Ghost Ship

Naftali, recovering faster than Andre, let go of the cargo netting and reached behind into his inner thigh holder for a knife.

Now both men narrowed in on Sam Reilly.

He lifted his hands up.

There was nothing he could do. He was a sitting duck between the two men with their weapons fixed on him — both most likely once elite soldiers. He might get lucky against one, but never two.

Andre said, “Don’t move… or I swear to God I’ll forfeit my contract fee just to kill you myself!”

Sam swallowed. Took a breath.

In the cockpit, the pilots, struggling to keep control of the aircraft, dipped the nose downward into a steep dive — sending the C17 Globemaster III into a parabolic fall.

For the next 20–30 seconds everything in the plane became weightless.

Chapter Forty-Three

A shot fired.

Sam ducked.

Simultaneously, everyone on board became artificially weightless as the aircraft entered a freefall. The cargo hold was 88 feet long, 18 feet wide, and 12 feet high. It was a big area to be suspended in weightlessness.

Behind him, Andre swore.

The shot went wide of its intended target. Suspended in the vast void of the cargo bay, Andre was now trapped, unable to push off anything to direct his motion anywhere, spinning backward. Disoriented, and unable to remain still long enough to get a fix, he intermittently tried to take potshots at Sam. Naftali drifted aimlessly, floating closer to the wall, and with his hands extended outward he tried to grab at the cargo netting which was just out of reach.

This time, Sam was the first to recover.

In the absence of anything to hold onto on the floor, he kicked off hard, catapulting himself diagonally toward the ceiling.

He hit the ceiling, bracing himself with his hands on a steel girder.

On the opposite end of the cargo bay, Andre — fully suspended in air — rotated clockwise. As he naturally came into view of Sam, he tried to aim the Glock at where he predicted Sam would be when they floated into alignment.

Sam pushed off from the roof with his hands.

Andre squeezed the trigger twice.

The shots struck the top of the fuselage, right where Sam had been an instant previously.

Sam’s heart raced as he ricocheted off the wall and kicked to project himself onto the opposite wall. He gripped the cargo netting, keeping himself locked in the one position where he still retained command of his movement if he needed to get out of the way.

Andre took another potshot, but missed completely. He continued shooting until the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Then, without any more rounds, and acting like an angry child, he threw the handgun at Sam.

Naftali finally reached the wall. He gripped the cargo netting, reorienting himself, holding his knife in one hand. He caught Sam’s eye. His jaw was set hard and his brown eyes had a curiously malevolent look to them. They said that he was a competent killer. More than that, they said that he enjoyed it, too.

Sam caught his breath.

Naftali bent his legs, preparing to shoot himself toward Sam like a projectile out of a cannon. Sam, trying to react first, pushed himself toward the ceiling.

It was a mistake.

He’d jumped the gun.

Naftali hadn’t pushed off yet. Instead, he waited, recalculated Sam’s trajectory, and pushed off to meet him at the ceiling at the top of the cargo bay.

Sam had seen what Naftali had done, but now floating through the air, it was impossible for him to do anything about it. He tucked his legs in, and curled like a ball, trying to protect his vital organs.

Both men collided just before they reached the ceiling.

Naftali jabbed at him, but in an artificially weightless environment, it was hard to get any significant force. Sam blocked his arm and gripped his wrist. The two of them became locked, like wrestlers, tumbling around.

Naftali, beneath Sam, slowly maneuvered the knife’s blade toward Sam’s throat.

It was getting closer.

Sam was strong, but Naftali was stronger. The knife was close and moving closer. Sam locked both his hands against Naftali’s wrist. The blade teased the soft skin on the underside of his neck. Another second or two and he would be dead.

The pilots pulled the C17 Globemaster III up from its parabolic fall.

Zero gravity turned sharply into positive 1.8Gs.

The sudden change allowed Sam to twist the knife in the opposite direction, facing Naftali. Sam and Naftali, locked in a violent struggle fell twelve feet to the steel floor. Sam, now in control of the knife, landed on top of the Israeli mercenary. The knife slid effortlessly through the man’s 3rd and 4th rib, penetrating his heart, and killing him almost instantaneously.

Andre, now without a weapon, picked up Sam’s backpack.

His eyes were wide, his face set with fear and respect. He looked at Sam Reilly. “What sort of man are you?”