Chapter 3

A Cruel Test

"All of you, put your head between your knees and no talking! We're taking over," called the man whom had been left behind in coach while the other went off to the cockpit, and I was still beating myself up for not acting quickly enough to prevent this. Nevertheless, I knew from experience that criminals in general could be very volatile, and so I complied with their demands, laying my head in my lap, but they could not stop me from thinking. The situation was bad—okay, it was very bad, but I'm trying to keep myself positive. I've had FBI training after all; shouldn't I be able to deal with this? In theory it made sense, but there was one flaw in my argument that glared at me more fiercely than any man I've ever slept with. I don't know what the Hell I'm doing.

Determined not to be completely useless, though, I mentally tabulated a checklist of all the tools I had at my disposal to take care of the problem. I had no gun, because mine had been placed in the cargo area prior to departure, and that in itself was a big problem. I didn't have the advantage of surprise I most normally do—you would not believe how many people don't think that women can pose a threat!—either, which only added to my discomfort of wearing men's clothing. I doubted any of the passengers would come to my aid if I incited insurrection, but that was alright; I didn't want to endanger them necessarily. I didn't exactly want to endanger myself either, but as the only qualified person in this situation, I felt I had little choice. Of course, that didn't change the fact that I was completely terrified.

Regardless, I had practically nothing to work with—airlines weren't exactly the greatest source of any conventional weaponry—and so I would have to be creative. I glanced down covertly into my purse, and noted what I had there. Makeup, compact, Ibuprofen, tissues, my ID, my wallet, two small travel-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner, some pens, my checkbook, a few old crumpled receipts, the last specks of crumbs from the coffee cake I had eaten at the terminal, and my keys. The only thing of potential use there were my keys, or maybe the pens if I was creative enough, but it would take some serious ingenuity to overpower a man with a gun. I waited until the man passed me, and then titled my head up slightly to look around and briefly survey the scene.

Again, though, I found nothing, and time wasn't waiting for me to come up with an answer. I glanced down at my watch and winced—we had already been in the air for an hour or longer, and who knew how long it would take the plane to reach Las Vegas? I had no guarantee of my time, but I knew I had to work fast.

I was fairly confident in my abilities to subdue the attackers, so long as I took down one at a time. Luckily, that was a very likely possibility, for I was sure that the other terrorist would not jeopardize their mission by leaving the cockpit unattended. With luck, the pilots would still be alive, but I couldn't count on that. I had to make plans for the worse, and hope for the better if I was to ever get out of this mess. Still, things looked pretty grim. Even one of the terrorists alone could be dangerous, since he had a gun and I did not, and that wasn't even including any other operatives that might be hiding undercover on the plane for backup.

After looking over the consequences, though, I decided that they were too bleak to worry about, and so decided to trust my life to chance. I wasn't happy about it—I don't believe in higher powers and, even if they do exist, I'm convinced that they're too capricious to rely on—but there was little else I could do. So, when the terrorist made his rounds near me again, I seized the opportunity.

The key, I knew, lied in the element of surprise. If I could distract the man long enough, I knew I could probably overpower him even despite the gun he was toting. And so, since I had also been required to leave my Mace in the baggage hold, I simply opted for a low, running tackle, and barreled into the terrorist before he could even tell what was coming. We collided sharply, falling to the floor, with me on top of him. His gun went flying, though I had little opportunity to collect it because I was still struggling to keep him pinned to the floor.

Now, despite my average stature as a man, which translated into above average whenever I was masquerading as a woman, I'm stronger than I look and I can pack a punch as well as someone a few times my size. But the guy beneath me was lean and muscular, and exceptionally flexible, and so no matter what I tried to do he always managed to dodge. I went for his jaw or nose and he rapidly turned his head; I went for the top of his head and he buckled in on himself; I went for his arms and legs and my grip slid off of him like jelly. Add to that the fact that the entire time he was fighting back against me, and needless to say I was in somewhat of a predicament. More than once I wondered where the rest of the passengers had gone, and had I not been so preoccupied I would probably have yelled at them in frustration.

