the hell of being stuck below and her curious nature gets the better of her. She looks toward the cockpit and sees Fizer and the pilot still wordlessly staring ahead, and the person in the first row of seats remains motionless.
Dawson leans out of the panel opening, steals one more glance towards the front of the plane, and then slowly moves her head around the back of the seat.
She gasps.
A man sits in the seat slumped over, apparently unconscious, his hands cuffed in front of him. He wears a sand-colored shirt that appears to be a size too small and camouflage pants, like the person sitting in the first row of seats. The man’s head occasionally lolls erratically from side to side, as if he is having a seizure. Dawson notices a large bruise on the side of his neck that seems to run underneath his shirt. The bruise is a nasty shade of crimson and purple and looks to have occurred recently. She also notices what appears to be an extremely dirty bandage wrapped around his hand.
Despite the fact the man must be dangerous on account of the handcuffs, she feels an immediate sympathy towards him. Besides, the man cannot be all that bad if he is at odds with Colonel Fizer.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Dawson recalls the old saying.
Still, she debates what to do next. She glances towards the cockpit once again, but sees no movement. Dawson looks back at the unconscious man, whose head once again jerks awkwardly to the side. In spite of her reservations, she feels she at least owes it to the man to determine if he is stable and breathing normally. She does possess basic medical training, and she cannot in good conscience scramble back to her lair without checking on him first.
Dawson slowly rises out of the compartment, all the while staring towards the front of the plane, keeping an eye out for any movement that would indicate she has been spotted. She grips her pocketknife tightly, thinking that the gasoline-soaked blade is enough to defend herself in case they try to capture her. Deep down, she is not quite sure she believes that.
Her legs clear the compartment, and she crawls the few remaining feet into the row with the unconscious man. She slowly glances out from behind the row of seats in front of her and sees that Fizer and the pilot remain undisturbed, while the person in the first row still has not moved. Dawson reaches into the aisle and gently slides the panel door back into place.
She turns around to face the man and moves closer to him, not entirely certain what she can do for him. She first checks the pulse on his wrist and while not entirely strong, it is constant. His breathing is fairly ragged, but it too possesses a rhythmic quality, indicating that he is not struggling to pull oxygen into his lungs. She notes that his wrist is icy, and she puts her hand to his forehead and on his cheek to find his face cold and clammy. She sees goose bumps on his arms and suddenly realizes why his head appears so spasmodic: he is shivering because he is freezing, causing his whole body to quake involuntarily.
Not knowing what else to do, Dawson rubs her hands up and down his arms, attempting to generate some heat and force his circulatory system to pump the blood around his body. The man’s face possesses an unhealthy pallor except for the large bruise on the side of his neck. Dawson stops and takes a closer look at the bruise, gingerly lifting his shirt, trying to be as gentle as possible.
Suddenly, the man shifts slightly in his seat and he emits a guttural groan, followed by a hoarse whisper, “Mike . . .”
Dawson is so startled that she nearly falls backwards into the aisle. She regains her balance and places her index finger over her mouth, indicating for him to be quiet even though his eyes remain closed.
The man groans again, and this time it lasts for several seconds. Dawson is certain that it is loud enough to be heard by Fizer and company, and she immediately ducks down in the row of seats, desperately looking around for somewhere to hide.
“What the hell was that?” someone asks.
“Sounds like our prisoner is starting to stir,” Fizer responds. “Go check on him, Sergeant Major,” he orders.
“Yes, sir,” another person replies.
The sound of approaching footsteps can be heard and moments later, Dawson is staring at a pair of black, shiny boots a few inches from her face. She has managed to cram herself underneath the prisoner’s seat, her feet pressed up against a wall that abuts the last row of seats on either side. She holds her breath for fear the slightest noise will give her away. She feels a sharp pain in her ribs, which have taken exception to being jostled into such a tight and awkward angle underneath the seat. Sweat covers her face and she notices blood on her hand-
Her heart flutters as she realizes she is not cut on her hand. Dawson did not notice any blood on the unconscious man, so it has to be from the cut on her back. While moving around, blood from the wound must have dripped somewhere and then she unwittingly placed her hand in it.
Shit, did I leave a trail of it from the compartment door?
Then, without having time to worry about the possible repercussions, an overhead light is switched on in the row.
“Are we awake yet, Sergeant Kaley?” the man asks eagerly.
The prisoner, Kaley, mutters something indiscernible.
The man looming over Kaley leans down and places his hands on his knees. “I’m having trouble understanding you, Sergeant, what did you say?” he asks, clearly enjoying the unfavorable position Sergeant Kaley finds himself in.
There is a pause that seems to last forever as Dawson continues to hold her breath. Suddenly, she hears a dull thud, and the man hovering over Kaley is rocked backward into the row of seats in front of them, the man’s feet nearly coming out from under him.
Dawson sees several drops of blood fall to the ground and she briefly thinks how perfectly serendipitous this is for her situation. If she has to guess, she thinks the man’s face met Sergeant Kaley’s head fairly flush.
“I said ‘I’m awake,’ Ruethorn,” Kaley grumbles.
With a roar, Ruethorn launches himself at Kaley. An instant later, Dawson hears what appears to be the sound of Kaley on the receiving end of several sharp blows, one roundhouse after another, as the seat above her wobbles back and forth like a heavy bag. She grimaces as she hears the helpless grunting of Kaley after each punch.
How brave this Ruethorn must be to conduct target practice on a man who cannot fight back, she sarcastically thinks. Well, at least not with his arms.
Dawson’s first instinct is to help the defenseless Kaley and before her mind can rationalize the dire consequences for both of them if she is captured too, she reaches out with her knife towards Ruethorn. Ironically, it is Colonel Fizer who stops her from committing a grave mistake.
“Sergeant Ruethorn!” Fizer shouts, causing Dawson to suddenly jerk the knife back.
Fizer charges down the aisle towards them, but not before Ruethorn lands one more punch.
“That’s enough, Sergeant,” Fizer chides, although he sounds almost amused, like a parent gently disapproving of their child grabbing one last cookie from the jar.
Ruethorn straightens up and smoothes out his uniform, breathing heavily from his retaliatory outburst at the prisoner.
“Good to see you’re awake, Sergeant Kaley,” Fizer says somberly. “You could become a very valuable
