“This is a Citation X,” Maverick says calmly from across the cabin. “One of the fastest civilian jets ever built. It can push just under seven hundred miles an hour if the pilot really leans on it.”
“That’s it?” Skip scoffs. “Feels like we’re crawling.”
“Blame physics,” Maverick replies. “The speed of sound sits around seven hundred and sixty miles per hour up here. Civilian jets are designed to stay just under it. Once you cross that line, you start throwing sonic booms across half the countryside.”
“Which governments tend to frown upon,” Foster adds without looking up from his laptop.
Bones leans back in his seat.
“So the military gets the fun toys,” he mutters.
Maverick’s mouth twitches slightly.
“Yes. Military aircraft can push well past a thousand miles per hour. Some of them more than twice that.”
Skip whistles.
“So basically,” he says, gesturing around the cabin, “this is the fastest rich-guy toy we’re legally allowed to have.”
“Correct,” Maverick says.
I stare out the window at the endless darkness below.
Three thousand miles away…Seven hundred miles an hour.
And it still feels like we’re not moving fast enough.
Not when every minute that passes is another minute we don’t know who survived back home.
Chapter Eighteen
Abby
I’m jolted from a restless sleep as strong arms haul me off the bed and toss me over someone’s shoulder.
The sudden movement makes my head spin.
“Put me down,” I rasp, my throat burning with every word.
“Be still, woman,” a man mutters, shifting my weight higher against his shoulder. “We need to move quickly.”
“Patch?” I whisper, squinting through the fog in my head. “What’s going on?”
“Not sure,” he answers, cracking my front door just enough to peer outside. His body goes tense immediately. “Your brother sent out an SOS. That means everyone gets their ass to the bunker.”
My stomach drops.
“I can walk,” I insist weakly, my voice scraping my throat raw.
“Not fast enough,” Patch says. “Crusher says there’s at least one sniper out there. Maybe more.”
He shifts me again, and suddenly we’re moving.
Fast.
The night air slaps my face as he slips out the door. He doesn’t bother with the porch steps as he just jumps them, boots hitting the ground hard as he breaks into a run.
The movement jostles my aching body, and I bite down on a groan.
