“Great. They give me five large to babysit their 12 year old kid, and I’m about to watch him get murdered right in front of me.”

Chase should not have had time to think this thought. Things were happening too fast. Things were out of control. This was supposed to have been easy. Tyler was just twelve, but he was a bright kid, a very likeable boy who happened to see something that he wasn’t supposed to see. And all Chase had to do was sit near him on the plane and make sure nothing happened to him.

Tyler McLeod was going to die in a matter of seconds, and in a few more seconds after that, Chase Jackson was going to die as well. That much seemed certain. And even though Chase could see everything going terribly wrong right before his eyes, he could not understand how he could have made such a horrible mistake. He had done his due diligence. Tyler should not be dying just two months short of his thirteenth birthday.

Unfortunately for Tyler, he had seen the killing. His was the only other pair of eyes on the planet that had seen Huntley Pratt put a knife into the heart of a homeless man, an innocent bystander who had witnessed Pratt’s drug deal. Pratt had always been a nasty man, but now he was a murderer, and Tyler knew it. Tyler had waited nearby until the police showed up, and being the good kid that he is, he described the crime to them perfectly. He described Huntley Pratt perfectly as well, and it was only a matter of hours before Pratt was arrested for the murder.

Now, Tyler was on his way to the federal courthouse in Olympia to testify against Huntley Pratt. He was accompanied by a federal officer who occupied the aisle seat to Tyler’s right, but Paul and Sandra McLeod weren’t about to take any chances. They had been extra careful with the safety of their only son for the entire eight months since the murder, and they weren’t about to let their guard down now. So, they had hired Chase Jackson to keep a low profile and make sure that Tyler got to Olympia safely, until they were able to join him there the next day.

They had selected Chase based on his reputation as an intelligent, tough Investigator with an uncanny eye for detail. And until this moment, Chase had been certain that he had covered every possible detail. Tyler was traveling under a phony name. He had never met Chase Jackson, and didn’t know that Chase was on the same flight. Chase had selected Tyler’s seat: 6B, and Chase sat directly behind him in 7B. Charles Woodrow was a stranger to Tyler, but not to Chase. Mr. Woodrow was a school supervisor who made this trip several times a month, and Chase had secretly arranged for this friendly, trustworthy man to be sitting in the window seat to Tyler’s left. Mr. Woodrow liked to power-nap during this brief flight, and at the moment he was fast asleep in seat 6A. Seventeen-year veteran Federal Officer Laura Probert was on Tyler’s right, and had been selected by the Prosecutor’s Office to escort Tyler to Olympia.

Chase didn’t know Officer Probert, but she seemed to be the perfect choice for this assignment: businesslike, careful, vigilant, and with an unblemished service record. That’s what surprised Chase the most. He heard Tyler’s cry of alarm just as the plane began its descent; he heard the jarring sounds of a struggle coming from the area of seats 6B and 6C; he saw the long sharp hypodermic needle in Officer Probert’s hand through the tiny gap between the seatbacks, as it was thrust in Tyler’s direction; and he felt the unmistakable sensation of a gun barrel being pressed against his temple by the person in the window seat beside him.

Halfway through the in-flight magazine’s article on the holidays in the Balkans, I was started by a delicate tap in my shoulder. Sally, the stewardess who’d been friendly with me since Fresno, stared down at me, blue eyes blazing.

“Freshen your drink, Mr. Jackson?”

“Thank you Sally,” I replied with a flash of my winning smile. World class stunt men are rare, stunt men as good looking as me, doubly so.

She bent down farther than necessary to refill my Orangina, and I was just about to comment on the intoxifying affect of her perfume mixed with the subtle aroma of peanuts, when a flurry of activity from the seat in front of me drew my attention. The seat jerked back hard, and my now-filled glass emptied its contents all over the front of my Chinos. Sally started attending to my plight with a handy towel, but I was more concerned with the safety of the plane, its passengers and its crew. I’m a citizen first, studly lady-killer second.

I gently shouldered Sally out of the way and confronted my spastic neighbor. A small, slight man clutching a leather satchel to his chest, heaved and buckled, as if possessed. “Sir,” I said in my normal authoritative tone, “what seems to be the trouble?”

He rocked violently back and forth, still holding the sack. His watery eyes glanced up at me for a brief moment when he replied, “I can’t do this, I can’t stop it any longer.”

Cripes, I thought, I got me a real terrorist here. Visions of medals, commendations, parades, talk show interviews filled my head. Here is this tiny, tiny man, I thought, ha, man, he’s just a runt. All I have to do is keep him under control while the pilot lands and I am a hero.

