bit dangerous, but she knew this wasn't the husband who had slept next to her for twenty-five years-and if not that one, then he had to be the other Clark, the one she knew about but had never seen.
'Look, I go there, I take a leak, and I come back, okay? Hell, you wanna watch,' he said, his voice slurred now from the half glass of wine he'd drunk alongside the terminal. 'That's okay, too, but please don't make me wet my pants, okay?'
What turned the trick was Clark's size. He was just under six two, and his forearms, visible with the rolled-up sleeves, were powerful. Number 3 was smaller by four inches and thirty pounds, but he had a gun, and making bigger people do one's wishes is always a treat for bullies. So #2 gripped John by the left arm, spun him around and pushed him roughly aft toward the right side lavatory. John cowered and went, his hands above his head.
'Hey, gracias, amigo, okay?' Clark opened the door. Dumb as ever, #2 actually allowed him to close it. For his part, John did what he'd asked permission to do, then washed his hands and took a brief look in the mirror.
Hey, Snake, you still got it? he asked himself, without so much as a breath.
Okay, let's find out.
John slid the locking bar loose, and pulled the folding door open with a grateful and thoroughly cowed look on leis face.
'Hey, uh, thanks, y'know.'
'Back to your seat.'
'Wait. let me get you a cuppa coffee, okay, I-' John took a step aft, and #2 was dumb enough to follow in order to cover him, then reached for Clark's shoulder and turned him around.
'Buenas noces, ' Ding said quietly from less than ten feet away, his gun up and aimed at the side of #2's head. The man's eyes caught the blue steel that had to be a gun, and the distraction was just right. John's right hand came around, his forearm snapping up, and the back of his fist catching the terrorist in the right temple. The blow was enough to stun.
'How you loaded?'
'Low-velocity,' Ding whispered back. 'We're on an airplane, 'mano,' he reminded his director.
'Stay loose,' John commanded quietly, getting a nod.
'Miguel!' Number 3 called loudly.
Clark moved to the left side, pausing on the way to get a cup of coffee from the machine, complete with saucer and spoon. He then reappeared in the left-side aisle and moved forward.
'He said to bring you this. Thank you for allowing me to use the bathroom,' John said, in a shaky but grateful voice. 'Here is your coffee, sir.'
'Miguel!' Number 3 called again.
'He went back that way. Here's your coffee. I'm supposed to sit down now, okay?' John took a few steps forward and stopped, hoping that this amateur would continue to act like one.
He did, coming toward him. John cowered a little, and allowed the cup and saucer to shake in his hand, and just as #3 reached him, looking over to the right side of the aircraft for his colleague, Clark dropped both of them on the floor and dove down to get them, about half a step behind Alistair's seat. Number 3 automatically bent down as well. It would be his last mistake for the evening.
John's hands grabbed the pistol and twisted it around and up into its owner's belly. It might have gone off, but Alistair's own Browning Hi-Power crashed down on the back of the man's neck, just below the skull, and #3 went limp as Raggedy Andy.
'You impatient bugger,' Stanley rasped. 'Bloody good acting, though.' Then he turned, pointed to the nearest stewardess, and snapped his fingers. She came out of her seat like a shot, fairly running aft to them. 'Rope, cord, anything to tie them up, quickly!'
John collected the pistol and immediately removed the magazine, then jacked the action to eject the remaining round. In two more seconds, he'd field-stripped the weapon and tossed the pieces at the feet of Alistair's traveling companion, whose brown eyes were wide and shocked.
'Sky marshals, ma'am. Please be at ease,' Clark explained.
A few seconds after that, Ding appeared, dragging #2 with him. The stewardess returned with a spool of twine.
'Ding, front office!' John ordered.
'Roge-o, Mr. C.' Chavez moved forward, his Beretta in both hands, and stood by the cockpit door. On the floor, Clark did the wrapping. His hands remembered the sailor knots from thirty years earlier. Amazing, he thought, tying them off as tight as he could. If their hands turned black, too damned bad.
'One more, John,' Stanley breathed.
'You want to keep an eye on our two friends.'
'A pleasure. Do be careful, lots of electronics up there.'
'Tell me about it.'
John walked forward, still unarmed. His junior was still at the door, pistol aimed upward in both hands, eyes on the door.
'How we doing, Domingo?'
'Oh, I was thinking about the green salad and the veal, and the wine list ain't half bad. Ain't a real good place to start a gunfight, John. Let's invite him aft.'
It made good tactical sense. Number 1 would be facing aft, and if his gun went off, the bullet was unlikely to damage the aircraft, though the people in Row 1 might not like it all that much. John hopped aft to retrieve the cup and saucer.
'You!' Clark gestured to the other stewardess. 'Call the cockpit and tell the pilot to tell our friend that Miguel needs him. Then stand right here. When the door opens, if he asks you anything, just point over to me. Okay?' She was cute, forty, and pretty cool. She did exactly as she was told, lifting the phone and passing along the message.
A few seconds later, the door opened, and #1 looked out. The stewardess was the only person he could see at first. She pointed to John.
'Coffee?'
It only confused him, and he took a step aft toward the large man with the cup. His pistol was aimed down at the floor.
'Hello,' Ding said from his left, placing his pistol right against his head.
Another moment's confusion. He just wasn't prepared. Number 1 hesitated, and his hand didn't start to move yet.
'Drop the gun!' Chavez said.
'It is best that you do what he says,' John added, in his educated Spanish. 'Or my friend will kill you.'
His eyes darted automatically around the cabin, looking for his colleagues, but they were nowhere to be seen. The confusion on his face only increased. John took a step toward him, reached for the gun, and took it from an unresisting hand. This he placed in his waistband, then dropped the man to the floor to frisk him while Ding's gun rested at the back of the terrorist's neck. Aft, Stanley started doing the same with his two.
'Two magazines… nothing else.' John waved to the first stew, who came up with the twine.
'Fools,' Chavez snarled in Spanish. Then he looked at his boss. 'John, you think that was maybe just a little precipitous?'
'No.' Then he stood and walked into the cockpit. 'Captain?'
'Who the hell are you?' The flight crew hadn't seen or heard a thing from aft.
'Where's the nearest military airfield?'
'RCAF Gander,' the copilot-Renford, wasn't it? replied immediately.
'Well, let's go there. Cap'n, the airplane is yours again. We have all three of them tied up.'
'Who are you?' Will Garnet asked again rather forcefully, his own tension not yet bled off.
'Just a guy who wanted to help out,' John replied, with a blank look, and the message got through. Garnet was ex-Air Force. 'Can I use your radio, sir?'
The captain pointed to the fold-down jump-seat, and showed him how to use the radio.
'This is United Flight Niner-Two-Zero,' Clark said. 'Who am I talking to, over?'
'This is Special Agent Carney of the FBI. Who are you?'
'Carney, call the director, and tell him Rainbow Six is on the line. Situation is under control. Zero casualties.
