Chapter Nineteen

As Max pulled up, Johnny jerked open the door and surged out. He ran for the already cordoned entrance. Slater and Donnie dragged him back as Max dug in from the front. Johnny was living a nightmare.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t. I was just with her. Yesterday, I held her. She was alive, and I just spoke with her, a few minutes ago. I heard her voice.”

“I know, bro. Stay with the vehicle; Slater will hang with you. You hear me, bud?”

Johnny struggled and stared at the pathetic array of flashing lights lining the entrance. With no integrated emergency services and a lack of resources, many incidents in Kenya had poor response times. Lack of specific training of emergency personnel, poor coordination, and a lack of standard operating procedures were invariable challenges when it came to militant attacks. They’d all arrived too late.

“I need to see her.”

“I can’t let that happen.”

That was Max’s way of saying he expected a plane-full of deceased flight crew and passengers… no survivors.

Johnny swiped at a damp cheek, then studied the moisture on his fingers. He’d never cried before, not even when his uncle died. Especially not when his mom died. He didn’t care if he begged. He had to hold her one last time. “Sir, I need to see her. Let me see her.”

“Shit, man. You don’t want to do this. I’ll take care of it.” Max pulled in a rough breath. “I’ll take care of her.”

“No.” Johnny pushed back unsteady legs.

Slater stepped alongside. “I’ve got Johnny’s back. He’ll get his shit together. He has to; it’s a crime scene, right, big man? They ain’t gonna let a raving lunatic in, and you’ll get your ass thrown in jail if you ram your way through those Kenyan officers. Here’s a shirt. You left your giant-ass boots behind, so watch for thorns.” Slater passed him a T-shirt, and Johnny pulled it on with shaking hands.

“If we’re doing this, put your game face on and zip up your pants. I ain’t gonna help out with that situation.”

“Screw you.” Johnny forced out the words as the team stepped up to the cordon. The lone officer glanced at his bare feet.

“He’s with us.” Max flashed credentials, and they were through. A police inspector approached. Johnny recognized him. He’d attended a terrorism response class that MIT2 ran four months before in Garissa, a city east of Nairobi.

“Inspector Kamathi.” Max shook his hand and exchanged pleasantries.

The inspector led them to the hangars. “We’ve only just arrived. Figured we missed the bastards by five minutes.”

The first wave of carnage littered the private terminal, and they skirted the bloody trails. Exposed skulls indicated the Scythian’s scalping path.

“Survivors?” Max asked.

“In here? None so far. Seven dead. We’re shutting down all the freeways and exit points. We’ve barely cleared the aircraft; we haven’t yet assessed casualties onboard.”

Then they were back in the sunlight, exiting onto the airport apron. The Airbus sat centered in the shining commotion. A body lay under a tarp at the bottom of the stairs. The panted legs and shoes indicated a male. Johnny’s heart pounded in a sticky rhythm. Not Lizzy.

The inspector gestured to the dead man and the discarded handgun lying beside him. “This was the only guard on the property. Looks like he tried to stop them from boarding the aircraft. Poor bugger didn’t stand a chance.”

That was all they’d had. One lone man with a Ruger pistol standing between them and death. Walk up the stairs. One foot in front of the other.

Lizzy was in there—waiting for him—he owed her that. He owed her family that. Johnny clutched at the rail, then climbed the steps towards hell.

Butchery and bullet holes. The carnage that was the front galley had him pausing to suck in a breath. Bloodshed and gore were part of the job. Seeing it, living it, stopping it, causing it—wiping out terrorist cells. Death was a familiar friend. But this was different. Personal. Surreal. A brunette lay mangled on the floor, her pooled blood drying in the sticky heat. Someone’s daughter. His eyes ran over the sightless expression of terror, the smudged cherry-painted lips frozen in yawning death. The portion of her scalp above her left eye was hacked off.

Johnny’s head turned on its own volition, drawn to the place he’d last spoken to Lizbug. He stepped left, towards the peppered cockpit door hanging off its hinges. The first officer lay over the controls. Blood was strewn across the right side of the cockpit. The captain’s seat looked untouched. Johnny’s eyes drifted to the floor, imagining where Lizzy had tried to hide—where she’d curled up in terror.

He stepped back out. After a cursory examination of the flight attendant’s body, Max stood up from his haunches.

“The captain isn’t in the cockpit,” Johnny said.

“He’s missing,” the inspector confirmed.

Johnny nodded towards the cabin. “The others, are they in there?”

Slater placed a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t we head back to the truck?”

Johnny didn’t pay him any heed. Max had grown still, spotting something down the aisle. The bulkhead obstructed Johnny’s view.

“Stay here,” Max commanded. Slater pulled Johnny back as Max moved deeper into the aircraft. Shoving forward, Johnny launched into the cabin and leaped across the seats. Max knelt before another crew member strewn in the aisle. Bloodstained and golden-haired. Johnny barely registered barreling down the aisle or howling out the pain.

Slater tackled him from behind. Knee buckling, Johnny kept on going.

Max wrestled him away. “It’s not Lizzy. It’s not her!”

He didn’t believe them and kept fighting.

“Look. It’s not her.” Max let go, and Johnny sank to his knees. The broken woman was taller than his Lizzy. Still so fragile and small. He tucked a remaining bloody strand behind her ear.

Where is she? Where’s my girl? Pushing off, he headed towards the luxurious lounge ahead. A female passenger lay dead in her seat. Mid-fifties. Her two-person protection detail lay across the floor. Local police stood nearby. Ignoring the whispers over the woman, Johnny broke into the rear cabin—laid out as an economy cabin capable of seating twenty-five passengers. He counted five bodies, the paid entourage for the female VIP seated in the front area. The back galley sat empty. What was left to search? Lavatories. Showers. Rest areas. With Slater’s help, Johnny systematically searched the plane. By the time they’d worked their way up to the front, the newly acquired manifest listed a full count of who was supposedly onboard—Max ran through the list with the inspector, and they both swore.

“The deceased female VIP is the US Ambassador to Kenya’s wife, Mrs. Jenna Clark.”

“Oh, shit,” Slater said.

“His son, Mason Clark, was also onboard and is now missing, along with Captain Stuart Williams and Miss Lizette Steyn.”

Walking out onto the stairs, Johnny sucked in gulps of air. Was she still alive? That also meant that the Horse Lord had her.

Not for long. If the Scythian wanted a hunt, he’d be tracked, captured and gutted—James Cane style.