Tyler was running scenarios for a recent plane crash. It was a domestic civilian flight, but a person of interest had been on the flight, and the circumstances were suspicious. They wanted to make sure it hadn't been more than an accident. He'd requested access to all of the airline's documentation, and the black box was being retrieved from the wreckage as he worked. It would be delivered the next day.
He started perusing the manifest, and almost dropped it when he saw Sandy's name. Seated next to Maruc Trevelyan. The spy-turned-terrorist, responsible for ending hundreds of lives in bombings, as well as war crimes against his own people. He closed his eyes. Sandy's plane had crashed. His mind went numb. He was pacing back and forth, but it was like he was watching himself. He couldn't connect, couldn't fathom the connection. He sat back down slowly and carefully, to pull up the rest of the report. Sandy had been spotted getting very cozy with Maruc pre-flight. His hands shook. He clenched them into fists. Sandy's plan had crashed. He was on his feet again. There were no survivors. He hurled his chair against the wall, cracking two legs clean off. He drove a fist at the wall, unthinking, cracking a deep fist-shaped gouge. Pieces of white plaster fell onto the ground, and he sank to his knees, head against the wall.
Slowly he realized he'd been staring at the floor, bruised knuckles pressed against its cool hard surface. He took a deep breath, and stood, reaching for the phone, and dialed a familiar number.
"Daniel. I need some info."
***
When Sandy woke up, her whole body hurt. She couldn't see anything, and she was cold. So cold, her teeth were already chattering. She sat up slowly, feeling around herself. She had been lying on the ground, it was smooth and cold. She blinked, held her hand up in front of her face. She couldn't see anything.
"Fuck." Her voice was scratchy and quiet, but as soon as the word left her lips, lights flickered on, so bright she had to squint. Sandy looked around. She was in what looked like a basement, still wearing the same clothes she'd worn on the flight, only they were bloodstained and dirty. She pushed her hair back and felt a bandage. That would explain why her head was throbbing so badly. She dragged herself to her feet, only to discover that her left ankle was bruised and sprained badly. She could barely stand on it. She limped over to the door, leaning against the wall in intervals. The door was locked. "Fuck!" She banged her fist against the door. What the hell was going on? The last thing she remembered was the flight going down. Suddenly the door opened inward. She jumped back and stumbled, her hurt ankle giving way, and she fell to the ground. A man in a suit stood above her. His face was expressionless, the look in his eyes incurious as he studied her. "What—what's going on? Where am I? Who are you?" She stuttered out, somewhat unnerved by his appearance. Two women walked in, dressed in fatigues.
"Upstairs." The man uttered one word and left. The women moved forward and dragged her to her feet.
"Walk." The woman on her left, a striking brunette, spat the word.
"Tell me what's going on." Sandy said, mustering up her courage, and looking the woman dead in the eye. Her response was a shove, again knocking Sandy to the floor. They pulled her to her feet.
"Walk." The woman pushed her, and Sandy stumbled forward, crying out in pain as she landed on her left foot. The other woman stepped forward, grasping Sandy's arm gently. She had raven hair and dark brown skin. She studied Sandy's leg for a moment.
"She's hurt Jane."
"What?" The brunette snapped.
"My ankle! It's sprained. I can't—I can't walk on it." Sandy exclaimed. The woman named Jane looked at her ankle.
"We'll have to carry her."
"You carry her. I'll report in." Jane turned and walked out the door. The other woman looked at Sandy.
"My name is Diane."
"Diane. What's going on? Please, I need to know what's happening."
"It'll all be explained in due time. Just cooperate, and everything will go okay for you." Diane said soothingly, and then approached Sandy, lifting her as if she were a child. As Diane carried her up the stairs, however, Sandy did not find herself feeling reassured.
***
He couldn't get a straight story out of anyone. All his sources clammed up, and one tried to convince him that neither Maruc nor Sandy had been on the plane. When he'd had enough of the evasive answers, her decided to go out and get some answers as quickly as possible. He didn't want to use lethal force, but he knew, as he packed up his gear, there was nothing he wouldn't do for Sandy. He swallowed, forcing any emotion that might emerge to the back of his mind. He was trained to deal with even the most devastating situations with ruthless efficiency, and he didn't intend to disappoint Sandy now. Once he found out who was responsible, he would avenge her. And he would give no quarter.
***
The walls were steel. There was one light bulb, hanging almost comically out of the ceiling above her. It was swaying slightly. Sandy was seated on a chair in front of a table. A man sat across from her. He was balding, and his pale complexion looked sickly under the harsh light. Her ankle was throbbing, and she couldn't find a comfortable position to place it in. As she shifted in her chair, the man in front of her smiled. Even his teeth looked dingy in the poor lighting. He smiled again, and Sandy immediately wished she were elsewhere.
"Sandy Washington. Nice to meet you Ms. Washington," he said, curling his lip around her name like an epithet. "I am Mr. Foss. Would you like a cup of water?"
"Yes, please." Sandy relaxed slightly at his civil tone. The door to the room opened, and Diane walked in, placed a small paper cup with water in it in front of her. She sipped it and immediately felt better.
"Ms. Washington, would you like to tell me what exactly you were doing on US Air flight 111?"
"Ah, I was heading to DC for work."