“Tell the captain we have a situation, Sally,” I whispered, trying to keep my calm. “I’ll handle …”

A blur of brown fur and teeth exploded out of the man’s carry on bag. It latched onto my neck and I stumbled backwards into the laps of an elderly Florida couple.

“Ooh, look Harold, it’s one of those cute little ferrets,” I heard her say just before the mad beast sunk its teeth into my left ear. Its claws ripped at my shoulders.

I held fast onto its body, trying desperately to wrench it free. Its claws dug deeper as I struggled to stand.
Sally fell backwards into her drink cart, sending ice into the aisle. I whirled around, trying to gain momentum to shift the beast, but slipped on the spilled cubes and landed head-first into the old lady’s lap.

“Why, you,” she screamed, pummeling the back of my head with her handbag. The ferret had purchase on my massive chest and its constant squirming sent tiny sprays of blood everywhere. I steadied my legs and began to ease myself up, all the while trying to contain the ferret and its devastating gyrations.

“Mr. Sniggles! No! Bad, Mr. Sniggles!” The tiny man was standing on his seat frantically waving a feather at the end of a long plastic pole. “Stop it,” he shouted and waved. “Stop it right now!” He whipped the ferret toy forward, the end of the stick jabbing my left eye. Instinct drove my hand up to my injured face, and the ferret immediately squirmed out of my clutches. It scrambled its way over my head, its hind claws ripping my bottom lip. It scurried over my hair, slicing off a chunk of my expensive toupee and attached itself to my back.

I swung around, reaching behind me to pry the varmint off, but to no avail, my huge biceps prohibited me from the flexibility necessary to ease my suffering. I trudged down the aisle to the wall separating first class from the rest of the passengers. The mad ferret sank its teeth once more into my neck. It was then I knew what I had to do.

With all my strength I flung myself backwards into the wall, hoping to crush the monster between the metal and my bulk.

SLAM!

I shook my head. The ferret’s back legs scraped for a hold, his jaw loosened slightly.

SLAM!

A small squeak escaped the beast. He was stunned.

I went for the kill.

SL…the ferret, aware of its fate, leapt off my back and scurried into the economy section just before I made final contact with the wall…AM!

I regained consciousness a few minutes later, Sally sitting next to me attending my wounds, her face full of concern.

I smiled through my split lip, “Bwen thib pwane wanbs, I woub libe bo bake you oub bor bibber, borbouth!”

She screwed up her face and sighed, but I blacked out again before I could hear her answer.

The Himalayas. The Dalai Lama. "Seven Years in..." Chase Jackson sighed. What did he really know about Tibet? The dossier told him the target, the location, and the job. But what did it tell him about Tibet? He knew Brian Ellis had been pushing for this mission since intelligence had found links to the region. Then again, Brian was mostly interested in the mountains, as he always had been. He was needed on the distribution end of the target's little operation anyway, since he had been tracking it since early March. The drink cart disrupted his daydreaming. "Just a seltzer, please," he requested. Some fellow agents would have asked for a drink with some kick, but they also would have had whined about a coach seat. Chase really didn't mind. Settling back, he allowed his eyes to wander over the passengers seated around him as he sipped quietly. It wasn't his eyes that first alerted him, though; it was the rustle from the next set of seats. He knew it didn't sound right, and this thought was instantly confirmed by the distinctively shaped flash of green. It was definitely a B-8, and it was being carried against the hip of the rather large man seated forward and to his right. The memos and briefings over the past few months had kept him quite aware of the B-8: a small combat knife made of plastics, and it could glide through both metal detectors and skin with ease. It was being produced in Europe and seemed to only exist in a relatively unique green. None of that mattered now, of course. Chase Jackson knew that you only risk bringing a weapon on a plane if you meant to use it, and use it well enough to severely tip the scales in your favor. In any case, the man, who appeared to exceed Jackson’s height of six feet by no less than six inches, and his weight by no less than fifty pounds, occasionally brought his hand to the blade’s location along his waist and felt for the hilt. Chase noted that no one else had caught the brief sight of the B-8, so its owner probably believed he still had the advantage of surprise. Fortunately for Jackson, as long as his mark had such confidence, the advantage was his own.

