Over the Top Secret - Chapter 3.5

AKA Trench Coat Tussle

Mar 9

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Start at the beginning (Prologue - AKA Mission Report)

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Before I can even start to flip out, the plane forcefully tilts to the side. We both fly across the aisle. I smack into the flight attendant, taking her and her bags of mini pretzels to the ground again.

Sorry pretzels.

Hot Guy lands a few aisles back. We lock eyes for a moment, and the genuine look of warning in his eyes tells me I need to hide.

Hot Guy jumps to his feet while the flight attendant rushes right past me to her foldable turbulence seat near the cockpit. Welp, looks like it’s every woman for herself. I scramble past the forgotten pile of pretzels and right into the closest safe place I can think of—the bathroom. I lock the door behind me.

Am I hallucinating? I splash water on my face again. “Wake up, you turd!” I tell my reflection. The plane struggles through the turbulence. Then—

BAM!

Something small ZOOMS right over my head, bursting through the bathroom walls and leaving two small, jagged holes in its wake. The plane jerks to the side, then lurches downward, filling me with the same stomach-dropping sensation of a roller coaster (except, not fun).

I shove my feet into the corners of the cramped room, grabbing hold of the edge of the plastic sink. Outside the bathroom, there’s muffled shouting. A breathing aid drops from a compartment above. The crackle of the on-board sound system fills the air as the flight attendant comes back on.

Her voice is high pitched, and she’s talking rapidly. I can only make out the words “pilots,” “down,” and what ominously sounds like “die” before her voice is replaced with a gurgling sound, and she’s gone.

Stay calm, Julie! I shove my face right up to the shattered hole in the wall facing the cabin, trying to get a clear view.

Hot Guy stands in the middle of the plane’s center aisle. Trench coat men surround him on all sides. Hot Guy raises his fists, ready to fight, and the trench coat man behind him lunges first, hand outstretched with a sharp knife poised to stab. How the heck did he get that thing past airport security? Oh, right, and Hot Guy got a gun onboard, too. The whole drug cartel idea is starting to sound more plausible by the minute.

I gulp as Hot Guy bends forward and kicks behind him, sending the trench coat man crashing into the back wall of the plane and the knife clattering to the ground, disappearing behind another row of seats.

Hot Guy smirks and raises an eyebrow in a look that says, “Is that all you’ve got?” Trench coat man number two races forward and throws a mean-looking punch. Hot Guy expertly dodges the attack, grabs the man’s meaty fist and twists him around, forcefully shoving his exposed neck upwards against the overhead compartment with a loud CRUNCH. The man crumples into the empty row of seats beside them.

Holy shit! Did that just happen? I can’t tear my eyes away from the insanity unfolding before me.

With a flurry of motion, the trench coat men take turns attacking Hot Guy. Lunge, block, attack, attack, hit, swing, jump, SMACK. Then they ambush him like a pack of hyenas pouncing on their prey.

With surprising efficiency, Hot Guy keeps them at bay. He rips off a seatbelt from the row nearest him and forcefully swings the metal end at his closest attacker. It makes contact with a sickening CRACK. The bald man falls to the ground with a thud.

Another trench coat man pounces, gun raised. Hot Guy spins aside, kicks the gun out of his hands, and jabs the attacker with a dagger sticking out of the heel in his boot.

I blanch. Turns out I’ve been silently rooting for Hot Guy this whole time, but now I don’t know what to think!

One after another, the trench coat men attack Hot Guy, each one coming from a different angle. Hot Guy punches, jabs, dodges and kicks them all. They drop to the ground like Cicadas dropping from the sky on a hot summer’s night.

Then, somehow, they all get right back up and attack him again with gusto, covered in a fresh batch of cuts and bruises. It’s like they’re not even human.

Who are these people?

Just then, one of the trench coat men flies across the cabin and smacks right into the peephole. I shriek.

I peer into the other hole. It’s facing the cockpit. The pilot on the left lies limply in his chair, head dangling over the back in an unnatural angle that tells me he’s gone.

As in… dead. The cold, paralyzing grip of fear roots me to the ground. I smack my hand over my mouth to prevent anyone hearing me hyperventilate.

Keep it together, Julie. You’re not going to die in a restroom. Not today. Well, hopefully not ever. Though, crapping myself out of fear might be an option. And not even my life-saving Lactaid could prevent that.

I maneuver my head to get a better view of the second pilot. He’s alive! Hallelujah! Tears sting my eyes and I’m shocked at my own relief. Just the sight of the uniformed pilot taking action to stabilize the plane makes me feel like there may just be an ounce of sanity on this flight after all.

The pilot presses a ton of buttons on the complicated dashboard, calling “Mayday” into his radio. He pulls at the yoke and manages to stabilize the plane again. Reaching as far as he can, the pilot struggles to flip a switch on the other pilot’s dashboard.

Finally, he manages to flip it open with the tip of his finger, revealing a big red button labeled ‘autopilot.’ Just before he can press it, the pilot lets out a dramatic sigh and hunches forward, limbs completely slack. His head knocks into the yoke, sending the plane into another nosedive.

My heart stops.

Holy snap—the pilots are dead, and we’re all gonna die!

THUMP— something massive hits the bathroom door, restarting my pulse and sending an electric stab through my heart.