And then, suddenly, as if bidden by my call, a cane appeared in my peripheral vision, and, unthinkingly, I snatched it immediately. During that time the terrorist tried to gain the upper hand, but before he could I slammed the cane into the side of his head roughly, knocking him out. Even after he was out, I sat there, clutching the cane so tightly that my knuckles whitened from the effort, and I panted heavily. One down, one to go, I thought, and stood slowly.

To my immense relief, no one in coach was rising up to take the terrorist's place, and I felt rather accomplished with myself, though I knew I still wasn't in the clear yet. Unfortunately, as I came out unscathed, everyone around me burst out into a loud cheer, and I could have just wrung their necks, I was so irritated! Had none of them any common sense?

"Quiet!" I ordered in a hushed voice, and I was incredibly relieved when the cheering ceased. And not a moment too soon either, for the voice of the other terrorist spoke through a comm. device the terrorist's, the one whom I had dispatched, jacket pocket.

"Bercelli, is everything clear by you?" asked the voice of the other terrorist, and everyone in the room immediately looked to me for what to do. I had, after all, taken out one of the terrorists, and I was the passengers' only hope. "I heard some strange noises from your way," the voice pressed, and I hesitated a moment. I wasn't qualified to do this—how had this mess ever happened? "Bercelli—"

"Everything is fine," I said quickly, with my best attempt to mimic the Italian accent I had heard the unconscious terrorist speak with earlier. "I had a little problem with a few of the passengers, but all is taken care of. There is no cause for worry.

"That is excellent," the terrorist said, obviously pleased, and I nearly breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing in his voice that suggested he suspected I was anyone else but his partner Bercelli. "Everything is going well here as well. The pilots are more than… cooperative and it shall not be long before we arrive at the checkpoint," the terrorist continued, with a disgustingly cruel inflection. Even so, that was not the worst of my worries—I had so little time left!

"Very good. The Boss will be pleased,"I replied, taking a stab in the dark while trying not to sound too hasty. The terrorist laughed in the background.

"That he will be," the terrorist said, and then paused for a few minutes. "The pilots are getting restless; perhaps I better get back to work. Good luck back there, Bercelli."

Once the man was finished, I closed the comm. link, relieved, and then tossed it aside. It was only then that I noticed I still had the cane in my hand, and an old man, presumably the person whom had handed me the cane in the first place, was staring at it forlornly like a long-lost friend. I tossed the cane to him, smiling gratefully at him, and then looked at the frightened flight attendants. "Do you have anything we can tie him up with? Hurry!" I urged, and the flight attendant nodded before quickly scurrying off. She and a few others returned not much later, with some sheets and pillowcases they had gathered from the back. I took the strips of cloth and tied the terrorist tightly to the seats of the airplane, and then stuffed a smaller bit of cloth, given to me by one of the other passengers, down the terrorist's mouth so that when he awoke he would not be able to speak.

Once that was finished, I went to search for the gun the terrorist had dropped during our collision, and at first I became somewhat frantic when I couldn't find it. Then, as I was passing by a teenage boy whom was examining it with fascination. I threw my hands up in the air out of exasperation, and then roughly snatched it from his hands. "Give me that!" I said as I did so, too stressed to be polite, and though the boy looked at me indignantly I barely paid attention. I strode up to the front of the cabin, and then addressed the entire crowd as loudly as I dared, which, consequently, was not that loud, "All of you, stay in here and stay completely quiet. If any one of you makes too much noise or follows me into the cockpit, that person is jeopardizing the lives of himself or herself and those of every passenger on this plane. Please, do try to be sensible."

