One by one, they pluck their hypodermics from the case. Helen hesitates, her fingers just brushing her syringe. She is the only one who asked in the briefing why it was even necessary to kill them, given what was going to happen afterwards.
Because one must never leave anything to chance, Miss Randolph, their mentor explained. This is the only job where overkill is a good thing.
Helen takes her hypodermic from the case and the four exchange one last look. Holding their syringes carefully, they turn to the front of the plane. Ahead of them, their passengers are nodding quietly, the chloral hydrate in their drinks taking effect. The principal stirs as they approach, putting out a hand to Billie, gripping her wrist. He lifts his lids halfway, struggling to form words against the heavy weight of the chloral mixed with alcohol.
“Why?” he demands thickly.
Billie reaches out with one smooth gesture and slides the hypodermic into his neck, pushing down on the plunger. “I think you know.”
He makes to claw at his neck, but the sodium thiopental is doing its work. His eyelids drop. She watches him slide into oblivion, easing his grip on her wrist as he lets go of life. She glances at the others, who are watching their targets with the same detached interest. After a minute, each puts a fingertip to the neck of her mark.
“Clear,” Billie calls.
“Clear,” Natalie replies.
“Clear,” Helen says at the same time.
“Shit!” Mary Alice rears back, the bodyguard’s hand at her throat, squeezing as he surges forward, the hypodermic dangling from his neck. He wrenches it out, flinging it in an arc that lands it at Billie’s feet. She sees at a glance that the syringe is still full. Mary Alice hasn’t depressed the plunger and the needle has broken off.
Mary Alice goes down hard, the bodyguard on top of her, throttling her as her face turns purple. The dog, startled by the commotion, starts to bark, jumping in circles. Helen scoops it up as Nat launches herself at the bodyguard on top of Mary Alice, landing on his back with as much impact as a flea landing on a dog. He raises one hand to bat her away, shoving Nat hard into the tray table and knocking the wind out of her. She whoops a few times, sucking in air as the dog continues to bark hysterically, struggling in Helen’s arms. The smooth, carefully plotted mission has turned into a goddamned circus, Billie realizes, and it is up to her to salvage it.
She reaches down, grabbing the slit in her skirt with both hands, yanking hard to tear it up and open to the waist. Strapped to her thigh is a knife, and she pulls it free as she straddles the bodyguard. Thank god his hair needs trimming, she thinks as she wraps it around her hand and pulls sharply. His head snaps back, exposing his neck. One quick thrust and she is in, severing the jugular as neatly as slicing a piece of steak. A twist of the wrist and she has the carotid as well, both vessels spurting blood in a fountain that sprays Mary Alice where she lies, gasping for air as she rolls out from under him.
“Jesus,” Helen says. The dog in her arms suddenly goes still and sends up a mournful howl.
“Don’t put the dog down,” Billie instructs. “It will lick up the blood.”
“Oh god,” Mary Alice manages. “I’m going to be sick.”
“You damned well are not,” Billie tells her. “We’re not finished here.”
Just then Gilchrist emerges from the cockpit. “What the hell was all that noise—”
He stops short at the sight of the fitted grey carpet, dark and sticky with the spreading pool of blood. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he starts.
“We’re handling it,” Billie tells him shortly.
“See that you do,” he orders. He turns to Helen. “Parachutes.”
She retrieves two large packs and two smaller ones—main chutes and reserves—from the overhead locker and hands them over. “Here you go.”
He passes them up to Sweeney before turning back. “You know what to do next. Finish up and get out of here. We’ll follow. And don’t forget the case,” he adds with a glance at the secretary slumped in his seat, the result of Nat’s quietly efficient handiwork. “Or all of this is for nothing.”
He returns to the cockpit before he can see Billie’s upraised middle finger.
Mary Alice, pushing herself to her feet, gives a shaky laugh as she strips off her blood-soaked uniform. Nat passes her a sleekly fitted black suit. It is made of a material developed by a military contractor happy to sell a few thousand yards under the table. Mary Alice’s skin is sticky with blood but she forces herself into the suit, strapping a utility belt and parachute neatly into place. The others do the same, checking their gear as they zip and buckle.