The city becomes a blur of lights and noise. We blow through intersections, clip vendor stalls, and fishtail along narrow streets that were not designed for this kind of recklessness. One of the trailing cars clips a taxi trying to get out of the way, spins out, and slams into a signage pole that is apparentlyverycemented in the ground.
One down.
The bikes weave through traffic heedlessly, gunmen firing one-handed, reckless and desperate. One pulls alongside us, too close, his face twisted with fury, mouth shouting something I can’t quite make out over the roar of both engines.
As he raises his gun, I yank at my door handle and shove it open. His bike jerks when I clip him. It wobbles, then careens into a concrete divider. The rider flies, hitting the pavement hard and sliding across it like it’s a sheet of ice.
“Airfield intwo minutes,” Hawk gruffs over the comms. “Plane is hot.”
“Copy,” I reply. “We’ve still got a fuckton of company on our ass.”
“No shit,” Damon snarks.
“You guys aren’t the ones with bullets flying up your ass.”
Another car pulls alongside our Jeep and tries to ram us. Gunnar counters instantly, slamming the brakes hard enough to throw off their timing. Nudging toward them, he catches their back end, causing them to spin out. Gunnar stomps on the accelerator, and the poor little engine screams so loudly, I’m certain we’re going to leave it behind.
The airfield lights loom in the distance, a bright beacon of hope, impossible to miss.
Enemy gunfire intensifies as desperation sets in. One of the remaining bikes loses control as he tries to follow us through a tight turn, his rear wheel throwing up gravel before he skids off the road.
That leaves one car and three bikes.
We burst through the perimeter gate, metal screeching as the Jeeps burst onto the tarmac.Immediately, the alarms start, red lights flashing and sirens blaring. The runway stretches out ahead, long and exposed. The Aegis jet waits at the far end, engines already spinning.
I’ve never been so happy to see that big, beautiful bitch knowing I’m about to take a twenty-six-hour flight.
“Go, go, go!” Hawk shouts as he accelerates toward the plane.
The remaining tails follow us onto the open concrete. There is no cover out here, just speed, gunfire, and fate. Bullets spark against the ground, ping off metal, and punch holes into this already beat-up Jeep.
Leaning out my window, I fire until the slide locks. I hit one of the bikers—center mass—and he goes down hard, spinning across the tarmac in a trail of sparks.
We all screech to a stop beside the jet. Hawk and Damon are out first, already pulling Zahra free, handling her like she’s made of glass. “Move!” Hawk roars, like the five of us are taking our time.
I throw my door open and immediately move to open Blake’s. On the other side, Gunnar is grabbing Maryam. He scoops her into his arms, ignoring the way she gasps and how tightly her fingers clutch at his sleeve. Blake slides from the seat with Aliyah still nuzzled against her chest as gunfire erupts again.
“Go!” I shout at Gunnar. He runs toward the plane with Maryam, and I lay down suppressive fire as bullets spark around me.
My magazine empties, and I duck behind the Jeep for cover as I reload my final one. Blake is huddled beside me, her chest heaving. “I’ve got you,” I promise, like saying it out loud might make it true. “We’re getting out of here.”
The steps to the plane feel impossibly far away. After pulling Blake from her crouch, we run. I position myself between my girl and the gunfire withoutthinking. It’s training. Instinct. It’s the quiet, unspoken math of whose body matters most.
Our footsteps echo on the runway, until the jet—our salvation—is looming above us. We hit the base of the steps hard, our breaths ragged and adrenaline coursing through our veins. Taking the steps two at a time, I let myself think it. The one thing you never do until the mission is done.
We made it.
Jagger and I are the last up the steps. Traversing them quickly, my eyes are focused on the open door at the top, the bright interior lights spilling into the chaos behind us. Gunfire crackles in the air, so loud it drowns out the shouting of the men who followed us onto the airfield. Jagger’s boots stomping up the metal steps, hot on my heel, almost sound unreal. When I reach the landing and my foot passes over the threshold, I breathe a faint sigh of relief.
This is it. We made it.
“Move.” Jagger’s voice is a grunt at my back, sharp enough to cut through gunfire and threaded with an urgency that causes my body to react before my brain catches up. Before it does, a massive force slams into me from behind. I stumble into the plane, hard. The force drives the air from my lungs as I pitch forward, my arms tightening reflexively around Aliyah, and my shoulder colliding with the doorframe as I stumble into the cabin. Pain blooms hot and bright as I fight for balance, before managing—somehow—to stay upright.
What the hell!
When I spin around, Jagger is no longer standing behind me. He is on one knee just inside the doorway, one hand on the floor, and the other clenched tight against his side. His face is twisted in pain so raw and unguarded it steals the breath from my lungs.
My world narrows in a second. The gunfire, the whirr of the engines, and the scream of the alarms—all of it, gone. All that’s left ishim.
