woman stares at him. “How many times have you been pregnant?”
“Well, none personally, obviously, but—”
“Then fuck off.” She stands up and shuffles into the aisle. I half stand, too, as she approaches Ganges, unsure if she’s likely to help or hinder.
“I need to pee.”
“You’ll have to hold it. Sit down.”
“There’s six pounds of baby pressing on my bladder. My pelvic floor isn’t holding anything.”
Ganges turns a deep shade of red. He backs into the bar, keeping his eyes on the pregnant woman as he mutters something to Missouri. She rolls her eyes and comes forward, grabbing the woman’s sleeve and propelling her into the loo. She stands in the doorway, and I see a man in the front row turn away to give the poor woman some privacy.
I turn around, the distraction giving us a brief chance to talk. “We have to do something.”
“Like what?” Rowan says.
“Force our way through.”
“What?” Derek laughs. “The five of us against six terrorists, at least one of whom is wearing explosives? And God knows how many more of them there are on board!”
“Derek’s right.” Alice looks at me despairingly. “Even if we got past Missouri and the others, what would that achieve? The door to the cockpit’s locked, isn’t it?”
“There’s an emergency access code,” Cesca says. “It overrides everything.”
We all look toward the flight deck, and I push up onto my knees to get a better view. There’s ten feet between us and Ganges, and behind him the bar in which Missouri stands, surveying her team. Behind them, the length of a tennis court stretches out before the flight-deck door. How far would we get before Missouri pushed the button?
Ganges glances again at his conspirator on the other side of the cabin. I follow his gaze. Slowly, I rise up, so I can see over the central seats, careful to stay lower than the passengers next to me. My arms are aching, and I lock my fingers together on top of my head to relieve the strain.
“And you know the code?” Rowan asks Cesca.
“Of course. I just don’t see how we’d get close enough without her detonating that bomb.”
“Sit down!” Ganges snaps. I sink dutifully to the floor. But I’ve already seen the man Missouri called Niger. And I recognize him. I recognize the baggy combat trousers with the heavy boots and the tight T-shirt that strains across his biceps, and I’m almost completely certain I know something about him Missouri doesn’t.
Now I just have to figure out how it could help us.
THIRTY-SEVEN
3 A.M. | ADAM
“Shall we do some baking together when all this is over?” I’m talking with my mouth full, but I figure normal rules don’t apply when you’re trying to distract your five-year-old daughter from the fact that you’re locked in a cellar, at the mercy of an increasingly unstable maniac.
After Becca closed the coal chute, I heard her running back into the house, slamming the door like the teenager she’d pretended to be. She is moving about the house now, pacing this way and that, and I feel a charge in the air that makes me fearful of what she might do next.
“Daddies don’t do baking.” The words are indistinct, as though she’s about to cry, and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing—reminded her of Mina perhaps.
“Lots of daddies do baking. And I’m sure I could give it a go. Not dandelions, though—yuck. Silly Becca. Who wants to eat weeds?” The more I try to make Sophia smile, the quieter she becomes. She puts her hands to her face.
“Daddy!” It’s barely a whisper, choked with emotion.
“We’ll see Mummy soon, pumpkin. I promise.” My own voice breaks at what feels too much like a lie. It must be possible, surely; there must be a chance that she’ll get out of this alive. I can’t bear the thought of losing her.
“Da—” Sophia’s fingers flutter around the front of her throat, and I suddenly realize it’s not emotion in her voice, it’s panic. Her eyes widen, she shakes her head, and I can see her lips swelling, as though she’s been stung by a bee. Elephant falls to the floor beside her.
“What was in your sandwich?”
Again, louder, because she’s frozen, terrified eyes locked on mine. “Sophia, what was in your sandwich? Let me taste it—now!” I pull at my handcuffs as though they might have magically unlocked.
Sophia scrambles for the crusts she’s stacked neatly on the floor, and they’ve barely touched my lips before I can smell it, taste it.