“Where the hell is he, anyway?” I ask, panic rising within me. “Why is Warner hiding?”
“He’s not hiding, jackass,” Kenji says, turning back. “He’s working. That man never stops working, and quite frankly, you don’t appreciate him enough.”
“He’s making a mistake,” I say, chest heaving as a new pain radiates across my body. I turn in a circle, scanning the hangar with a sudden urgency. “This is a mistake—She has information we need—You don’t—Jesus—”
“James, are you okay?” Kenji’s voice seems to echo in my head, reaching me from far away. “Because I’m really starting to worry about you—”
Seriously, James, I’m worried about you—
In the frenzy, it’s Adam’s voice that surges to the surface of my mind.
—maybe it’s time you talk to someone about all this. You don’t seem like yourself lately. And you’re still having nightmares every night? It’s been over ten years. You still can’t hear Gigi and Roman cry without losing your mind. What are you going to do when Juliettehas that baby? You know babies cry all the time, right? Like, in the middle of the night? Sometimes for hours? You live with them—you’re not going to be able to escape it. Seriously, I think you should consider seeing a psychiatrist. I know this girl is beautiful but is that really enough? I thought you were smarter than that. I’m worried there’s still a lot of unresolved trauma leading you to make poor and destructive choices—
For a second I close my eyes.
My heart is beating so hard I can’t hear Kenji anymore. I can’t hear anything but the sounds of my own breaths, loud in my head. I can’t think beyond my own fury as frustration coils inside of me, heating my chest. I look into the middle distance, the room unfocusing around me, lights in the hangar flaring suddenly too bright—
Lights.
I frown as I look up, reality striking me with the force of a thunderclap. Suddenly I’m back in my body, my feet firmly on the ground, cold air whipping at my bare skin. Red beacon lights cut ominously through the dark, the rising rumble of a jet engine slowly building into an unmistakable, earsplitting roar.
I suck in a breath, feel the ground vibrate beneath me.
Holy shit.
14
Rosabelle
I blink blood out of my eyes for the third time, then wipe at my fresh head wound with a shaking hand. Red smears across my fingers as I turn on the nav lights and shut off the radio before doing a few quick, preflight checks. I monitor the engine pressure as it rumbles louder, rising in RPM. This plane was receiving maintenance, but I don’t know whether it was for a routine check or a more serious issue.
There’s a chance something’s wrong with it.
A quick scan of the systems tells me that fuel levels are low; the tire pressure in one wheel is suboptimal. There’s a flashing alert for an issue I can’t decipher, and a distinct, concerning rattle rises up from the engine as it accelerates, the cockpit reverberating with a force that shudders through my shattered body.
I have no doubt my ankle is broken.
I’m afraid to look too closely at the rest of me. I can feel that my lip is split, swollen and bleeding; the inflamed touch of my skin tells me I’m running a fever; my inability to duck my head without losing my equilibrium says I have a serious concussion. I’m otherwise in so much pain that one injury is indecipherable from another, my body throbbing as a single unit. But I’ve collapsed so far inside myself I’vemanaged to deaden all sensations to a manageable agony, survival instincts overriding everything but my mind, my desperate need to get out of here.
My eyes dart to the windows, the glow of the moon in the storm. I hear the clamor of voices below—
Gunfire hits the glass with a violence that rattles my shot nerves, spiderweb cracks forming along the windshield. The bullet-resistant windows can sustain only so much before they lose efficacy.
My pulse quickens.
It’s taking longer than necessary for the engine to reach a stable operating speed. I take a chance pushing open the throttle a little more, but the rattle only gets worse. Panic threatens to crowd my head.
There’s no time. I’m out of time.
These seconds I have now were stolen from the future, meted out against the will of fate.
I have to work quickly or die.
It feels impossible that I even made it inside the cockpit, but I’m not yet beyond reach. I managed to knock down one of the two rolling safety ladders leading up to the aircraft, but I couldn’t collapse the other, nearly taking a bullet in the throat as I tried to shove it out of reach, my body shaking with exhaustion. The ladder is now separated from the passenger door by several feet, but it won’t be long before—
More gunfire cracks the windshield, each shot landing like a small explosion in my eardrums. I grit my teeth,begging the engine to cooperate as I take a risk and fully open the throttle.
I lick my split lip; taste blood; try to breathe.
