THERE ARE MANY WAYS TO KILL A MAN...Chinese assassins prefer a knife. Others use bare hands.American pros favor high-powered guns. Russian killers choose dynamite.There's just one man who can defeat the many ways of death. His name's Nick Carter.This time Killmaster will have to use all his predatory skills to deal with the butchers sent his way in...
The Men of the Secret Services
of the
United States of America
It’s impossible now to skyjack a plane from the United States. You know it can’t be done, and I know it — and so does every idiot who gets hold of a Saturday Night Special or an army surplus grenade.
So why was the stewardess on Flight 709, bound for Grand LaClare Island, being so cozy with the black haired, dark faced passenger at the head of the aisle? She was passing him a gun.
A tidy little snubnosed job all warmed up from lying under her uniform, between the fantastic breasts I’d just been admiring so much. Everybody seemed to be asleep, and at first I thought the man was feeling her up and she was being an obliging hostess. “I’m Reddy. Fly me.” When she unzipped her fitted jacket, I figured I was in for some entertaining voyeurism. Until she took out the shiny little piece of metal that caught a glint of light and winked at me.
She laid it in his palm, turned her back and went through the door to the front cabin.
The man stood close to the door between the two heads, looking back along the plane, holding the gun in plain sight. My Luger hung in its shoulder clip, but I knew any movement I made to reach it would draw attention. The stiletto in the chamois sheath on my right forearm would snap down to my hand invisibly enough, but throwing it was something else. The man would see it, and he’d be able to get off a shot before I could hit him.
While I was still trying to decide what action might be possible, the decision was taken out of my hands. The noise of a shot in the cockpit woke everybody. I heard grunts and gasps and people started up in the seats, then the man’s voice overrode the sounds.
“Remain calm. The plane is being diverted. In Havana you will all be released unhurt so do not be afraid.”
He had an accent, Spanish. Beside me Tara Sawyer vented a low groan, and beyond her Randolph Fleming sucked in his breath.
“Be quiet. Sit still.” I whispered it without moving my lips and my voice didn’t carry beyond our seats.
The girl whispered back. Try to stop a woman talking. “Cuba? With the antihijack treaty?”
It wasn’t the time to explain that the only people who could count on refuge in Cuba would be agents for Castro or his big Red friend across the waters. But if she’d shut up and think, she could figure it out herself. She was smart enough.
I watched the man’s black eyes play over the passengers, working back along the plane. They paused for a split second on us, then lifted to see what the reaction was behind us.
I turned slowly, as if to speak to the girl at my side, and with my twisted shoulder as cover slid my hand under my lapel for the Luger. The man did not drop his glance. No passenger would be expected to be armed. I eased the gun into my lap and switched it to my left hand. I was in the aisle seat on the right of the plane and I could get a clear shot from the level of the arm rest. I squeezed the trigger.
The little weapon spun out of his hand and I fired a second time. The front of his white shirt bloomed red. He slammed back against the door and hung as if he were nailed there, his mouth dropping open for a scream that did not come. Then his knees gave and he crumpled. The door jarred against him but his body kept it from opening. I had moved as soon as I fired. Behind me a woman yelled. Hysteria was building all around.
I yanked on a dead foot, pulled the body away and the door swung toward me. The stewardess stood there, gun in hand. The bullet whispered between my raised arm and my side, cut through my coat, sped on and a scream from the rear of the plane told me someone had been hit. Then I had the girl’s wrist, forcing it down and twisting until her fingers opened and her gun fell.
She fought me, clawing at my face with long, sharp nails and I dropped the Luger to use the side of my hand in a karate chop against her neck. She went out like a light. I flung her behind me on top of the corpse and scooped up all three guns, dropped two in my pocket and kept hold of the Luger. I didn’t want her waking up and tossing lead at my back.
I didn’t know what I’d find in the cockpit. The plane was tipping, banking, changing course, then falling off on one wing out of control, sliding toward the dark sea. Either way it threw me off balance and I ducked through the door, bracing against the jamb.
