Storm Front: A Derrick Storm Thriller (38 page)

Volkov, on the other hand, would have no such worries. Any bullets he shot from his wooden gun—and Storm was assuming he had plenty of ammunition left—would hit less sensitive parts
of the airplane. Storm was expecting to be greeted by gunfire at any moment.

But none came. He opened the door farther. He could now see half of the first officer’s seat and part of the corpse that was slumped there.

He kept pushing the door, ready to fire the moment he saw any piece of Volkov. Slowly, steadily, inch by painstaking inch, he pushed until the door was fully open.

There was no one sitting in the pi lot seat.

But that didn’t mean Volkov wasn’t hiding somewhere. Storm crept in, not fully committing himself to entry in a narrow hallway—where he’d be an easy target if Volkov suddenly came at him from around the corner—but giving himself a better view. Still no Volkov.

He allowed himself a baby step. Nothing.

Another step. Still nothing.

After another step, he could now see the entirety of the space: the instrument panel, both pi lots’ seats, the booster seat for a third pi lot, the console, the avionics compartment—all of it.

Storm blinked, unable to believe what he was seeing.

The cockpit was empty.

Storm stayed perfectly still for a moment, almost as if he only needed to look hard enough to make Volkov appear. His mind was clicking through possibilities, but none of them made any sense. There was no door in the cockpit other than the one he’d entered through. There was no cubbyhole or space large enough to hide any man, much less one of Volkov’s width. There was no way out of the cockpit other than perhaps through the windshield, but that was intact.

Storm watched transfixed the eerie, ghostlike sight of the plane flying itself. The yoke budged itself slightly to the left, making a tiny adjustment in course per the order of the automatic pi lot computer.

Storm’s reflexes were set on a hair trigger. His gun was still drawn. He reminded himself to relax his grip—holding too tightly actually slowed reaction time—but he didn’t dare move anything else.

He was starting to consider other options. Maybe Captain Montgomery had been mistaken. Maybe Volkov hadn’t really gone into the cockpit. Storm had been in the belly of the plane when that transaction occurred. Was it possible that Montgomery—who had just watched his first officer get killed and sustained a wicked blow to the head—had missed something?

Storm was working out a new scenario—one involving Volkov somehow loading automatic pi lot coordinates into the computer then retreating into the plane—when his peripheral vision registered movement from above him.

It was a human arm.

Storm leaped forward. Some fraction of a second later, Volkov fired.

Had these events happened in reverse order, Storm would have been dead and the world would have been put on a course toward incredible turmoil.

Instead, the bullet, which was aimed for the top of his head, continued traveling in the space where the top of his head should have been. In rapid succession, it passed near his neck, shoulders, back and butt, all body parts that had been removed from harm’s way during the course of Storm’s lunge. Then it struck one of the body parts that hadn’t quite cleared: his left calf.

Storm roared in pain just as Volkov dropped from the ceiling, where he had been splayed ever since Storm started working the dial on the transmitter. Volkov landed square on Storm’s back, pinning him to the floor of the cockpit. Storm was aware that his gun, already loose in his hand, had gone flying; and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it land in the well under the yoke, where the pi lot’s feet normally go.

Volkov had dropped his own gun like it was of no further use to him—like it was out of wooden bullets? Storm guessed—and
wrapped a tree trunk of a right arm around Storm’s neck. Then he clasped his right hand with his left and began squeezing with more than enough force to restrict most of the blood flow to Storm’s brain.

Storm knew he was in danger. He had perhaps forty-five seconds’ worth of consciousness left. He had to make the most of them.

There was no point trying to loosen Volkov’s grip. He’d have a better chance of prying open the jaws of a hungry shark. Storm’s only advantage was height. Volkov was ten inches shorter.

Storm struggled to his feet, lifting not only his 230 pounds but Volkov’s denser 220—and doing it with little help from his damaged left leg. Volkov was now draped on his back like a cape, the extra weight strengthening the chokehold.