I grudgingly waited for everyone to be seated again, though I knew I had little time, and once I was sure they would listen to what I said I turned around and quickly made my way to the cockpit. Anxiety had set in again after the euphoric feelings of success I had experienced after dispatching the first terrorist, and I was so uneasy that when I examined the gun I had stolen, a simple pistol and nothing more, it shook in my hand. But I had a job to do, and so I forced myself to calm down, breathing in and out deeply as I went through the mental relaxation exercises they taught us in training. As I did so, I removed the safety on the gun and checked the barrel to see how many shots I had. The lighting in the cabin shone on the small, silver cylinders which glared back at me like tiny beasts. Realizing my foolishness—only someone whom has never witnessed the atrocities of firepower can truly be poetic about it—I closed the barrel and cocked the gun, preparing it for fire, and just ahead of me was the door to the cockpit.

The door itself was fairly reinforced, and no doubt locked from the inside. And even if it hadn't been, I still would have been at a disadvantage since I was entering and not already inside. So, instead, I stood on the far right side of the door, and then kicked it harshly with my foot. That was bound to get some sort of reaction at least, and I hoped it was something I could work with.

When no one answered the door after a few minutes, though, I kicked the door again, certain that someone, whether it be the terrorist or whether the terrorist would force one of the pilots to do it, would come eventually. And, sure enough, the heavy door began to open slowly, and I held the gun close to my chest, ready to fire it as a moment's notice. In the FBI, we were encouraged to capture, not kill, but any agent, myself included, knew that sometimes that was not possible, and so I was prepared. Or I hoped I was, anyway.

As it turned out, the terrorist had decided to answer the door himself, and before he could even lift his gun I had made my move. I moved quickly, almost like lightning, and smashed him on the head with my borrowed gun, switching the safety off as the gun arched through the air so that it would not accidentally fire. The terrorist dropped his gun numbly to the floor and swayed back and forth. I kneed him in the groin then, and reached down for his gun as well, leaving him completely unarmed unless he had a knife hidden on his person somewhere. My heart beat rapidly in my chest, pounding so loudly that I could feel it in my ears, and my hand shook lightly.

It was easier than I had inspected—no, much easier. Out in the field, I didn't trust easy, especially when it usually meant I was overlooking something very important. So when I stepped over the terrorist's body, holding both his gun and the gun I had stolen in my hands, I was very cautious. I advanced further into the cockpit, searching for the pilots and trying to determine whether they were alive or not. It was only when I saw their dead bodies laying on the floor with a few bullets in each that I finally realized the plane was losing altitude.

We were falling, and despite the fact that I had dispatched the terrorists, and there was nothing I could do about it. I didn't know how to fly; I didn't know how to navigate or to land or do anything with the plane! We were going to die—I was going to die—and in an act of desperation I rushed forward and took up the controls. I had to try something!

Before I could contacted the air base, however, a familiar coldness pressed into the top of my head, and I did not need to look back to know that I had the barrel of a gun trained on me. I gulped instinctively, and I knew then it was truly over. My worst fears had come true; there had been another terrorist lying in wait in case something interfered with their plans. How could I have been so careless? And now I was going to die, all the passengers were going to die, and, if the terrorist's communications were anything to go by, so would a hundred or more people when the plane crash landed in Vegas. We were all going to die, and all because I hadn't acted in time. I felt horrible.

And yet, in those last few moments, all I could do then was selfishly examine my life, realizing that it was entirely too short. I had never had time to enjoy life—I was only twenty six! I had never found true love, never found someone whom I settle down with and be happy with, never had I had a chance to be truly loved or accepted. I had missed so many things in my life, but those facts hurt most of all. It was only when I was on the verge of tears that the man behind me spoke.

"Special Agent Demarcos," he said, and my breath suddenly caught. How did this terrorist know my name? What was going on?! I could feel him smirking at me behind my back, and he continued, "You have passed the test. Congratulations."

Instantly the pressure trained on my head was gone, he had stepped back from me, and before my eyes all the presumed 'dead' pilots rose up, in seemingly perfect condition. One of them gently pushed me out of the seat as they took over the controls once more, and I stood their motionless, my mind trying to process what had just happened.

And then a sudden burst of anger hit me, and I wiped the tears from my eyes, spun around, and smacked my fellow agent right across the face.