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She squinted, as if trying to see his eyes through his glasses, and spoke slowly, as if not yet certain he could understand. “Take off your belt.”

Translated properly—he hoped—into Key, her words scrolled across the lenses of the glasses. He unhooked his belt and laid it on the platform. He didn’t need it; his comm was on his wrist computer, and he’d tucked the other pair of conversion-glasses in his chest pocket. “I brought a language translator for you—” He reached for his pocket, and she froze.

He showed her his empty hands. “I will not hurt you.” He wasn’t a gentle man in appearance, and particularly not since the war, but if his face couldn’t convey his meaning, he hoped his tone would. “I come in peace. To help you.”

The woman stepped aside, beckoned to him.

Through the hatch, he saw no people and no obstructions. In the back of his mind, he yearned for the reassurance of a pistol in his hand. But he saw welcome in the refugee leader’s eyes, and worry in her drawn expression. He had to take the chance. The resolution of the situation—the way
he
wanted it—depended on her trust.

With one last breath of fresh air, he climbed inside the craft.

Light exploded in his eyes. His muscles seized, cutting
off his abruptly indrawn breath. The floor came up to meet him so swiftly that he never felt the pain of the impact.

Garrett and Ben dragged the unconscious hijacker away from the door and laid him on the floor in the first-class cabin.

“Get the cuffs on him!” Jordan shouted, pacing back and forth in front of the man’s body. His lips were parted, but they had color, telling her that he was still alive. A miracle. The stun gun had caused his muscles to contract, painfully. Not only had it brought him crashing down to a fetal position, it had knocked him out cold.

“Bind his ankles, too.” Her mouth was dry and her arms and legs quivered. She was flying high with adrenaline, unable to stop moving as she supervised her team immobilizing the hijacker.

They did it. They actually did it! But what would they bring upon themselves as a consequence?

She paced, wringing her hands. Strange, she’d never been a hand-wringer. But, hell, she had so much anxiety and energy spewing out of every pore, she didn’t know what to do with it.

The men cinched the restraints around the hijacker’s wrists and ankles. “Not too tight,” she cautioned. Lord, she couldn’t believe she actually cared if his circulation was cut off. The man was probably a terrorist, likely a murderer. And she pitied him? For crying out loud, it was a good thing she hadn’t followed her father’s footsteps and served in the Air Force. She would have wept over every target she had to bomb.

“There.” Ben stood and wiped his hands. “Trussed and bound.”

“And ready for interrogation,” Dillon said, readying the AED.

“Put that down,” Jordan ordered. “He won’t do us any good dead.”

Dillon shrugged. His contingent of business-class men looked disappointed. “But is he going to do us any good alive? We haven’t broken the language barrier yet.”

“No.” Jordan made a sound of frustration. “Why would anyone go through the trouble of plotting and executing a hijacking without bothering to learn basic English? It doesn’t make sense! Look at him—he’s clean cut and well fed. He had to have picked up at least one major language during his education.”

An Indian man with a heavy accent spoke up. “He has seen American TV and movies. I know. Your shows play all over the world, even where they are banned.”

“And don’t forget the Internet,” said Dillon.

Ben nodded his agreement. “I bet he’s lying, and he
does
understand us.”

“But how would that help?” Jordan argued. “It’s only slowed things down.”

The pediatrician, who had been checking the unconscious man’s vitals, beckoned to Jordan. “Check this out.”

Jordan crouched next to her. Carefully the doctor rotated the man’s head so Jordan could see behind his right ear. A row of unfamiliar letters or numbers was etched permanently into his flesh. Six symbols, crisp-edged with no distortion.

Jordan cringed, shuddering involuntarily. Whatever had carved those symbols into his skin must have cut through to the tendons. “What is that?” she asked.

“Barbaric,” the doctor said with disgust. “It’s a brand. One made with an extremely high temperature. And behind his ear! The things people will do to decorate themselves.”

Jordan had Ben summon the passengers, a few at a time, to read the markings. Though some understood languages
as diverse as Hebrew, Cantonese, and Greek, no one could identify the runes.