The large man beckoned to a flight attendant, who was near the midsection of the 747. Jackson tensed, knowing his new target was putting his plan into action. As the young woman approached, the man rose from his seat and began whispering into her ear, as if to request a replacement for his drink. Chase rose in turn, and tapped on the man’s shoulder, saying, “Don’t worry ma’am, I have one for him.” The man turned around with a quite puzzled look on his face, which was soon replaced by Jackson’s fist. The plane erupted in noise immediately, as Jackson’s adversary tumbled back into the aisle. The B-8 flew out with a glint of green, and the man’s burly arm swung it at Chase’s head. His reflexes sharp, Jackson leaned back, avoiding the blade, and let it lodge itself in the face of the overhead compartment. As Jackson steadied himself by grabbing two seats, the man grabbed the hilt with both hands and yanked hard on the B-8, tearing the hatch off its hinges. An idea struck Chase as his foe struggled to pull the knife free of the plastic door. He reached into the compartment, and the proceeded to slam a rather hefty briefcase across the back of the man’s head. He groaned, and stumbled to his knees, temporarily forgetting about the knife. As he grabbed a nearby seat to pull himself up, Jackson let fly with another blow from the case, and the man fell to the ground, unconscious.

The flight landed on schedule, as the criminal had been sufficiently restrained and was ready to be delivered into the hands of the authorities. Most of the plane had expressed gratitude to him in some form or another, although the only offer he accepted was another round of soda water. He had some trouble trying to explain his position in the government without revealing anything critical to the job, but eventually people just believed that he was some sort of off-duty police officer. Chase was fine with such an interpretation. What did interest him, though, was when the flight attendants thanked him in the terminal and offered any sort of return flight he desired in any class. They appeared relatively well-traveled. Chase Jackson responded, “Well, no thank you. I was wondering, however… Could you tell me something about Tibet?”

Chase Jackson sat back in his seat, and allowed a small sigh to escape his lips. When you were a secret agent and had to be ever alert, moments that you felt relatively safe were so few and far between, that he enjoyed them immensely. And as soon as he had boarded Flight 775, a sense of ease had washed over him.

After all, the first-rate airport security had already eliminated any chance of a hijacker or bomb threat hours ago. The plane had taken off and reached altitude without a hitch. First class (which Chase would of course only travel in) was mostly empty, giving him a seat near the front. Overall, it was so boring that he was able to lie back, and wait for sleep to come.

But before that happened, a loud noise came from the seat in front of him. After a moment it was repeated, and the instinct to see what was amiss quickly rose in his blood. Valiantly leaping up to find the source of the clatter, Chase's eyes drifted down, to the sight of a shoe rubbing on the seat ahead, the friction causing the sound. Not just any random sneaker or pump either, but a tap shoe, he knew. He tilted his gaze upwards, stared at the person attached to shoe, and ended up face-to-face with someone almost as internationally famous as himself.

"Oh, hello." Michael Flatley, aka the Lord of the Dance, said to him. "You must be another fan. Want an autograph?"

"No, I'm no fan." Chase replied. "You moving your shoe disturbed me."

"Scuffling. "Michael corrected. "That's what we dancers call it, a scuffle of feet."

"You say 'scuffle', I say 'annoying'. How about an end to it?"

"Well, I've got to practice. Besides…"

"Oh, I'm sure you need a lot more practice." Chase interrupted "But we all have needs. I, for one could use some peace and quiet so I can sleep."

Michael rose, and put his arms at his sides. "Sleep, ay? Well, I always tell people to follow their dreams. So I can surely help you reach your dreamland."

Before Jackson could make a witty comment of his own, one of Michael's famous feet came flying at him. Having been expecting something, Chase blocked the blow, but Flatley surprised him with his speed, and a second kick pushed him back slightly. Jackson now joined the battle in full force, and the two began to exchange blows, each matched with a block or dodge. Both searched for a hole in the other's defense, but with the cramped fighting quarters, getting off a finishing blow would be difficult.

Chase, ever resilient, scanned his surroundings, even as he fired off a few jabs that did no more than cause Flatley to retreat slightly. There had to be something around here that he could use as a distraction device, among the seats and months-old magazines. Then he spotted something, and a plan quickly formed in his mind. When the next Flatley kick came, instead of dodging it, he rolled with the blow, landing exactly where he wanted to on the floor.

"Ha, I've got you now." Michael gloated, ready to Riverdance his opponent to sleep.

"Oh, I don't think so." Chase smirked, his hands now clutching items. With a flick of his wrist, dozens of airsickness bags flew into Flatley's face, obscuring his view.

