CW. political themes, discussion of potential for war, onset of a panic attack, plane hijacking, manhandling, threatening with a gun, detonation of an explosive, kidnapping
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Dawn brought a wave of warmth passing over Tariq’s skin, the smell of moss, and awfully bitter coffee.
“Mr. Rahman, we’re back soon.”
As the coffee-maker dinged lightly, Tariq watched the co-pilot snatch the pot and top off his paper cup. He returned a tired smile and thanked him as the earthy scent reached his lungs.
It didn’t matter that the forest near the plane’s landing was so torrid that he could barely breathe or that the heat was eating him alive. If he needed anything right now, it was coffee.
He had landed no more than thirty minutes ago. The Captain had mentioned something about needing to make a couple calls on the ground and, with the co-pilot out cold, they had rerouted to a runway built near a massive stretch of forest and a little lake that had put Tariq off
He drank slowly, letting the bitter liquid wash away the crackly feeling in his throat.
Not my best idea, Tariq admitted to himself a minute later. This suit’s already clinging to me.
Suits, suitcases, jackets folded away into the little plastic cabinets. There were more pleasant things than spending hours lightheaded and nauseous while reading and rereading his script, letting every word ring in his mind. Conjuring up reactions of the politicians.
“Look alive, people. Only a few hours left.” The pilot tossed a glance back to the diplomat, idling still over his coffee, pretending not to have heard.
Tariq ran after the party as they left the cabin. An unfamiliar jet caught his eye across the field and he began to look for someone to ask about that. The group was walking too fast, though. He felt as if he might get lost in the fog.
It’s just anxiety. Deep breathing. They already know about the other jet so there’s no use in asking about it, right?
Though, it was he who was going to sit in a conference of strangers and try to dissolve tension which - if it snapped - would end worse than his speech did.
Tariq knew the neighbouring attack had been a false flag operation. He knew that. A lousy bid by a weaker nation to get a stronger one to mobilize against his own and it would be his job to assure their allies that exploitation was far from their intentions. That they wouldn’t meddle in another nation’s affairs. He knew that.
He wasn’t sure if they knew that.
After boarding the jet, Tariq flinched a bit as the door spun, shut, and clicked in place. There was something about boarding airplanes that threw him off of his balance and made him hesitant to stand up for any reason.
Today, especially.
Tariq took his own seat and buckled up as the pilots disappeared into the cockpit and the guards to the back. It was then he noticed that his fingertips were quivering a bit.
I really need to stop drinking that.
Swearing quietly, he stood and left for the bathroom, giving the guards a nod on the way. They split and let him pass. He slipped into the stall and let the door shut him in with a small, suctioning click.
The bathroom here was larger than they usually were on public planes and he was grateful for the space the government could afford him. Especially now, where he might keel over if he didn’t get a few precious minutes of silence and solitude. A curtain was oddly pulled at the back of the stall but Tariq hardly acknowledged it.
Instead, he watched his hands wander to the sink, as if they were detached from his body, and then unconsciously hunched over.
Five things you can see.
His mind replayed what the agent had said earlier that week, about anxiety and keeping collected before things like this. It was just he never had to do something like this and with the fluttering in his chest, he breathed in gulps. His fingertips were cold. Sweat, there was enough on his face. Enough he could feel it cool.
What if this ends badly?
Four things you can touch.
“Two nations, already plagued with a history of-...” Tariq gasped and clutched the metal sink harder until his head stopped spinning. Nope. Again. “Plagued with a history…”
Three things you can-
We can’t handle fucking armed conflict right now. I need to do this right.
“I encourage our allies to ignore the belligerence-” Suddenly, rustles from behind him broke his train of thought.
“Need a little help?” A dark voice asked from behind the curtain.
Tariq didn’t react quickly enough. By the time he had jumped up, a rough hand had already grabbed and pressed him back against the bathroom wall. Another hand clamped over his mouth, pressing so roughly against his jaw he thought it might crack. A knee between his legs, and his assailant’s face so close to his he could feel his satisfied exhale.
“Mmph-!”
“Well? Do you need a little help, diplomat?” the man repeated in a dangerous whisper. Tariq’s panic almost whited out his vision but he caught a glimpse of the man. His hair fell almost to his shoulders in clean but untamed strands, framing his sunglasses. He stood, frozen, as if his limbs had stopped working.
Trembling under the crushing grip on his face, Tariq’s eyes flickered to his mouth where he saw the remnants of a white scar.
Before he could struggle, his assailant grabbed him by the shoulder to spin him around. The other one brought a cold hum of metal against his throat followed by a soft click. Tariq couldn’t stop shaking, suddenly fearing that if his heart hammered too hard against his ribs, that it might set the gun off.
He couldn’t remember a word of his closing remarks.
The man smiled back nonchalantly at his white terror. “Now, are you going to do anything stupid?”
Tariq made a sound of fear low in his throat. The weapon vibrated in response. “N-No.”
“Excellent. Now, in a moment, you and I are gonna walk out of this stall together. And when we get out-”
BANG.
Tariq felt himself jolt back and yelp at the shockwave of whatever had just been set off outside the door but the man didn’t let him go far, gripping him roughly as if he didn’t appreciate the exclamation. Tariq’s breaths came in pants now, his shaking no longer controlled. “What the fuck?”
His assailant tsked under his breath. “Do not panic. Open the door, Mr. Rahman.”
Tariq’s eyes had glazed over when the door swung open and what greeted him was smoke. Smoke, wreckage, and blood splatters on the windows of the jet, groaning from too many directions. His eyes darted around frantically, searching for a guard but found none who were standing.
A few windows had been blown open. One of the women lay on the ground, clutching her eyes and breathing in stuttered gasps. One of them must have been a flash bang.
“Nobody move!”
“Except you,” the man reminded him coldly, nudging him forward with the pistol. “Keep stepping forward until you find the exit.”
“Hands up or you die!”
“O-oh, God.”
Tariq felt a chuckle against his back. “He won’t save you here, Mr. Rahman.”
Forcing his legs to move, he dragged himself forward through the fog in trembling steps as unfamiliar faces swarmed the jet. Tying, threatening, growing more and more distant from him. He should have fought back, screamed, warned the guards before the grenade had gone off, and attempted to kick off his attacker. Bitten him. Something.
“What do you want?” He whispered, knowing the man was close enough to hear him.
But he knew he couldn’t have done a thing.
"You’ll find out soon enough.”
Tariq kept moving forward robotically until he could no longer see anything, losing himself in the smoke.
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I’m not sure if this will be a new series but I started it last year and never posted it. Let me know if you would like to be tagged in the future!
