Hunt Them Down(67)
The fact that they were alive meant that their captor had something in mind for her and Sophia. That in itself wasn’t good news. Was it in retribution for what she had done to his ear? Maybe, but she couldn’t let fear cause her to lose her capacity to think clearly. As long as they were alive, there was hope of a rescue. Her gaze settled on Sophia as she wished her friend would open her eyes. But she didn’t. Leila listened carefully. She heard men talking in Spanish—weird, she hadn’t noticed them before—but she didn’t hear any breathing coming from her friend. Sophia’s chest wasn’t moving either. Fear clouded Leila’s eyes.
Oh my God, she’s not breathing. Sophia’s not breathing!
Leila tried to yell, but the duct tape on her mouth muffled her voice. She kept trying, but it did no good. She was powerless and angry. She lifted her bound feet and kicked at the side wall of the van. She only managed one soft thump before a man grabbed her elbow from behind. He yanked it back so hard he almost dislocated her shoulder. Then he grabbed her with both hands and pulled her up to a seated position. With one hand, the man reached for one of the edges of the duct tape over her mouth.
“This will be painful,” the man said in accented English.
He ripped the duct tape off in one swift motion. Her whole body shuddered. She screamed. In response, he slapped her across the face. Tears ran down her cheeks. She could feel the imprint of his hand on her skin.
“Sophia’s not breathing!” Leila screamed between two sobs. “Do something!”
A look of abject fear crossed the man’s features. He climbed over the rear bench seat and pushed Leila over. He removed the duct tape over Sophia’s mouth. The man’s back was toward her, and Leila wished she had use of her hands. She’d try to get the gun free from the holster on his hip or, at the very least, dig her fingers deep into his eyes.
She could spout all the wishful thinking she wanted; she couldn’t do anything for Sophia. Her mind slowed to a sluggish crawl, only able to focus on one thing.
Don’t die, Sophia. Don’t die. Please don’t die.
“Sophia’s alive, Hector,” his man said a minute later. “But she’s having spasms. Her breathing is depressed. The drug you used must have slowed her heartbeat. She’ll be fine.”
Hector breathed a shallow sigh of relief.
“Retape Leila’s mouth, and keep the girls quiet until we get to the airport.”
They were a few miles away from the airport. He called the chief pilot again.
“Is the plane ready?”
“It will be in five to ten minutes. We just started the engines.”
Hector grunted. “I want to take off the moment we get there, and I want you and your copilot to stay in the cockpit. I don’t need a welcome committee.”
“Yessir. May I ask where we’re headed?”
“Nassau.” The pilot needed to know which flight plan to file. “Can I drive directly onto the runway?”
It was an unusual question, but the pilot didn’t seem to care. “Usually no, but if you’re in a rush, I can ask the private aviation clerk to keep it open for you. Would that work?”
“Perfectly.”
“Very well. We’ll be ready for you.”
As Hector took the exit off Highway 95, three Florida Highway Patrol cruisers flew by in the opposite direction with sirens blaring and flashing lights whirling. An ambulance followed shortly after. Then another. It would take the authorities a few minutes to get organized, but there was no time to lose. At the end of the off-ramp, Hector made a left turn onto Lantana Road. He traveled westward for a mile and then was forced to come to an abrupt stop when a pair of Palm Beach County fire rescue trucks—sirens screaming—raced out of their bay and cut him off. Less than a quarter mile later, Hector made a right onto the access road leading to the airport. He slowed down to get his bearings. In front of him was the gate leading to the tarmac. It was opened, and Hector was able to drive the Ford close enough to the King Air 350 passenger door that they would have only a few steps to take before reaching the stairway and disappearing inside the aircraft.
His men climbed out of the panel van, fanned out around the plane, and took up firing positions. Hector opened the rear doors of the van, cut the zip ties around the two girls’ ankles, and, none too gently, dragged Leila out. He lifted her as though she were a doll and tossed her over his right shoulder. He climbed the small steps and dropped her roughly in the first available seat. He touched his damaged ear again, and his hand came back with a little blood on his fingertips.
“Don’t move,” he barked at her. She looked petrified. Good.
He repeated the process with the other girl but seated her in the third row, making sure she was facing the rear of the plane. Hector was about to order his men to board the plane when the cockpit door opened. A man dressed in a pilot’s uniform—the first officer, not the captain, since he was wearing only three stripes—stood motionless, a stunned look on his face. The pilot’s eyes darted back and forth between Leila, who still had her wrists tied behind her back and duct tape over her mouth, and Hector.
“Weren’t you asked to stay in the cockpit?” Hector asked, reaching the pilot in two strides.
Hector’s right hand shot out like a bolt of lightning. He buried his fist in the man’s solar plexus with such force that, had he hit the man over the heart, it might have stopped it cold. The man curled up, but Hector didn’t allow him to go down. Instead, Hector spun him around, grabbed his left arm, and twisted it behind his back while locking his own arm around the man’s throat.