The Murder Games

CHAPTER 5

My eyes flutter open and my head sways like a buoy in a lost sea. As my vision clears, I stare down at my fingers which dig into the armrests of my seat. Zip ties bind my wrists, keeping my hands from lifting more than an inch from the cheap vinyl; I've been this way for some time. I know this because my skin stings beneath the plastic. My neck hurts and my temples throb under a constant roar that sounds like a drum roll in my ears. I detect a nauseating whiff of oil or grease and vibrations that unsettle my stomach. Also, I feel like I could drink a gallon of water to quench my parched throat. All signs of being unconscious, held in an uncomfortable seat, slumped over in an unsteady environment for far too long. The tolls taken on my body.

I twist my neck to discover Cara is still unconscious and that we're crammed into the cabin of a much smaller plane than the private jet, with four complete strangers. Behind me and my friend, a man sits next to a woman who appears close to his age. They have dark hair and sun kissed skin. Both of them stare past me with bloodshot gazes full of shock and distress. Little crow's feet spread out from the corners of their eyes and their faces look tested by time, which gives me an impression of their ages, somewhere in the range of late forties to early fifties. The man wears a designer suit minus the tie, and the woman, a silky black dress with red and white roses snipped at the flower's base.

Behind them, a younger man—about my age—bends over at the waist, edging out as far as he can, glaring toward the front of the plane. With his head cocked at a slight angle, I detect an air of anger in his stare, and something else... confusion, maybe? That's it. He too doesn't know where we are, who is behind all this, or why. Next to him, sits a slinky figure with red hair and brown eyes. Her furrowed brows and tight jaw radiate tension and turmoil. I sense her story might be similar to mine. One minute she was free, the next, she was bound and dazed.

High above the ocean, light streams in from the cockpit window as the interior rattles and creaks, sending shivers down my spine. I peer through my side viewport and lean my shoulder against the fuselage wall. I'm not afraid of flying, but this feels more like a death trap. My imagination spikes. Warning lights and alarms from the aircraft's dashboard are only seen and heard by me. As I inhale deep breaths to calm my quivering extremities, the pilot and copilot navigate us west toward the shore of a caldera beach in the distance. I determine our heading based on the position of the sun, and according to what I see, the day will draw to a close within the next hour or so.

I get a good view of the copilot as he cranes his neck to take in the passengers on this disgruntled flight. Looks about mid to late thirties with a thick mustache and aviator sunglasses. Gives me the impression of a man who takes little thought of what people think about him. If no one likes his mustache, he doesn't care. Don't like his eyes hidden behind shades, take a hike. Don't like him as the new man in charge of our abduction, too bad. That's the vibe I get. He's calm, collected, and calling the shots. He wears worn jeans and a beige button-up, the top open revealing a light patch of chest hair. Don't like it, get over it. There's something appealing about his persona yet disturbing too. No matter what, I can't seem to shake my unwanted gift of reading people like a book. It haunts me at every turn, even in times of trouble.

As for the pilot, I can't see much of him, only brown hair pressed down by a headset, covering one of his ears. I glimpse his mic as it bends around a slim view of his face. The seat's headrest blocks the rest. He could be anyone, but from what I see, I have no sense that I've met him before.

With Cara still unconscious and slumped over with her head against the other side of the aircraft, I turn to the other people onboard. As the day dims, I find words for the first time in a while. My voice rakes over my throat, and once again, I wish for a long draw of water. Something to loosen my tongue.