As the Lord of the Dance backed up a bit, Jackson released his second handful -- bags of airline peanuts. With a precision only a secret agent could manage, the peanuts fell at Flatley's feet. Still blinded, Michael didn't see his foot come down onto one of the bags. But since even one of his forceful taps couldn't cause the bag to open, he slipped and was forced to try to reclaim his balance.

This was all the opening that Chase needed. Even though, to his credit, Michael didn't fall, he still couldn't dodge the forthcoming charge. Jackson plowed into Flatley, and after sending him reeling, connected with a few well-placed blows that sent his foe to the ground, unconscious but mostly not the worse for wear.
As he was finishing putting Flatley back into a seat, a flight attendant approached Chase.

"What's all the commotion about?" She asked.

"Oh, nothing." Jackson said calmly. "Just helping to cure a case of insomnia."

"Oh. Well, if you'll return to your seat, we'll be showing our movie soon."

Chase grimaced. Movies tended to keep him awake. "Hmm. What's playing?"

"Another crossover sequel. 'Dude, Where's Pearl Harbor?' it's called."

Jackson's frown quickly turned to a smirk. "Ah, good. Anyone can sleep through that."

Again the airliner bucks. Chase’s hands clutch the armrests, his butt-cheeks the seat’s fabric. He detests flying. First, the bump-jerks evoking terror equaled only by a closely aimed 9mm. In his mind anyway. Then, an earthward plunge reminds him of a childhood roller coaster ride. Chase’s stomach launches as the airliner bottoms out, bouncing; trying to recover altitude.

Looking back the steel-gray-suit man sits there, dominating the last row. Chase’d spotted him boarding, shuffling past face to face. Apparently, unaware of Chase Jackson. Chase recalled him from the Cold War days. He’d appeared ageless.

“’scuse me.” He’d said. Chase had quickly looked down hoping he’d not taken a recallable mental picture.

“Uh-huh.” Chase’d remained invisible.

The encounter had transpired Pre-Regan. Pre-Nixon even. President Nixon, not Vice-President Nixon. Chase couldn’t remember. Was it during the end of the Eisenhower administration, or the start of the Kennedy administration? Doesn’t matter he decides. No, Eisenhower, he’s certain.

Ordered to West Berlin then. Chase resided, with orders to “live quiet”, in a seedy hotel.

“Don’t attract attention!” His boss’d said. He hadn’t.

Chase spotted the steel-gray-suit man, then the black-suit-hatless man, early one morning opposite the hotel. Hatless men made Chase suspicious. Then, people wore hats. Also, the man’d stood stock-still. Too still. Clearly, attempted incorporation.

The black-suit man sensed Chase’s detection and accelerated towards him. Confused, Chase had only been in Germany, “living quiet”, a short time.

“Damn!” Chase’d muttered.

“HEY!” the guy’d yelled, hand in jacket. Chase’d seen enough. He thought about retreating into the hotel. No, he’d looked, heavy boxes blocked the backdoor. Choice two up the stairs, hallway window, fire escape onto the alley. Chase didn’t favor being shot on an exposed fire escape. Finally, he’d chosen the short run around a nearby corner hoping he could vanish amid the people traveling the adjacent main thoroughfare.

The corner reached, Chase heard a gun blast, while a bullet removed chunks of well-worn brick, based several up from the cornerstone. One chunk grazed his shoulder.

Chase disappointed, the street almost deserted, sprinted down it anyway. He needed cover. An alley, an open door, maybe a taxi. Nothing. Where’s the nearest cross street? Too far. Certainly, the black-suit man would round the corner, gaining a straight shot advantage.

Crossing the wide avenue Chase spotted a small market and chance for escape. He longed for his strap-on-ankle .38 revolver, but “living quiet” meant no gun. Stupid rule, Chase’d decided.

As Chase pushed against the store’s door another shot exploded its glass inward. Inside, he scanned for an escape route.

Behind the counter stood an elderly German; shocked, he ducked below the counter. No help there, Chase’d decided.

The glassless door swung, glass crunched under foot. The black-suit man wheezed air and scrutinized the store. Chase concealed, breath held soundlessly, peaked from behind stacked caned peas.

Behind the counter, suddenly rose the elderly store attendant, pointing a long rifle at the black-suit man. Chase recognized a Mauser, from the Big War. The long barrel, waving dizzyingly, accentuated the attendant’s nervousness. However, bravely he remained steadfast. The black-suited man quietly smiled and pointed his automatic pistol at the trembling attendant.

“Kleines Huhn?” (Little chicken?)