But to Jordan, the markings looked less like tattooing than like identification. Unexpectedly, she felt a twist of sympathy for the man. Who knew what kind of background he’d come from? It couldn’t have been good, if he’d ended up in this line of work, terrorizing innocent people. And history had proven that atrocious childhoods could leech every ounce of compassion out of a person. For the sake of them all, Jordan prayed that this man’s heart was still human.

The doctor put the medical equipment she’d used back into the emergency medical kit. “Well, for what it’s worth, I also find it hard to believe that he doesn’t speak English. He looks as American as the Marlboro man.”

Natalie snorted. “The Marlboro man crossed with Attila the Hun.”

At first that struck Jordan as a strange observation. But the more she studied their hostage, the more she saw that his appearance was one of contrasts. Stark contrasts. He was indeed long and lanky, like a well-built cowboy. But there was nothing laid-back about him. His body was taut, tense, like a coiled spring, even in unconsciousness. His good looks weren’t classic; they were brutal. Nicely formed lips didn’t quite soften a severe, unforgiving mouth, and all he needed was a monocle to go with the pale, needle-thin scar that crossed his right eyebrow and ran all the way to his jaw. His skin was bronze-toned, yet fair enough to show the shadow where he’d shaved, medium brown stubble, matching his neatly trimmed hair.

He was well groomed; that should make her feel better. But she remembered those black eyes behind his closed lids and shivered involuntarily.

She sat back on her heels. “Check him for concealed weapons, identification. Anything. Ben, help me out.”

Garrett aimed the Taser while Jordan and Ben bent to the task of frisking the hostage. Dillon gripped the overhauled, supercharged AED, and Natalie appeared poised to rip out the guy’s throat with her lacquered fingernails.

Jordan pulled a hard, hand-size black oblong case from the man’s right chest pocket. It looked like a fancy holder for eyeglasses. The light pressure of her fingers caused the lid to open, revealing the contents. “Glasses.” It was comforting to learn she’d been right, she thought, and handed the case to Ann to examine more closely.

“Here’s more,” Rich, another flight attendant, said as he walked toward the group huddled on the floor. “This was the pair he was wearing when we zapped him.”

Ann stored both pairs of glasses in the case. Ben stopped his search at the man’s left forearm. “There’s something here.” He pushed the sleeve higher. “Whoa. Look at this.”

Jordan leaned closer. “I think it’s a watch. Or a computer. Or both.” The device fit like a cuff on the man’s lower forearm. Riddled with optic fibers and minuscule blinking lights, it was labeled with letters she recognized from the items he’d worn on his belt. “Technology like this costs money. A lot of money.”

“All the more reason to question why the guy doesn’t speak English, German, French, or any other widely known language,” Natalie pointed out.

Ben muttered, “Look at the face of that watch. If it is a watch.”

Jordan’s attention shifted to a round dial in the center of the cuff. It had
nine
digits on its circular face, not twelve. Gingerly, Jordan reached for it. There was a low-pitched beep. She jerked backward as the digits floated off the face, fluid and featureless, as if they were made of liquid mercury.

“What the hell is that?” Natalie blurted.

“Tell me it’s not a timer for a bomb,” Ben muttered drearily.

“Pow! Pow! Die, spaceman!”

They whirled around. A very serious little boy was aiming a plastic
Star Wars
pistol at the out-cold hijacker.

His mother swept him up in her arms. “He’s not a spaceman, Christopher,” she said as she hurried him away to a safer distance. “He’s a bad man.”

“Yeah! He’s Darth Vader! P-pow!” Christopher continued shooting over his mother’s shoulder.

As the woman hauled her son to the rear of the plane, it grew quiet in the first-class cabin. Very quiet. Everyone gaped at the unconscious man’s wrist computer with new understanding and dawning fear. The three-dimensional digits twirled in place just above the flat circular surface like nine miniature silver ballerinas. Jordan had never seen anything like it. On Earth.

Her heart rate doubled. Instinctively her fingers flew to the photo she’d stowed in her shirt pocket. Drawing on an inner reserve of strength that came from her overwhelming desire to see her child again, she tried to appear calm for the sake of those around her. But slowly, inexorably, her mind opened to a new and terrifying possible scenario like eyes adjusting to a darkened room: United Flight 58 had been abducted by aliens.

