From Fox's read of the stars outside her window, they were still heading west. She figured they had just passed Iceland by about hour four. Fedorov had found a new friend to talk to about the 'good old Union', leaving Carmelita alone in the back with the gunman. This particular one was the tallest of the three, and was calm enough to take off his jacket, undo his tie, and light a cigarette, which he smoked through the hole in his mask. They were hijacking the thing, so why not smoke? The FAA could go hang themselves. Fox leaned back so she could feel the Beretta against her spine. She was still in some degree of control. Carmelita looked around again, taking note on how the hijacker was standing. Next to her, the man stood leaning against the rear wall, next to the narrow access to the restrooms and to the small kitchenette where peanuts, coffee and other refreshments were stored and prepared for the cart that would normally be making bi-hourly runs down the length of the aircraft. He had his arms folded, the nine-millimeter tucked in his waistband behind his belt buckle. She looked up to his face. He was staring at her again. It was the tenth time she'd caught him doing that, and it didn't make her feel any better knowing he probably did it when she wasn't looking. The hijacker slowly looked away, dropping his cigarette and smashing it underfoot, letting it join the five others.

He kept his gaze fixated on Fox as he lit another and put the filter between his lips. An idea crossed his mind, and he smiled wickedly.

"-ey! Charlie!" he called into the front. There was an enraged answer.

"Jesus bloody Christ!" Charlie came stomping back, jerking his smaller, nickel-finish sidearm around as he shouted. "What the hell is your problem? NO NAMES!"

"Oy, sorry, Charlie. I'll just get Bryan, then."

"Oh, great! Everyone hear that?" Charlie put his arms out and slowly turned around. "My name is Charles, that man up front is Bryan, and that fock-head back there is Christopher!"

Okay, Fox thought. British. Their accents suggested northern England, possibly even Scottish. Charlie sounded like he was from the wrong side of the tracks out of London, slightly different from the rest. His mannerisms suggested a lack of academic education, but he seemed agile enough with that pistol. He held his finger off the trigger, as any smart user of the weapon does, and he kept the safety off. Smart. Don't want the weapon not to work when you need it to, and in a close-quarter situation like this, the quarter second needed to switch modes could mean the difference between life and death.

Chris shrugged and waved Charles over. He spoke directly into Charlie's ear, in muted tones that Fox couldn't pick up, even though they were right next to her. She looked up cautiously and noticed they were both looking at her. Charles sighed while eyeing Fox from head to toe.

"Yeah, sure." He stepped to the side as Chris leaned down and grabbed Fox's arm.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" Fox shouted, her Spanish accent bleeding through. She was lifted out of her seat and guided into the kitchenette. Fedorov saw this and stood. He quickly had a pistol pressed to his chest.

"Sit down, big boy," Charles suggested, pulling back the hammer on his weapon. Fedorov put on a false show of cowardice and sat down. He knew what Chris was going to try and what was going to happen, blowing any chance of a well-planned move to re-take the plane. Once Charles had turned his back, Fedorov made sure Bryan in the front didn't see and found his .54. He quietly loaded the first bullet into the chamber and tucked the weapon under his left thigh, towards the bear and the window.

"What's going on?" the man whispered. Fedorov simply held his hand to his face and tapped on his nose.

Chris pushed Fox into an alcove out of sight of everyone else and shut the door. He pulled his sidearm out from under his belt and made a show of the pistol to Fox.

"I suggest you cooperate with me," he said, making sure to point the barrel at Carmelita as he spoke, to drive the point home. He leaned in to kiss Fox, and she leaned back to avoid it, being forced to arch her back against a low counter. Christopher used his empty hand to pull off his mask and grab the back of Fox's hair, pulling down. She yelped quietly at the pain. Her Beretta was digging into her spine. When Chris put a hand where no gentlemen would dare, Fox decided it was quite enough. She clamped one paw around Chris's neck, the other around the wrist holding the weapon. She slammed Christopher's hand against the counter again and again, loosening his grip. It took about twenty or so blows until he dropped the pistol. Chris put an arm across her face and tried to push her away. Fox used the hand she disarmed the hijacker with to reach behind and draw her own gun and held it to the mouse's head.

"Qué, ninguna cena y una película?" She continued to choke the hijacker until he fell to his knees. When his eyes rolled back in his head, it was clear he was no longer conscious. Fox drove the butt of her pistol into the back of the hijacker's head and let him go limp at her feet. "Bastard."

Fedorov gripped the end of the armrest with his hand. The man next to him watched as Matkovich's claw dug into the cushion, tearing the tough blue fabric. He could only think of what was going on in the next room back. Had he sat where he was originally, he could have stopped it. He could hear some commotion in the galley. It sounded like someone was pounding on something. His entire body began to twitch. The pounding continued. He knew what it was. His hand dug deeper into the armrest. The pounding—stopped. Fedorov raised an eyebrow. He knew mice were fast, but--- dang.

Fox continued to look at the body on the floor. She looked herself over. She was going to have to go back outside without him. Fox thought quickly, and acted just as fast. She ruffled her hair askew, pulled her shirt out of her jeans and tore one shoulder on her jacket before re-holstering her pistol. This wasn't enough. She'd need something more convincing for Charlie, who waited just outside.

Charles slowly clicked the hammer on his pistol back and forth, eyes slowly scanning over the passengers. He saw only bags of cash in each of the blue seats in front of him. The clattering of dishes caught his attention. Chris's new girlfriend emerged from the back, looking like they'd had a good time. In her hands she held a coffee cup and saucer, her shaking hands causing them to tap into each other.

"Chris said to give you this," she said flatly, as she'd seen so many rape victims act. Her eyes were fastened on the floor just beyond Charles's feet. Charlie tucked his pistol into his belt and took the cup and saucer. As soon as her hands were empty, Fox held one arm across her chest, the other up to her face. She tapped her nose. She tapped her nose. Fedorov's other brow lifted, then both lowered simultaneously.

"Clever girl," he muttered. He glanced forward. Bryan was standing between the cockpit and the first-class passengers. That was his target. He was about twenty-five meters away. When he boarded, Matkovich wondered how such a small aircraft could fly so far. Now, he wondered how it stayed in the sky, for it seemed so large. He turned his attention back to Fox. Bryan lifted the cup to his face. Fox tugged at her ear once, twice. Charlie lowered the empty cup and tossed it onto the floor. He pushed Fox back to her seat.

"Hey!" he called into the back. "You done gloating back there?" He waited for an answer, but got none. "Oy!" Again, no answer. "Chris?" Without thinking, he stepped into the short corridor, pistol still secure in his belt from when he emptied his hands. Fox tugged at her ear for the third time.

Fedorov reacted first. He slid out of his chair, kneeled in the aisle and drew his pistol. He steadied it with his left hand as he took quick but careful aim. Bang. The slug found its mark, crashing through Bryan's sternum, knocking him back and creating a nice red cloud where he stood.

At that same instant, Fox pressed the barrels of both her own and Chris's pistols into Charlie's back. It took all her willpower not to fire.

"He's a little worn out," she growled.

Fox and Fedorov sat in first class, watching the bound and gagged hijackers on the floor in front of them, pistols in hand. Chris started to come around. Fedorov kicked the mouse in the face, breaking his nose, knocking him back out, and ensuring a few more hours of peace and quiet. Fox checked her watch. Three hours. She rolled her eyes. Would this flight never end?