18 July 2037
00:25
Liora's Compound
As Sohel approached the ramp of the transport plane, Liora was waiting, composed as ever. She handed him his own combat uniform—the same one he'd been wearing when captured.
"Wear it before the plane crashes," she said smoothly. "You look good in it."
Sohel didn't answer.
Liora tilted her head, her tone mockingly polite. "I'll see you fly in a few minutes. Then I'll wait. Do you want to send a farewell message?"
"I do."
"To who?"
"Major General Overlord."
Her lips curved faintly. "What message?"
Sohel's eyes hardened. "Tell him to send soldiers the moment he gets my message. There's a mad bitch called Liora Schmidt. Tell them to shoot her on sight."
For a split second, rage flared across Liora's face. She raised her hand as if to strike him, then stopped herself. She smoothed her expression and gestured to the guards. "Take him inside."
Sohel was marched up the ramp and sat down on a bench. As the guards turned, he quickly slid the glass shards from his pocket and tucked them under the seat cover. Two soldiers sat down on either side of him.
Engines whined to life. A moment later, Lee stepped aboard, massive and looming, a Glock at his side.
"We'll fly in thirty minutes," he said flatly. "Stay still. Don't try anything funny."
Sohel smirked. "What kind of steward are you, eh? Coming to greet the passenger empty-handed. At least get me coffee."
"Shut up," Lee barked. "Not a single word."
Sohel's eyes flicked toward the cockpit—and froze. Leon was there, in uniform, looking shaken. Their gazes locked for an instant. Sohel gave the smallest of nods, a signal, a promise. Leon's jaw tightened as a guard shoved him back into the cockpit.
The plane rumbled down the runway, engines roaring, and lifted into the night. It climbed steadily, banking eastward, into the darkness above the Caspian Sea.
At 30,000 feet, the aircraft levelled out. Sohel tilted his head toward the window, pretending to be spaced out, while beneath his calm exterior his hands were working furiously with the shard. The nylon rope cut slowly, fibres snapping one by one. He leaned back, eyes half-closed, every movement measured. Finally—blessedly—the pressure on his wrists loosened. The rope gave way.
03:11
Nearly three hours into the flight. Sohel raised his voice casually. "Can I talk to the pilot?"
A guard shook his head.
"Then call Lee."
Another shake.
"For fuck's sake," Sohel muttered. "Just get me the guy, please."
Reluctantly, the guard left. Minutes later, he returned—not with Lee, but with Leon.
"They said to tell you to stay put," Leon said tensely. "Or they'll kill us before—"
Sohel cut him off, nodding toward two racks bolted near the ramp. "You see those?"
Leon followed his gaze, then blanched. "Bomb racks?"
"They intend to drop them over Russian missile silos."
Horror drained the color from Leon's face. "My God."
"Still want me to stay put?"
Before Leon could respond, a guard slapped Sohel hard across the mouth. A sharp bark of anger followed—Lee had emerged from the cockpit, Glock drawn.
"What's happening here?" He snarled.
He levelled the pistol. "Get up."
Sohel rose slowly, hands behind him. Then he moved. His arm flashed forward—glass shard in hand—and he slashed across the nearest guard's throat. Arterial spray burst out like a fountain. In the same motion, Sohel tore the man's pistol free and smashed the butt into Lee's skull. The giant stumbled backward and collapsed across the deck.
Gunfire cracked—the second guard's face erupted in a bloody ruin. The shot came from the cockpit. Sohel whipped his head around and saw her—Mitali—standing half-hidden behind a crate, pistol raised, eyes blazing.
The third guard lunged from behind the bomb racks, aiming at her. Perfect angle. Sohel fired without hesitation. The man crashed lifelessly against the crates.
Lee was slower to rise this time, but he did—snarling, bloodied, unstoppable. Mitali lifted her pistol, but Leon surged forward instead, slamming his fist into Lee's face. The impact broke his nose with a sickening crack. Lee screamed, collapsing.
Sohel dove, tackled Lee to the deck, and hammered his face with his bionic arm. Each strike left gore, bone, and fragments of a man's face. Then Lee caught the cybernetic wrist mid-swing. With an inhuman roar, he hurled Sohel across the cabin. Sohel smashed into the bomb crate, breath knocked out, ribs screaming.
A gunshot tore through the cabin—Mitali firing again. But the bullet whined past Lee's head and struck the windowpane. The glass cracked under the pressure of the sky outside.
The crack in the window hissed, then roared. Air rushed outward, sucking everything loose toward the hole. One of the guard's corpses slid violently across the deck and slammed into the broken pane. The body wedged itself into place like a cork, cutting off the suction—for now.
Leon shouted over the chaos, "Check your fire! Check your fire!"
The aircraft, steady until seconds ago, lurched downward in a violent drop. The sudden descent rattled the racks and slammed Sohel against the deck. Then, with a bone-jarring shudder, the plane steadied again—the corpse blocking the breach—only to shake once more as turbulence fought to pull the plug loose.
"Get to the cockpit, Leon!" Sohel bellowed. "Level the bird!"
Leon sprinted toward the cockpit as Sohel pushed himself up. His face was crimson, splattered with the blood of the guard whose throat he'd cut.
Lee rose again, battered but unbroken, Glock in hand. He fired at Sohel. The shot went wild, the bullet slamming into the ceiling as the plane bucked.
Across the deck, Mitali had been thrown to the floor. She scrambled, coughing, fighting to get her feet under her as the giant loomed.