Warren Murphy: Terror Squad

"Open the bags," she said.

Remo unsnapped both canvas bags and brought out two hands full of money. "Small unmarked bills," he said.

"Put them back. You're not as good a hostage as seventy people."

"I think so. I'm vice president of the First Trust Company of Los Angeles," said Remo nodding to the markers on the canvas bags. "You know what we capitalists think of bankers."

A cold smile crossed the woman's face.

"You don't look like a banker."

"You don't look like a terrorist"

"You'll be the first to die if anything goes wrong," she said and then, waving to the back of the plane, barked an order. "Kareem, open the door."

She did not announce to the passengers that they would be freed, but told the rows closest to her to stand, then waved them to the rear of the plane. Shrewd enough to avoid panic, Remo thought. The plane emptied in less than three minutes. A young black boy wanted to return to his seat to get his toy fire engine, but his mother tugged him along angrily.

"Let him take his engine," said the woman in the dashiki.

One of the stewardesses refused to leave. "I'm not leaving until the pilots leave," she said.

"You're leaving," said the woman in dashiki, then Kareem grabbed the pale neck and flung her down the aisle and out the door. He shut it behind her.

The woman knocked on the cabin door. It opened, and a small black man with a large forehead and metal rimmed eyeglasses poked his head out Remo saw the tip of a .357 Magnum.

"You people wouldn't happen to have any elephants on board this thing, would you?" said Remo.

"Who is that?" asked the man with the Magnum.

"A banker. Our hostage. We have the money. We can go now. How is fuel?"

"Fuel's adequate," said the pistol-wielder.

"Okay, let's move it," said the woman.

The engines revved up and Remo felt the plane gather power for the takeoff.

"Do I stand here or may I sit?"

"Stand," said the woman.

"If the plane jerks, I could lose my balls."

"We're willing to take that risk."

"If you're willing to parachute with your bodies, why should you care about mine, right?" asked Remo.

The woman's face remained cold. "What makes you think we're going to parachute?"

"Your fuel. This is a prop job. You would have grabbed a jet if you were going out of the country. So you're going back east, I guess. The plane wouldn't go too far. Just for guesses, I'd say you're headed for somewhere mid-American, cause that's a good middle point, and for the sake of a good parachute escape, I'd say some very desolate or woody place where you're not going to land on Main Street."

"You're not a banker, are you?" asked the woman.

Remo shrugged.

"I hope you'll do as a hostage. For your sake," she said.

"You're pretty arrogant for a corpse," said Remo and when the plane reached four thousand feet, he smiled at the machine gunner.

"Guess what?" he said.

"What?" said the machine gunner.

"You lose," said Remo and came down with his pinkies, shattering the machine gunner's wrists. The black head came forward and Remo clapped flat hands against eardrums, creating skull pressure like a concussion grenade. The eyes bulged and were blank in death.

It happened so quickly, the dashiki-clad woman barely got a hand on a pistol inside her garment. Remo squeezed the wrist and hoisted her, hand under butt like a bag of groceries, and used her as a chest-high shield as he dashed down toward the rear of the plane where Kareem was trying to get a clear shot. Instead, he got the woman, full face, bodies colliding with a whoomph against the lavatory door.

Up front the cockpit door opened and Remo snatched his human shield again for another run. This time, he did not hurl her hefty unconscious body into the gunman, but moved forward around her just as he reached the cockpit door. A downward hand chop and the pistol fell harmlessly to the carpeted aisle, and the man tumbled over the dead machine gunner. The barrel of the .50 calibre pointed harmlessly to the ceiling.

"You guys okay in there?" Remo yelled into the cockpit

"Yeah, what happened?" said the pilot turning around.

Remo moved him face away from the door so the pilot could not see him. "Nothing," he said. "The plane is secured."

"We can head back to L.A. then?"

"Not yet. Better give me ten minutes of air-time, and then head back. I've got some talking to do. And stay off the radio for a few minutes." Remo reached over the two male bodies and shut the cabin door.

He hauled the dashiki-clad woman and the pistol wielder down the aisle, like baggage, to Kareems who was regaining consciousness. With cups of water splashed on them, they all woke up. The pistol-wielder groaned when he tried to move his right hand.

"Wha happened?" said Kareem.

The three hijackers sat, rump on aisle, back to lavatory door.

"We're going to play a game," said Remo. "It's called Truth or Consequences. I ask you questions and you answer them right or you pay the consequences."

"I demand a lawyer. I know my constitutional rights," snapped the dashiki-clad woman.

"Well, there's a little problem with that," Remo said. "Because of people like you, our government has an agency that works outside the Constitution. This agency employs one of the meanest sons of bitches you are ever going to meet He wasn't trained in legal technicalities. In fact, he only follows the law of the jungle."

"And that's you, honky, right?" said the woman.

"Well, let me warn you, you try any of your police brutality and they'll be a picket line from here to Washington looking for your ass. You hear me, honky. Looking for your ass."

Remo smiled and with a fluid move of him right hand, shattered her raised kneecap.

"Aaargfa," screamed the woman, grabbing for her knee.

"That's my introduction. I'm the mean son of a bitch. Now for your names, folks. Believe me. After this, you'll welcome police brutality."

"Kahlala Waled," said the woman, her face screwed in pain.

"Your real name."

"That is my real name."

"You've got another knee."

"Leronia Smith."

"All right. Good. Now you, Kareem."

"Tyrone Jackson."

"And you?" said Remo to the man who had held the cockpit

"Mustafa El Faquar."

"Let's try again," said Remo.

"Mustafa El Faquar."

"No. Not the game of the guy who sold your great grandpa to the slave traders. Your name."

"Mustafa El Faquar."

Remo shrugged. So be it. He caught the man by the fold in his neck and hoisting him off his backside dragged him the two steps to the door. With him left hand, he snapped open the plane door. A wind gust slapped his face. The pistol-wielder's dashiki fluttered like a flag amok.

"Okay, Mustafa. Why don't you think about it on the way to the street?"

"You wouldn't throw me out. You full of shit."

"What do I have to do," Remo said, "to convince you people I'm not your friendly police community relations team?"

"You bluffing, whitey."

"Goodbye, sweetheart," said Remo and flipped the neck into the wind. The body followed and disappeared without even the scream catching up to the open door.

Kahlala Waled and Kareem suddenly realized they had not been oppressed for three hundred years, and began to think of Remo as a friend. Really a friend. They hadn't even wanted to do the hijacking. They were just led astray.

"Thass right, astray," said Tyrone Jackson, alias Kareem.

Who led them astray?

A radical. A real rotten mother. Did they wish they had him here now. Would they tell him a thing or two. Kahlala and Kareem loved America. Loved people of all races. Loved mankind. Martin Luther King had the right idea.

"You're right," Remo said. "I could never handle a Martin Luther King. But you two are right up my alley. Now what is the name of your leader and where did you get your training?"