Kào was a boy again, a small boy, sitting astride a huge, muscular horse. The rhythm of its gait rippled through his body, and they rode as one. Where the sun should have risen, odd, greenish lightning erupted, sending rainbow-colored waves rolling across the sky like ripples on a soap bubble. Painful surges echoed in Kào’s ears as the horse pitched recklessly forward. Clouds the color of an ugly bruise boiled closer; the stench of ozone was so thick that he could taste it. The heavens were about to rain down upon them all
.

But he and the horse were trapped, imprisoned by a fence, tall and rough-hewn. The vast corral was a staple of this fearsome place, a barrier as enduring and ever-present as the wind and the sky. Lightning flashed again, closer now. Kào’s eardrums pinched painfully. The horse reared up, front hooves pedaling. Kào clutched leather reins, pressed skinny, sinewy legs to the saddle. “Jump,” he cried out
.

But no one could help them; no one could hear
.

The image distorted. He was running now. The ground burned the soles of his shoes. Half blinded by light that seared his skin, he couldn’t find his mother or father. Then a bird appeared before him, a bird of prey whose wings were made of flame, turning the sky into an inferno. He thought it had come to save him, but fire exploded in his head
.

The dream split in two, then split again, until he faced a mosaic of nightmares, darker images, of unrepentant cruelty, of torture never-ending. He was older, and a pink-skinned, fine-boned hand gripped a blade. The blade sliced his face, temple to chin. Poison seeped into the cut, molten agony. They wanted him to talk, but he had nothing to tell them. They wanted to break him, but he was no longer whole. At first, they couldn’t make him scream. Later, they could make him utter any sound they liked
.

Images whirled and shattered. He was the boy on the horse once more, powerless, both of them. The horse raced toward the mighty fence. It would try to jump, to shatter the barrier with powerful hind legs. Kào’s heartbeat thumped with dread, and with hope. The horse whinnied, rearing high. Instinctively Kào clamped down with his legs until his thighs trembled, but he slipped backward
.

The scene shifted, splintering into a montage of impotence and pain. The screams, he could never tell who made them, but they ricocheted in his mind. Laser burns. Body stretched to the breaking point. Water poured down his throat. No air! He fought to free his limbs. His arms were paralyzed; his legs, too
. . . .

“Can’t breathe!” Kào sucked in a mighty breath and jerked awake. His heart hammered. His skull ached. Tipping his head back, he stifled a groan.

Blast it all. The dream. Always the same. A powerful horse trapped in a corral. And Kào, a small boy, on its back. If not for the terror of trying to keep from sliding off the creature’s back, and the snatches of horror left from his time as a POW, the sensation of riding would have been one of utter exhilaration. His ancestors were horsemen, fierce, independent
folk. Riding was in his blood, or so he’d been told. But as far as he knew, he’d never sat upon one of the beasts in his life.

He heard a voice, female and foreign-tongued. Blinking, he tried to clear his vision, while his mind remained muzzy from the vivid dream. A woman appeared in his narrow circle of sight. The Earth leader. She leaned over him, her expression a mix of anger, sympathy, and fear.

He struggled to move. Razor-sharp pain bit at his wrists and ankles. He was bound. And he must have thrashed about in his dream, causing the restraints to cut into his skin.

Other refugees gathered around. The air was warm, stagnant. It smelled of rotting food, of human waste, and more strongly of fear. He was familiar with the scent of fear, and he forced back the memories that acrid scent raised in him.

His attention shifted back to the blond commando, whose face paled when she saw the blood seeping from where the binding had cut into his right wrist. Vivid blue eyes scrutinized him, her jaw flexing as she gritted her teeth. It was evident that she felt guilty. And she deserved to.

Incorrigible troublemaker, he thought irritably. She was the bane of his existence. And now she’d taken him hostage. It seemed he’d escaped his nightmare for a reality just as maddening. He could only imagine what Trist was going to say about this.

“Impetuous fools,” he scolded the refugees, though he knew they didn’t understand. “Do you have any idea how you’ve complicated matters? Is civilized behavior not possible for you? If not, it’s going to prove a very long journey to your relocation point—for all of us.”
Particularly for me
.

His exasperation made little impact on the leader. She regarded him strangely. Repelled and engrossed. Fearful and fascinated. Her face gave away so much of her inner
emotions that he stored away the discovery to use in the time to come.