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All because of my father.
Chapter 8
Hope
“Kiss it.” Did I say that out loud? Keep it simple, stupid. I’ve weighed all the options. The most obvious is the easiest.
No, it’s not opening the door. The plane can still fly that way.
I don’t want them seeing where I land.
It would mean search parties and dogs.
They all have to die.
I do it every day. Let’s see if any of these are cats with nine lives. I bet they aren’t, or they’d be strapped in next to me.
No dissection buddies for me. This is a solo act and I’m leaving stage right. Down. As fast as possible.
Houdini would be proud of me. Did he have joint issues where he could just dislocate at will? It would be a handy skill in his line of work.
I can take a punch better than him. It’s happened. One over zealous guard hit me so hard it drove my nose into my brain. All I remember is the pretty lights when I woke up. They said I died that day, but I don’t believe them.
People treated me differently after that day. That’s when the tubes hooked up and never disappeared again.
A snore overtakes the drone of the engines.
Tweedle Dee is asleep. That just leaves Tweedle Dum and the third Stooge. They’re further back.
What number would this be? I’ve lost count. The game of escape has been so prevalent for so long, I’m not really sure what I’d do if I won.
I want to find out.
Besides a magazine, there’s not really any kind of weapon, except for me.
Long chainsaw sound, then exhale.
Shoving my right hand between the seats, I wedge the lowered steel arm as tightly against it as I can.
“The finger bone’s connected to the…wrist bone.” A little hum fills the gap until the rumble from his gaping mouth fills the cabin again.
A hard push and twist breaks the twin bones of my forearm. His loud sounds cover my grunt and the snap.
Goddamn that hurts.
Blinking back the stars in my eyes, I twist my limp hand with my left until the fractured white ends protrude through the skin and extend past my wrist.
A few deep breaths seem to hold the lightheaded woozy feeling at bay.
Pokey bits acquired, Captain.
I’d salute myself, but my palm falls flush with the underside of my elbow.
“Buck it up, soldier.” Time for attempt number twenty two thousand. Give or take.
The three Musketeers are still laid back in their chairs. I can see the leg of the pilot stretched out from his seat in the cockpit.
Four. I wish I could crash this into the facility in Chicago and take them all out.