“Nein!” the attendant forced his voice. “Nein.” Softer this time, more controlled, the waving ceased.

As the standoff continued Chase spotted a door. Favorably, it appeared cracked open. Staying low, he scrambled out it down an alley. Last heard from the store was a loud bang. Chase accelerated, hoping the courageous attendant had succeeded. Knowing then its improbability. Knowing now its impossibility.

An explosion outside of his mind. Chase is on the floor, sardine-packed between seats. Grasping his ankle, again no .38. Panic spreading, passengers scrambling for the aisle. Attendants trying to calm them. Everyone’s terrified.

“Sir! In your seat. Please! The captain is requesting that you buckle your seatbelt.” She means Chase.

“Who’s shooting?” Chase glimpses rearward. No steel-gray-suit man.

“Please sir, buckle up. The Air Marshall’s handling it.” Chase spots his German nemesis approaching up aisle. He must warn the attendant. Watch him, he’s a killer! Before Chase can speak the man presents a badge.

“Folks, please remain calm. A teen, traveling alone, dropped a firecracker down the forward toilet. Dreadfully noisy but, little damage. He’s detained. DC police have been notified. The Captain will speak shortly. Thank You.” Passengers begin settling.

Chase, realizing the kid had been sitting in front of him, wonders how he’d missed it.

At Eighty-seven, Chase Jackson’s memory fails. The past is easy. The present is more difficult. He remembers that his great-grandchildren will meet him upon landing. It’s Chase’s first meeting with them since their birth. Wait, Chase ponders, maybe he saw them when he was in DC back in ’99. He can’t recall.

He was wound tighter than a drum. Something had to be wrong. Everything had gone too smoothly so far. Everything was just too perfect. Chase Jackson had boarded Flight 414 as soon as it pulled up to Gate 37E, long before the flight to Dallas had been announced.

It pays to have good friends in the airline business, and Chase had known some of the Delta people at the Atlanta terminal for almost twenty years. It was an unusual request, and if it had been anybody but Chase Jackson, they would have turned him down. But this was the toughest challenge in Chase’s career, and he needed the help of his longtime friend Tanya, one of Delta’s senior flight attendants. After he cleared security, Chase boarded the 747 and put his bag in the overhead compartment above row 62, near the rear of the plane. Then, he made his way back to the Cart Storage area and hunkered down for a long wait. Other than Tanya, there was no one else on the plane.

Two hours is a long time to spend crouched out of sight in a storage area. But finally there were seventy-eight passengers aboard, and Chase was thankful that the 747 was ready to depart. Just seventy-eight passengers aboard, well below capacity. That’s bad news for Delta, but good news for Chase Jackson. If things were to go badly, the death toll would be mercifully smaller than it might have been. As the plane began moving slowly towards runway 6, Chase finally was able to stretch his legs a bit as he quietly made his way to his aisle seat in Row 62. Form here, he could see just about everything that was going on in the airliner, but it was only Row 61 that was of any interest to Chase on this day. Other than the very disinterested man in the seat next to him, nobody even knew that he was aboard. Chase strapped himself in and waited for the Captain to announce that Flight 414 was ready to depart.

This would be the time. Chase cursed his stiff legs; his long wait in the storage area had taken its toll. He was going to need every bit of his physical strength in the next few seconds, and he would have to act immediately. The moment that Flight 414 left the runway, Chase knew that there would be seventy-eight passengers whose lives depended on his quick action. Seventy-eight passengers and six crew members. And Tanya. Good God, Tanya. He could not let anything happen to his dear friend. This had to go according to plan.

Flight 414 taxied towards runway three. Chase’s eyes never left the seat in front of him. At the moment the wheels left the runway, that hateful little mistake of nature in seat 61-B would begin his horrible plan. But it wasn’t time yet. Why was there a commotion …

Chase was busy staring outside the airplane window, trying to make out any signs of civilization underneath the clouds. He was having a hard time. Usually, he would be taking to the woman next to him, who was quite beautiful, but after a little conversation, Chase happened to find out that she was engaged.

“Ah, somebody beat me to it I see.” Chase thought. He quickly ended the conversation after this revelation.

Now he couldn’t wait until the flight finally touched down in Washington. He just wanted to get off and get back to work. It was bad enough that he wasn’t able to pony up enough money to get a seat in first class.

Suddenly, several loud noises came from the wall in front of him. There was a barrier there to divide first class from everyone else, but it wasn’t soundproof by any means. Chase ignored them at first, figuring it was just some CEO who had a little too much of the airplane wine or just an overly loud in-flight movie, but the noises continued and they finally got to him.