Storm started taking backward steps out of the cockpit. He needed some room to maneuver, some runway to get up some speed. Soon, he was backpedaling as fast he could, given his encumbrance, and had cleared into the first class cabin. He finished his back-stagger with a mighty back-dive toward the first row of seats. His aim was to get a hard part of the armrest to connect with the soft part where Volkov’s neck connected to his skull.

He just didn’t get enough lift with his left leg. So he missed. The backrest connected midway up Volkov’s back.

Still, the power of it—450 pounds propelled at a moderate speed from six-plus feet in the air—was enough to momentarily loosen Volkov’s grip. Storm adroitly slipped away and the two men faced each other.

Each was in a crouch, ready to spring. Close-in fighting favored the shorter-armed Volkov. Boxing favored the longer-armed Storm. Both men knew this and were sizing each other up, trying to see how they could turn the fight to their advantage.

“I am so pleased you are here, Storm,” Volkov snarled.

“Why? You’re getting a crush on me? Don’t worry. It happens to all the girls.”

“No, it’s that I realized something when I saw you this morning,”
Volkov said, then pivoted and executed a sweeping high leg kick. Storm dodged it easily.

“And what’s that?”

“I never really paid you back for these,” he said, pointing to the scars on his face. “All this time, I thought you were dead, so I figured our score was settled. But now I see you and I know you need to be punished.”

Storm grabbed a laptop computer that had been left behind by one of the passengers and threw it at Volkov. The Russian blocked it with one swipe of his paw.

“It won’t work, you know. This absurd thing you’re trying with Cracker.”

“Oh, I beg to disagree, Storm. I have some of the richest men in Russia ready to cash in on the disruptions to the market, and with the money they make, they’ll be able to fund an insurrection that would topple even the mightiest government. Those clowns who run Moscow now will have no chance. Mother Russia is meant to be ruled by a strong leader. I am that leader.”

“You’re twisted.”

“You flatter me. It’s a shame I have to kill you.”

“You’re the one who’s dying to night, Volkov.”

Volkov’s response was to lower his head, emit a banshee yell, and charge. Storm reacted with what was meant to be a devastating right-leg kick to Volkov’s rib cage. The only problem was, the launch of it meant he was standing only on his left leg. The moment the majority of his weight transferred to the wounded side, he crumpled.

Volkov, who was aiming for Storm’s midsection, ended up overshooting. The entire exchange only resulted in them swapping sides of the small clearing at the head of the first class cabin, where they were facing off.

Storm did not wait for Volkov’s next rush. He came at the smaller Russian swinging with his fists. Volkov tried to back away but was not fast enough. He was stung by a round house right, then by the left jab that followed it. Blood flowed from his nose.

Volkov tried to get in underneath the punches so he could bear hug Storm and turn this into the wrestling he preferred, but Storm fended him off with an uppercut that opened a wound over Volkov’s eye.

Both men retreated for a moment. Had this been a heavyweight prizefight, Storm would have scored solid points on all judges’ cards. It’s just that no scorecard could account for the gunshot wound to Storm’s calf.

The men were now on opposite sides of the cabin, each breathing heavily, each struggling with his wounds. Volkov’s good eye—the one not patched over—was beginning to swell shut. Storm was losing feeling in his left leg and didn’t know how much longer the limb would continue to respond to his commands.

Both knew the fight was coming to an end. Each thought he would be the winner.

Volkov’s eyes were darting around. He backed farther away, and Storm thought he was working up room to come at him headlong. Instead, he ran at Storm, then cut quickly to his left down the aisle.

Storm’s first thought: He was going for another gun he knew he had hidden in his carry-on luggage.

But then Volkov passed right by the seats where he and Cracker had been sitting.

Storm’s second thought: He was fleeing back to the passenger cabins.

But then Volkov stopped short of business class.

Storm was reacting too slowly, thinking too slowly. Both of his thoughts had been wrong and his left leg was now dragging badly behind him.

Volkov was going not for a gun or for a passenger, but for the emergency exit door on the side of the plane. He yanked away the seal around it and then grasped it in both hands.

It came away easily. They were at low enough altitude that the change in pressure was not significant, however the wind was now
whipping into the cabin through the opening. Thousands of feet down, the earth sped by.