Through the other hole, the trench coat body from before slowly falls down the wall, revealing Hot Guy standing a few rows back. There’s not a scratch on him, and his shiny black hair is still perfectly in place.

He watches as his last attacker falls to the ground. Then, a booming voice erupts from right outside the bathroom door.

Blondie takes a step forward. His enormous bicep blocks my view as he lets out a deep, disturbing chuckle that reverberates the bathroom walls.

“Give me The McGuffin,” his low voice rumbles.

“You mean this?” Hot Guy pauses. “This is Top Secret property, Greyson. I would never let it fall into the hands of an idiot henchman like yourself.”

I lean against the door to hear better. Henchman? Or did he say Frenchman? This is an international drug ring; I just know it.

“How many times have you let The McGuffin get away this week?” Blondie laughs. Or should I say, Greyson? “Such an amateur.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Hot Guy says. I lean closer to the door. He wouldn’t do what?

Just then, the bathroom door swings open, right as the plane does another shaky jerk to the left. I fly into the wall across from me, my crash made more intense by the increasing amount of G-force pulling us to our deaths. The walls are shaking, and the roar of the wind drives my heartbeat into my ears. How long will this flimsy airplane be able to hold itself together?

“Julie!” Hot Guy yells. “Stay down—”

Blondie takes that one moment of distraction to charge. He slams right into Hot Guy, tackling him to the ground. A small metallic rectangle flies through the air, landing right at my feet.

I cautiously pick it up. It’s a sleek, silver piece of metal, about half the size of my hand, with the acronym T.O.P.S.E.C.R.E.T. engraved on it.

Blondie sees it in my hands. We exchange looks, his of determination, mine of terror. He charges right at me. I shriek.

Before I can even scramble to my feet, Blondie lifts me off the ground by my neck with his giant hands.

“Let me go! Let go of me!” I scream. He presses his thumb into my windpipe, silencing me. As his grip tightens, black dots crowd my vision. What’s the point in choking me when we’re all gonna die any minute now? My heart pumps faster and faster against his calloused palm. I lash out at him, I wriggle, I kick his rock-solid body, but I’m no match for Blondie’s iron grip. Just before I die in the most unexpected way imaginable, an idea pops into my head.

I’m still holding the piece of metal he’s after.

With every bit of energy in my veins, I chuck it as hard as I can toward the cockpit. Almost as soon as it leaves my palm, the speed of the plane whips it right back at us. The small metal square lodges itself in Blondie’s eyeball.

He releases his grip with a cry of pain.

I drop to the ground as he staggers backward. He claws at his face, then slams into the plane’s exit door.

Recycled air never tasted so good. I relish the stale taste of oxygen while wheezing and coughing like an old lady smoker.

Somehow, the lack of an eyeball doesn’t affect Blondie. He rips the square from his face, then holds the blood-covered piece of metal triumphantly.

“HA!” He lets out a victorious laugh.

With dramatic flare, Blondie rips off his trench coat, revealing a bunched-up parachute strapped to his back, atop yet another trench coat. (So he’s not a hunchback after all! The realization strikes me as a slight betrayal. I mean, just when you think you know a person.) The tiny chute looks like a toddler’s backpack on his ginormous body. I can’t imagine it would actually hold him in the air. Regardless, he kicks the door. The furious wind finishes the job and completely rips it off the side of the plane.

Hot Guy gets up just in time to see Blondie salute us with the middle finger. “No!” Hot Guy cries. Blondie jumps.

One second Blondie’s there and the next he’s gone.

Hot Guy races over to the window. “Shit,” he mutters. He rushes past me into the cockpit, shoves the dead pilot out of his seat, takes his earpiece, and confidently grabs the yoke, pressing a few buttons arbitrarily here and there. A second later, he gets back up, shakes his head. “Yeah, there’s no saving this poor baby,” he says. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

As if I don’t already know this! He grabs me by the arm, pulling me to my feet.

“What’s going on?” I yell.

“No time to explain.” He pulls a small round gadget from his jeans pocket and slaps it onto my upper back. In a second, it transforms into a metallic backpack with an attached helmet, fastening itself around my torso and head. What the heck?

“What is this?” I yell. My voice sounds tinny from inside the helmet. In front of me, Hot Guy’s own backpack and helmet duo form around him. He speaks in my ear through a tiny speaker.

“Hurry up and follow my lead,” he demands.

He heads to the open exit, but I grab his sleeve and yank hard. He turns to me. “What?” he says, his tone clipped.

“Who are you?”

Hot Guy lifts his head dramatically, the wind blowing behind him, the sunlight silhouetting his figure. He says, “Eric. Eric Shaw.” Then he waits, expectantly.

I stare at him quizzically. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

He grunts. “Just jump!” He motions to the clouds below us. I gulp.

“Wait! I can’t just jump!” My breathing shallows. Stars dance in my eyes. “I don’t even know how to use a parachute!”

Eric sighs and checks his watch. “We don’t have time for this.”

And then he shoves me right out the door.

💬 Can you believe this Eric Shaw dude?! What do you think is going to happen to Julie? Is this an international drug cartel, or something even crazier? Have YOU ever jumped out of a plane? I’d love to know what you’re thinking in the comments!