“I hate when somebody interrupts my cloud watching,” Chase muttered. Leaving his tray in the upright position, he took off his seatbelt and got up. “Excuse me,” he said, as he made his way past the woman and into the aisle.

The noises continued and were even louder now that the only thing standing in his way was a flimsy curtain. Chase easily brushed it aside and walked into first class.

The scene he saw was complete chaos. There were men running the aisles and in the seats, pointing guns at passengers and taking their money and valuables. “Fantastic, an in-flight robbery? What great service.” Chase was about to pull out his own gun when he heard the sound of a gun being cocked to his right.

“Excuse me,” a voice said. “I don’t believe you’re supposed to be here.”

Chase slowly turned to his right. He saw one of the stewardesses, pointing a gun right at him.

“Well, I’m just having the best of luck with women today.” Chase said. The stewardess just motioned for him to sit in a nearby empty seat.

“What, you’re not going to shoot me with that thing are you?” Chase asked.

“I think that’s what a gun is made for,” the stewardess said incredulously.

“You do know that if you fire a gun when we’re this high up, you’ll cause an explosion in the plane. Right?”

The stewardess wavered for a moment, but then regained her resolve. “No! That’s just something they made up in a movie.” However, it was obvious she was shaken up, the gun started to shake in her hands.

“Where do you think they got that fact for the movie? It happened. Oh, and if the explosion doesn’t get you, if you hit the side of the plane and cause even the smallest hole, it will eventually grow into a large one and then we’ll all plummet to our deaths.”

The stewardess’s hands began to shake even more and she slowly put down the gun. Chase was just happy that this airline didn’t train their staff better. He didn’t know if what he was saying was true. But it gave him a chance.

He immediately leapt out of his seat and tackled the stewardess. She hit the wall hard, knocking her out immediately. “Sorry,” Chase said, as she lost consciousness. “I don’t usually hit women.”

The other robbers heard this loud sound and focused their attention on Chase. He, without hesitation, took out his gun and fired a shot at each of the men. It didn’t hit them, but it did hit each of the guns in their hands. One by one, the guns flew out of their hands and the robbers suddenly found themselves unarmed. They looked shocked in response as Chase walked up to them.

“Well, I’m just glad that explosion thing wasn’t true.” Chase said. “Now boys, let’s all take our seats, I think we’ll be landing soon.” The men, still in shock of Chase’s accuracy, immediately complied as Chase collected their guns and tied them up. “And everyone else, have a nice flight.”

“What happened up there?” the woman asked as Chase took back his seat.

“Oh, not much. Just had a chat with a stewardess.” Chase replied. “But I think I’ll be able to convince my office to let me fly first class next time.”

