders.”

“Let her through, unless you want her to puke all over you.”

With a disapproving look, the young man moved out of the way. “Hurry up. Don’t take long.”

His instructions might have been the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. Hurry up? Of course she’d hurry up, but she had no control over how long she’d have to stay.

She rushed past him, threw open the door, and dropped to her knees just in time. For the next five minutes, the only thing in her world was the toilet. It wasn’t until the retching finally slowed that she became aware of her surroundings, and realized that while she had shut the door, it was still unlocked. Weak from her ordeal, she reached over and turned the handle, engaging the OCCUPIED sign.

At some point, she stood again. That’s when she realized the turbulence had stopped. She cleaned up as best she could, and did the same with the bathroom. She wished she’d been aware enough when she’d left her seat to grab her toothbrush and paste, but that was something she could take care of once she returned to the front.

Someone knocked on the door. “Miss, you need to go back to your seat.” It was the voice of the guy who’d blocked her way-Olsen, the other one had called him.

“Just a second. Almost done,” she said.

She checked her hair and face once more to be sure she hadn’t missed anything, then opened the door. The man was standing a few feet outside, looking impatient.

“Sorry,” she said. “Thanks for letting me by, though.”

“Please return to your seat,” he said.

“Sure.” She paused. “I, uh, would avoid using that bathroom if you can help it.”

Now that she was at least seventy percent herself again, her view of her world was no longer limited to whatever had been immediately in front of her. She could see the other guards spread out in the last three rows of seats. The prisoner was in the second-to-last row, up against the window on the same side of the plane as her seat. While the metal collar was still around his neck and the hood remained over his head, the pole had been removed. As she neared his row, he twisted in her direction.

“Please, please, help me,” he said, speaking rapidly. “My name is Thomas Gorman. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m-”

The guard sitting next to him touched a handheld device against the prisoner’s arm. By the way the man started jerking, she knew the device must be a Taser or something similar.

“Keep moving,” the older man said to her.

Mila picked up her pace. When she reached her seat, she retrieved her small bathroom bag, and used the forward facilities to brush her teeth. She then sat again.

Though weak from throwing up, she couldn’t get the prisoner’s outburst out of her head. She had a hard time falling back to sleep. After thirty minutes, she finally gave up, and stared out the window at the dark.

It wasn’t like the hooded man was the first prisoner to proclaim his innocence. That wasn’t what had disturbed her. It had been his accent-American. Midwest or even West Coast.

Why would an American prisoner be on a flight to Europe? As far as she knew, the US was not in the habit of extraditing its own citizens. He could have been a foreigner who was just good at accents. Maybe, but it didn’t sit quite right.

Thomas Gorman.

Why did that sound familiar? She knew that name, didn’t she? Not a friend. A movie star? Politician? Neither of those felt right, either. There was something there, though, some little itch of familiarity.

Whatever the answer was, it wasn’t coming to her.

When the plane finally landed, she was instructed to stay in her seat while the prisoner was removed. Unsettled by what had happened earlier, she turned on the hidden camera in her bag.

What she captured was even more than she’d expected. As the guards walked the prisoner down the aisle, he started shouting again. “Please, someone, anyone, help me! My name is Thomas Gorman. These people have taken me from my home, have violated my-”

This time the electric shock came through the collar.

Something her camera also caught.