Storm realized, too slowly, the advantage Volkov now had: a forty-pound steel weapon. He had hefted it so he was gripping the bottom of the door and he was coming fast at Storm.

Storm was trapped midway down the aisle—a sitting duck. If he stood there, he was going to get bashed. And he couldn’t retreat fast enough on his gimpy leg to be able to elude Volkov.

He had no choice. He dropped his shoulder and barreled forward.

The move caught Volkov off guard. He brought the door viciously down on Storm but hit only the meaty parts of Storm’s back and shoulder. Storm was on him too fast.

The two men landed heavily, rolling on the ground. They hit up against the wet bar in the back of first class, then lurched toward the now-open emergency door. Storm was trying to work his hands into Volkov’s face, aiming to further injure his eye. Volkov was reaching for Storm’s leg, looking for the gunshot wound, attempting to sink his fingers into it.

Both men were bellowing and snarling, partly because of the pain they were suffering, partly because of the pain they were inflicting, partly because this had become something deeply instinctual. They were two organisms battling for their very survival, calling on the deepest parts of their energy reserves, doing whatever they could to mete out maximum punishment to the other.

They kept switching who was on top, although, to a certain extent, it didn’t matter. Neither the top man nor the bottom man seemed to have any advantage, just different ways to gouge, scratch, punch, kick, or grab the other.

Then, suddenly, that changed. Volkov was on top and Storm was so intent on going at the man’s eye, he didn’t do a good enough job playing defense. Volkov managed to get both his hands around Storm’s neck, and the brutal Russian was squeezing with every
nanogram of strength he had. Storm realized with sickening certainty that he was going to lose this fight—and his life.

Dots were appearing at the corner of his vision. Then the darkness began closing in. The image—Volkov hunched on top of him, sneering sadistically—was quickly going to become pinprick-sized, then disappear altogether. Storm had mere seconds left.

He did not know exactly where he was on the floor. He sensed he was dangerously close to a whole lot of rushing wind, which meant he was near the edge, but he could no longer be cautious.

With the last ebb of effort he could summon, he heaved himself toward the open door.

As he rolled, his right foot—the one that still had some feeling—hit one side of the opening. Then his right hand the other side. Volkov, whose hands were still clenched tight around his opponent’s neck and who had drawn his knees underneath him, was not nearly as wide. He was, in fact, something of a ball.

A ball that Storm had successfully aimed right at the middle of the door opening.

Now it was just a matter of momentum. Storm had something to stop his—the sides of the door. Volkov did not. He was still traveling, only there was no longer an airplane underneath him.

For a brief moment, as his sneer was replaced by a look of sheer terror, he tried to keep his clutch on Storm’s neck. But as his body tumbled fully through the opening and started a drop that was as inevitable as gravity, he lost the angle he needed, and therefore lost his grip.

The last thing Storm saw of Volkov was his writhing figure growing small as it plummeted through the night sky to the hard ground many thousands of feet below.

S
omething had changed. Derrick Storm could see it in the little girl’s eyes.

Katya Beckescu was still gripping the same ratty teddy bear. She still wore the same old clothes. But she was a different child than she had been the first time Storm spied her in the courtyard at the Orphanage of the Holy Name. She ran up to him, wrapping her arms around him so fiercely she knocked away the cane that Storm had been using for the last week or so as he recovered from a pesky little gunshot wound to his calf.

Storm had spent the first part of that week in a hospital after a surgery to remove the darndest thing the doctor had ever seen: a bullet made of a wood composite that was harder than lead. In fact, it was so strong, it hadn’t shattered on impact like a normal bullet would, meaning the prospects for Storm to recover full function of his leg were quite bright.

He had spent the next part of the week in long meetings with the FAA, the TSA, the FBI, and a whole alphabet of other federal agencies who were trying to sort out what had become known as “the Flight 19 Incident.” It took repeated oaths from Captain Roy Montgomery to assure them that, yes, Derrick Storm really had been the hero. Officially, the CIA was—characteristically—quiet about the whole thing.