As always, Chase Jackson was seated in the full upright position. He knew that to be the world’s best agent, he must stay alert at all times, even if it meant sleeping with one eye open. No event on the plane slipped by his attention; every movement in his vicinity was subconsciously recorded.
With such awareness, it was easy for him to pick up on the faint grunts between the couple in front of him. As they grew louder, he became more concerned and moved his head so as to see between the seats. A shimmering wisp of blond hair flashed before him, the hair of a beautiful young woman. However, her suppressed whimpers made it clear that this was no time to stare. Shifting his head, Chase tried to catch a glimpse of her “assailant.” He couldn’t quite see the man, but he heard the words, “Shut up you stupid wench!” in a crisp English accent. The agent found the voice familiar, as if he had heard it before.
All of a sudden, the man’s hand flew up and slapped the young woman across the face. At the same time, he leaned forward, moving directly into Chase’s field of view, bringing back a vivid memory for the young agent. It was none other than Professor John Houndstooth, a crime lord/scientist who had nearly destroyed the population of London with a synthetic virus two years before. But to Chase, the situation was more personal. As test subjects for the virus, the Professor used four of Chase’s fellow agents; none of them survived. In an instant, all of his special agent training for self control was replaced with blind rage: rage against the evil scientist, and rage against himself for failing to kill the madman two years ago. At that moment he vowed to finish the job and put an official end to this maniac.
Chase reached over the seat in front of him, grabbed the professor’s neck, and slammed him against the overhead control panel. Expecting the scientist to be unconscious after such a blow, Chase quietly uttered the words, “Remember me, Houndstooth?” As the agent started to take his seat again and try to calm down, he heard, “Of course I remember you. You’re the reason I installed bionic plates in my head.”
Before Chase realized what happened, a small needle shot from the seat in front of him and buried itself in his arm. Right after noticing that the needle had a long cord attached to it, he felt a surge of pain course through his body. “By the way, my skull wasn’t the only thing I modified,” spoke the scientist as he slowly rose from his seat. “In fact, you really seem to be enjoying the taser.” When Chase finally reorganized his mind, he used every bit of torture training he had learned just to overcome the electricity. With his left arm twitching, he reached over pulled out the foreign device. Regaining his composure, he said, “Sorry Professor, but I’m here to finish what I started, and this time, you can’t run away!”
Chase lunged down the narrow aisle and poured all of his rage into his arms, drilling his fists into every weak point on the enemy’s body. A powerful hook to the face, a deadly uppercut to the chin, and a vicious thrust to his stomach. He slowed down with the shocking realization that the scientist wasn’t even flinching. “I’m sorry Mr. Special Agent, but you’ve seen my strength. Now it’s time for you to go.” With those words, his right arm peeled back, revealing a large cannon.
While he was aiming, Chase thought fast and realized that even if he couldn’t hurt the monster, he could move it. He ran toward the enemy and put all of his body’s momentum into a flying kick to the chest. The scientist staggered back and landed against the cockpit door. Chase knew exactly what to do. With all his strength, he ripped off the armrest of the seat next to him and wielded it like a shortened baseball bat. “It’s time to DIE!” screamed the scientist.
Chase jumped forward just as Houndstooth began to fire, and, with unprecedented speed, he swung his weapon against the enemy’s barrel just as the bullet was traveling through it. By the time that bullet reached the end of the barrel, Houndstooth’s gun was pointed straight at the lock on the airplane door.
As the lock was blasted off, the door ripped away from the plane. Chase grabbed onto the seat behind him and hung on for his life, but the bionic scientist had nothing to hold on to. Within seconds, he was sucked out into the empty blue sky, and the world had one less threat to worry about.

Chase was looking forward to seeing his girlfriend. It had been six long weeks since they’d been together. Being an action hero is hard work and he knew it made having a personal life difficult. After all, he was the best.

Many girls had come and gone but Kelly was different. She was one cool cat and shared his love of action. Her claws could come out in a New York minute. Yep, Kitten, (that was his pet name for her), could take care of herself. They were good together. Just the thought of seeing her again made him as giddy as a schoolgirl.

Just as he was relaxing on the plane, sinking into a dreamland where only him and Kitten existed, he heard a loud scuffling sound in the seat in front of him.
"Oh great", he thought. "Whatever this is, I’ll probably have to be the hero I am and take care of this." As he peeked over the seat, ready to handle the situation in his wonderful super hero way, he saw two old women fighting over the window seat.

“Hey, ladies, stop your fighting right now. You are irritating me.” “Oh, yeah” said one of the ladies “What are you going to do about it?” Chase told them he was Chase Jackson, superhero and thought that would make them quiet down right away.
They weren’t impressed. One of them actually said she'd never heard of him! He had to take action. He told them that they would stop and stop now. He was yelling right into their faces.

Suddenly, one of the ladies leaned over, hauled off and slapped him in the face! Well, Chase was flabbergasted. He said, “Why did you do that? I’m a super hero!” Chase couldn’t believe everyone didn’t appreciate this fact.

The ladies both started laughing at him. And there were chuckles around the plane. That’s when Chase lost it. He actually punched the old lady in the face! She screamed and several men on the plane wrestled Chase to the ground while Chase kept saying “But, I’m a superhero.” No one would listen.

The police were waiting when the plane landed and arrested Chase. Yes, arrested the great Chase Jackson. He couldn’t believe it. While he sat in jail, he took comfort in the fact that Kitten would bail him out and be the one person who would understand and comfort him.

Well, Kell posted his bail. As they walked out of the jailhouse, Chase started whining about everything that had happened to him. Kell glared dangerously at him and said, “Chase, I can’t believe you punched an old woman. You are not the man I thought you were.” Poor Chase was confused. Why, oh why didn’t she understand? “But, but, she started it, Kitten. I can’t understand your lack of sensitivity for my situation-you’re acting like an alley cat.”

Kell decided he needed a lesson. She stomped on his foot with her 4- inch heels, kneed him in the groin and gave him a good upward hook to the nose, breaking it.

As the great Chase Jackson, superhero, lay on the ground writhing in pain, Kell put her foot on his chest and said, “you’ll never hear me purr again you abusing punk.” Then she walked out of his life forever.
The police that were hanging around outside just laughed at him.

