Authors: Robert Muchamore

CHERUB: Guardian Angel (31 page)

Before Ryan could answer, he saw the pilot fold the crumpled newspaper and post it beneath her seat. As the woman stood, she tucked her cap under her armpit and grabbed the briefcase standing between her legs.

‘Showtime,’ Ryan mumbled.

He let the woman take a couple of steps before standing up himself. As he swung his pack over one shoulder, Ryan realised the woman was hurrying. Either late for something, or desperate to use the bathroom.

‘Shit,’ Ryan mumbled, knowing it’s much harder to follow someone in a rush.

‘Problem?’ Kazakov asked.

‘I can handle it,’ Ryan said quietly, as he tried to catch up without making it too obvious.

‘Try getting her in the corridor.’

‘I know,’ Ryan whispered irritably. ‘I can’t
think
with you babbling in my earhole.’

Although Manta wouldn’t handle a passenger flight for another six hours, there was still a newsagent and café open and a few other people in the lounge. There was a chance the pilot might freak out, so Ryan didn’t make his move until she’d walked into a deserted corridor, passed a speak-your-weight machine and was turning into the ladies’ toilet.

‘Excuse me,’ Ryan said loudly.

The pilot assumed Ryan was speaking to someone else, until he repeated the call and tapped the back of her blazer. She looked startled as she turned, then a little irritated.

‘Can I help you, son?’ she asked, sounding cocky.

‘I need you to listen carefully,’ Ryan said, keeping his voice flat as he pulled a large touchscreen phone out of his pocket. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

The woman raised both hands and took a step back. Ryan’s olive complexion meant he could just about pass for a local.

‘
No
money,’ she said frostily as she swiped a finger across her throat. ‘It’s bad enough kids begging on the street. Clear off before I report you to security.’

Ryan switched on the phone and turned the screen to face the pilot.

‘Stay calm, don’t make a sound,’ Ryan said.

The pilot dropped the cap under her arm as she saw the picture on screen. It was her living room. Her husband knelt in front of the couch, dressed only in pyjama bottoms. A hooded man stood behind, holding a large knife at his throat. On his left stood two small boys, dressed for bed. They looked scared and the older one had wet pyjama legs from pissing himself.

‘What is this?’ the pilot asked, trembling. ‘Is this a joke?’

Ryan kept his voice firm, but felt terrible inside. ‘Tracy, you
need
to keep your voice down. You
need
to listen carefully and do everything I tell you to. If you do
exactly
what I say, your husband and sons will be released unharmed.’

The pilot trembled as her eyes fixed on the photograph. ‘What do you want?’

‘Speak quietly,’ Ryan ordered. ‘Take deep breaths. Walk with me.’

Ryan pocketed the phone and began a slow walk, leading Tracy back towards the passenger lounge.

‘Me and my people came on that big Ilyushin parked out on the tarmac,’ Ryan explained. ‘But we need a plane with flight clearance to get cargo into the USA.’

‘What kind of cargo?’ Tracy asked.

Ryan ignored the question. ‘We’ve got friends behind the scenes at this airport. Right now they’re loading your 737 with our stuff. You’re scheduled to fly to Atlanta in four hours. You’re going to take off on schedule, but once you’re in US airspace, you’ll put out a mayday and do an emergency landing at a small airfield in central Alabama. By the time the authorities realise what’s happened, we’ll have emptied our cargo and vanished. You and your family will be released unharmed.’

‘I want to talk to my husband,’ Tracy said.

‘You can want whatever you like, you’re getting Jack shit.’

‘How do I know that picture isn’t Photoshopped?’

Ryan hated what he was doing, but faked a mean smile as he looked back. ‘You want your boy Christian to lose a thumb?’

‘You’re just a kid yourself,’ Tracy stuttered, as she touched a wet eye. ‘Who are you working for?’

‘They like to call themselves the Islamic Department of Justice,’ Ryan said. ‘But I don’t work for them. Me and my dad are just in this for the money.’