Falling(22)

“It was a delivery truck,” she said, turning back to Sam. His eyebrows were pinched together tightly and he didn’t seem convinced. He thought for a moment and then pointed the gun at the children. Carrie’s breath caught in her throat.

“Go close the curtains,” he said, motioning to the living room. “Make it quick.”

Carrie’s heart pounded as she ran into the living room. She shut the curtains tight and then hurried back through the darkened room toward the kitchen. She’d been out of sight for mere seconds, but the relief she felt at finding the children in the same spot, unharmed, was overwhelming.

But she hid it all. She reminded herself that Sam would get nothing from her. He watched her walk coolly back to her seat at the computer and his scowl deepened. There was a deep confusion to his look. He watched her for a moment longer before speaking, his voice crisp. The gun was still pointed at the children.

“I’m not sure I like how calmly you’re handling this.”





CHAPTER SEVEN


JO STEADIED HERSELF AS SHE waited for the other flight attendants to come up front. She had tried to sound so nonchalant when she called them. Poor things had no clue what was about to hit them.

“What is this? Are we praying? What’s going on here?” Big Daddy said, startling Jo with his silent approach. His badge may have said “Michael Rodenburg,” but everyone at Coastal knew him as Big Daddy—and everyone at Coastal knew Big Daddy. Five foot three, not 115 pounds soaking wet; he’d been in the airline’s first flight attendant class and was one of only a handful still flying who had an employee number with only three digits. Coastal Airways was his third airline since starting his career a lifetime ago (the exact year of which he never exactly specified). He was a never-ending source of flight attendant folklore, the authenticity of which no one dared question. Passengers and crews either loved him or hadn’t a damn clue what to do with him. But either way, Big Daddy could get away with murder.

“Where’s Kellie?” Jo said.

“She’s coming.”

“Good. Listen. Things are about to get… interesting. Okay? I’ll explain once she gets here, but you and I are the seasoned ones. We’re gonna have to hold it tight, because I don’t know how Kellie’s going to react.”

“React to what?” Kellie said, her approach unseen from behind the galley curtain.

“Listen, baby girl,” Big Daddy said, clapping his hands. “Training is over. Shit is about to get real. But no matter what Jo says, just remember: planes can fly—no problem—with only one engine, and if at least seventy-five percent of the people currently on this plane walk off alive? I consider that a success.”

“Not helping,” Jo said, eyebrow peaked. “All right, look. We’re facing something that… I… Look, we’re going to have to…” She sighed. “Guys, this is a new one.”

Ignoring their looks, she soldiered on, ripping the Band-Aid off as quickly and clearly as Bill had with her. Neither moved a muscle or visibly reacted as they listened silently to the situation at hand.

Once Jo finished, Kellie’s wide eyes shot back and forth between her and Big Daddy like she was watching a tennis match, the seconds ticking on as the two senior members of the crew simply stared at each other with mutually raised eyebrows and pursed lips. During their preflight briefing, Jo had asked how long she’d been on-line. Kellie had said a little over a month. Jo realized the poor girl probably hadn’t even had her first medical yet, not even oxygen.

“I’ll cover service, don’t worry about that,” Kellie offered.

The other two stared.

“What… do you mean?” Jo asked.

“Like, while you guys handle all the crisis stuff. I’ll get all the food and drink orders.”

Jo and Big Daddy shared a glance. Jo spoke softly. “Honey, listen. The usual things? The drinks and the food and the smiling? You know that’s not what we’re here for, right?”

“Sure, but it’ll still have to get done,” Kellie said. “So I’m saying I’ll take care of all that so you guys can focus on, like, this other stuff.”

Jo watched the young flight attendant put on plastic gloves and shake out a trash bag.

“I’ll collect trash and just, you know, do service stuff,” Kellie said. “Probably better I’m out of the way anyway. I’m so new, I’d… I’d just be in the way, I’m sure.”

Jo wrapped her fingers around the young woman’s forearm, pulling her back in as she tried to leave. A heavy tear slid down Kellie’s cheek, plopping onto her red dress just above her wings.

“Kellie,” Jo said. “That’s not our job. Service is just something we provide.”

It had been decades since Jo’s initial training, but that didn’t matter. The five weeks of training flooded back in Technicolor vividness as though she’d been in Kellie’s class last month. Relentless studying followed by written tests. First aid and self-defense. Drilling, over and over, the evacuation of hundreds of people from a burning aircraft, or from a water landing. She and her classmates, breathless and sweating, had screamed commands until they were hoarse, orchestrating survival. They’d learned about the different kinds of fires and the different ways to fight them. Hazmat, heart attacks, hijackings. Federal regulations and federal air marshals. Turbulence. Terrorists. And all of it in a pressurized metal tube, thirty-eight thousand feet in the air going six hundred miles per hour. Five weeks of training and in only one of those days did they go over food, drinks, and hospitality. Jo watched the junior flight attendant struggling to breathe, knowing that this was the moment when Kellie understood what her job really was.