As Chase waited for an ambulance to come, he planned his comeback and his revenge on all who did not know he was a super hero. They would pay, oh yes, they all would pay.

I dedicated this to KellenHeller, one cool, strong lady. also a survivor and who I'm glad to call friend.(((love and hugs)))

Chase Jackson's Interrogation

“What sin did his mother commit to deserve such an ugly child?”
People thought that when they first looked at Chase Jackson. He wasn’t your standard case of ugly. It’s obvious that someone was being punished and that he was the receptacle of some evil joke upon his life.

To make matters worse, Chase was tightly cooped up in an airplane. It’s one thing to be ugly from a distance, but to be crammed six inches away from a beautiful woman made matters worse. She couldn’t even make polite conversation. His face did all of the talking for both of them. He wasn’t just ugly, he was rugged ugly, towering 6’5” over the pretty population.

The old lady on the other side of him had lost the random lottery when he plopped down next to her. No one said a word when he started walking down the aisle, but everyone began to pray when they first saw him enter the plane. “Please, God, don’t let him sit next to me.” The old biddy was close to becoming an atheist at this moment.

Chase settled into his routine. He pulled out his newspaper and didn’t so much as read the sports page as he chose to hold up a shield to hide his face from the quiet mob. He was used to it. Ugliness wants to hide away and that hot blonde next to him didn’t want to have his baby anytime soon.

He didn’t talk. He didn’t make eye contact, but every eye, in every head, had nailed him to the cross of condemnation. Chase could feel the furtive glances bouncing off of his skull. He heard the whispers of the children and the quick responses of the mothers as they tried to protect their children from this living, breathing trauma. It was going to be a long flight.

All Chase had to do was hunker down for the long flight to London. From there, it was a series of puddle jumpers to Afghanistan where he would intimidate covert operations out of those unlucky fellows who had been captured recently. Everyone who knew Chase, knew that He loved his job. He was looking forward to the flowing of nervous sweat and guarded secrets.

All in all, in was a quiet trip as Chase drifted off into his private world of sleep. His dreams melded into reality as the yelling infiltrated them. At first they were part of his dream, but then instinct took over. Those were real voices and they were obnoxious and close.

The flight attendant was there speaking to them, “Come on guys, please keep it down, other people are trying to sleep.”

“Listen wench, your job is to keep the drinks comin’ and shut the heck up!”, Blasted the post puberty jerk.

His buddy joined in loudly, “Yeah! Make our flight fun!”

Then they went into a rousing chorus of repugnant chatter that annoyed even the deaf and the dead. Chase didn’t mind the obscenities. He frequently used them himself, but never in front of ladies and children. For the first time, that luscious blonde looked at him in his eyes. She was the type who could talk without words and what she said was clear.

In his ‘Good Cop’ voice, Chase spoke through the space between the seats, “Hey guys, can you tone it down at little? We’re trying to sleep here.”

Nothing. Nothing but more abhorrent behavior, sprinkled with bodily movements that hurt Chase’s already cramped knees.

Once more, in his ‘Good Cop’ voice, but with a little more authority, “Hey guys, can you tone it down some?”

The red-headed cretin belched loudly and then blurted out, “Buzz off crater face. Take your complaints to the helpdesk!”

Chase took a deep breath. He had dealt with this type before. He loved interrogation and the final results when his ‘Clients’ broke and blubbered away. He loved it when they screamed in pain and fell away into submission. He looked at the hottie next to him and smiled. She saw past his face and knew things were about to change.

As Chase stood up to his full height and leaned over to the gentlemen in front of him, the lucrative blonde noticed that his body was handsome beyond imagination. Chase simply reached over the seats and grabbed each of the men with one thumb under their ear and another finger wrapped around the back of their necks and squeezed hard.

As he squeezed ever so hard on the nerves under their ears, both men began to violently shake. Any turn of their heads seemed to bring on violent but brief bursts of dizziness. In this case, nausea and vomiting also accompanied the vertigo.

Chase used his ‘Bad Cop’ voice and said, “You boys can either be quiet or I’ll meet you when we get off the plane.”

Neither one of them said a word. They couldn’t. The man on the right was shaking too violently from the explosion of pain in his head. The loser on the left, let Chase know he had made his point by losing his bowel control. Chase let go of them and there was silence…and awe.

As Chase sat down, he noticed that Miss Pretty had changed her position to reveal a wantonness that he had seen before. He knew that soon after the flight that she would be screaming as he interrogated her about her passions.