It’s another Emirates flight to Dubai and the plane is already pulling away from the gate.
I bark a laugh I can’t stop, breath burning in my lungs.
Fucking genius woman.
She found us a faster way out.
Now all we have to do is catch a plane…
and leave a small army of very angry assassins behind. Preferably dead.
The terminal is almost empty now, the chaos having burned itself out into echoes and alarms. A few unlucky souls are still hiding behind rows of bolted-together chairs near the gates, peeking out like prairie dogs deciding whether the world is safe again. Every other door is slamming shut, metal shutters dropping, the airport finally realizing this is not, in fact, a customer service issue.
Lockdown is starting.
Saint cuts right, eyes already locked on the gate for the Emirates flight to Dubai. The plane is there, nose angled, already turning away from the terminal like it’s had enough of America for one day. If it starts its taxi, we’re done.
And Saint knows it too.
She hits the closed gate door at full speed, shoulder-first, and it bursts open with a sound like a gunshot. She’s through instantly. I’m right behind her. I wrench the door shut again, fire once into the locking mechanism, and hear thesatisfying grind of metal jamming metal before I take off after her down the jet bridge.
Minutes ago, people were rolling suitcases down this tunnel, arguing about overhead bin space and seat assignments. Now it’s empty, echoing, the hum of the plane vibrating through the floor beneath our feet.
At the far end, the door to the stairs explodes open.
A bald biker charges straight at Saint, face twisted with rage, fists clenched like he thinks this is a bar fight instead of a suicide note. Black leather vest flaps open over a chest webbed with tattoos. A leather studded collar sits tight around his thick neck.
“This is for my dog!” he roars, like that explains anything.
Saint doesn’t give him a syllable.
She jumps, grabs the metal bar overhead, and swings herself clean off the ground. Both feet slam into his chest with brutal force, and I don’t think he was prepared for just how hard it lands.
It’s a deadly mistake to underestimate Saint James. One he’s finding out right now.
He goes flying backward, smashes into the door he just came through, arms windmilling as gravity finishes the job. Twenty feet down, he hits concrete with a sound that tells me there’s nothing left to argue about.
Saint is already turning for the stairs.
I reach the end of the tunnel, raise my gun, and put two bullets through what’s left of his skull for good measure.
“What did you do to his dog, Picarita?” I call after her as she starts down.
“Not a damn thing!” she shouts back over her shoulder,already jogging toward a Harley idling on the tarmac below. “That snaggletooth cotton ball ran away on its own.”
Seeing the bike, I let out a sharp, heartfelt “Hijo de la chingada.”?*
It’s big. Loud. Angry. And very much a one-seat situation.
Except for the sidecar.
Of course there’s a fucking sidecar like this is the goddamn motorcycle outlaw version of the Wild West.
“I’m driving,” I say flatly.
She swings her leg over the bike and settles into the seat like she was born there. “The fuck you are.” She pops open a saddlebag, pulls out two silver revolvers, and tosses them to me. “Hop in, sweetheart.” She nods toward the sidecar, grinning. “If he’s here, his club is too.”
Right on cue, the sound hits us. Engines. Deep, rolling, unmistakable. A dozen bikes at least, growling somewhere beyond the terminal, closing fast.
