“Give the overly overdone villain speech. It’s horrendously boring. Get on the plane, and I’ll even make you a warm cup of tea. Reacclimate you to your British roots.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll pass on the offer.”
The sun glints off the side of the plane. I don’t like the noise of the engines and the wind whipping against my skin.
“Shall I threaten to drag you?” It’s the first time his accent slips toward something more Russian.
“You’re better off just killing me. There’s no fucking way I’m getting on that plane.”
I should pat myself on the back for how my words remain calm. There is no backup here. It’s not like Ren with her orchestrated shootout. Hell, it’s not even like when we saved Len from Leopold. Adeline isn’t here with her gun.
The saying ‘you’re on your own, kid’ takes on a whole new meaning.
“Isolde,” the Spider warns. His dark hair sticks up thanks to the wind. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s in his fifties, but he’s fit. He’ll catch me if I run. But it’s not like there’s anywhere to run. “Get in the fucking plane. We have somewhere to be.”
“You want to be Cade’s bitch, go for it.”
There’s the trigger. A Spider is no one’s bitch.
“It must worry you.” He cocks his head to the side. “Knowing the person you’ve pissed off can afford me. What was it you said earlier? Valet service. Cade has gone to great lengths to ensure you arrive in London.”
He withdraws a gun from his waistband. “Shooting you doesn’t mean killing you. It’s just an extra charge if you bleed on any of the interior.”
I swallow, eyes narrowing on the gun. “Nah. Like I said, you’ll need to kill me, ’cause I ain’t fucking getting on that plane.”
He clicks the safety. “Start walking, Isolde.”
I take a step back, daring him.
The shot echoes.
It’s the blood I notice first, a delay, as my brain tries to protect me from the searing pain in my side.
“A clean fucking shot,” I laugh, my brow wrinkling. One eye leaks, but it’s not like my earlier sobs.
Of course he fucking shot me.
A weird Christmas jingle from my childhood worms around in my brain. Tristan’s face flashes next. And the scent of ramen, my mind freezing on the image of all the plants Jane’s set out at Fujimori’s.
I sway on my feet, fighting the urge to fall to the ground. To curl up and shut my eyes.
The Spider appears annoyed, his thick boots planting on each step as he descends the stairs.
“Shall I help you board?” The mockery pricks me. He grips my arm, and for the first time I’m in grasping reach of a gun.
I grab for it.
A spider lures their prey, tangling them in a web.
It’d be fucking nice if I had a way to poison and paralyze him, but I’m lacking the necessary biological means.
Instead I make do with the only thing I could think of. The only way I could get him close.
It’s not ideal, being shot. But a guy like the Spider takes the shot without any questions.
He smacks my hand, thinking he’s got the brute strength. I kick his shin. He grits his teeth, his annoyance brimming. My fingers skim the cold metal. Shifting his hand out of reach, he slaps my face, the sting momentarily dampening the pain radiating from the gunshot wound.
He tries to drag me by one arm, but I throw my weight down on the ground. It’s messy and unhelpful and hardly wins any awards for technique.
