Monster by Bernard L. DeLeo Page B

McDaniels could hear the boy’s Grandfather urging him to sit down. The Syrian reached for the little boy, a smile of malice on his face. Tommy cowered back. His Grandfather engulfed the Syrian’s hand in one gnarled fist. The Syrian dropped to his knees in pain.
    “Don’t know what you think you’re doin’,” Osbourne said, gesturing at the two other Syrians to stay put, “but you reach for my Grandson again I’ll break this off and shove it up your ass.”
    That said, Osbourne released the Syrian with a little push as he shielded Tommy. Reskova saw the Syrian jump back to his feet. Something slid down from under the sleeve of his jacket. What happened next seemed a blur to Reskova. In one fluid motion McDaniels shot up from his seat and smashed the thumb side of his right hand into the Syrian’s throat. The blow propelled the Syrian into the seats of his companions. McDaniels caught both of the man’s companions up by the throats, propelling them like rag-dolls headfirst into the upper bulkhead. He released their bodies, allowing them to collapse unconscious to the floor. McDaniels reached for the first Syrian while the rest of his group sat stunned at the speed McDaniels attacked.
    Reskova reached for the 9mm Glock inside her jacket, trying to see around McDaniels. She heard a sickening crack as McDaniels broke the first Syrian’s right arm at the wrist, grabbing the sharpened wooden shaft formed like a knife. The man, still gagging for breath from McDaniels’ last blow, collapsed to the floor in a ball, rocking in agony as he tried to breathe and hold his injured arm. Reskova saw the Syrian McDaniels had pegged as the leader start out of his seat just as McDaniels’ right fist smashed into the Syrian’s face. The force of McDaniels’ blow pitched the man into the other aisle, blood shooting out of his broken nose.
    Three air marshals in coach jumped to their feet during the melee, identifying themselves, weapons drawn. The other Syrians, standing in line at the bathrooms, and in their seats, were covered quickly. The marshals ordered them to the floor of the plane, hands behind their heads, face down. As McDaniels turned his attention to the Syrians still seated, one of them began to stand up, only to be pulled forcefully back down by his companion sitting next to him.
    Reskova moved around McDaniels, with her weapon pointed at the Syrians. “That went well.”
    Folley looked at McDaniels quizzically as the passengers sat in shocked silence, some hugging each other fearfully, while others seemed poised to join into the battle. Both men, who had backed the stewardess, along with Tommy’s Grandfather, moved near McDaniels, watching the Syrians in anticipation.
    McDaniels held up the wooden knife for Folley to see. “The one on the floor over here was getting ready to use this. I imagine he isn’t the only one who has one. What would you like to do?”
    “What do you suggest?” Folley asked in return.
    “You don’t want to know,” McDaniels said, evoking some strained laughter from the passengers within hearing. “The one over by you is the ringleader.”
    Folley looked down at the groaning Syrian. He reached down to feel the man’s sleeves, provoking cries of pain. Standing back up with another of the wooden knives, Folley held it up for McDaniels to see.
    “My man up front has the other two at gunpoint.”
    McDaniels glanced down at the Syrians who were looking around wildly at the hostile looks. “Since we don’t know what these guys have, why not head back to LA and get some troops on board?”
    “Already on our way,” Folley confirmed. “Agent Reskova, would you please go forward, and back my man’s play up there?”
    “Sure.” Reskova moved past Osbourne and the two other men from the front coach section. The stewardesses had already began quieting the passengers, calmly letting them know the plane would be heading back to Los Angeles. There was shared laughter at suggestions of