“Is she here?” one voice says.
“I met her when she was aboard before. I can’t believe she was stranded on that island for so long.”
“She insists there was a man with her. Do you think she’s delusional? Did being alone on the island affect her, you think?”
I cover my ears so I don’t hear them. None of them are on my side. They’re not here to help me. This might look like a luxury cruise ship, but Cy was right. Someone or something is plotting against us, and none of what seems harmless actually is.Chapter 8CyMy plan is in place. I’ve kept myself calm by reminding myself of my purpose.
Get off this helicopter.
Don’t let them capture me.
Find out who’s behind this.
Find Harper.
Find Harper.
The separation from her hits my chest with the weight of a two by four. It fucking kills to know I’m separated from her, that she could be in a dangerous situation and I’m not there to save her, to protect her. To even hold her.
The utilitarian insides of this helicopter are another sort of jail. The island was one, this is another, and goddamn it, I’m going to break free and take her with me.
“How close are we to landing?” I ask.
Joey glances at his watch. “Thirty minutes, sir.”
My pulse spikes. This is my moment. This is when I need to take him down. If I incapacitate him here, I have a greater chance of influencing the pilot and finding out what I need to.
I unbuckle myself and stretch my arms over my head, yawning wildly. “We have anything hot to drink?” I ask.
He thinks I’m restrained. What he doesn’t know is that I’ve easily finagled my restraints so they no longer hold me. My skill set is small, but solid. With one sharp tug, I have full use of my hands again.
He’s going fucking down.
“Yes, sir. Coffee and tea.”
“Cup of tea, please.”
I wait, imagining how this will play out before I actually do it. I want to be sure that my plan is flawless. If I’m captured in any way, or if my plan doesn’t go off the way I need it to, I could risk getting back to Harper.
I can’t risk any of this going awry. Not a single plan.
I have to move quickly so that Joey’s incapacitated before the pilot can react. I’m ready. I’m so fucking ready.
When Joey hands me the scalding cup of tea, I take the cup, thank him, remove the lid, and before he turns away, make my move. I fling the steaming liquid into his face. He screams out loud, dropping the tray he’s holding, and when he bends over at the waist, I spring into action. The pilot yells to me from the front, but I can’t hear what he says. I knee Joey, bringing him to the ground.
I could kill him. I could fucking kill him, but even as angry as I am, my conscience plagues me.
I killed so many fucking men on that island.
What’s one more? a little voice in the back of my head asks.
I won’t kill him. I can’t, even though I fucking want to.
But I can punish him for being complicit in this. He fights back, but the punches he throws are futile. I easily deflect them and knee him between the legs. He howls, and the pilot screams again from the front of the helicopter, but I don’t listen to either of them. Anger surges in me at the thought of these two taking me from Harper, from my home, from everything that was good and meaningful in my life, and I hit him so hard I hear bone snap. Blood pours from his nose and the asshole’s crying like a baby, but I don’t fucking care. I hit him again, and again, until his eyes are swollen shut and his face is contorted, swollen, and bloody.
But I don’t kill him.
Yet.
He’s nearly unconscious, the floor of the helicopter spattered with his blood, the pilot cursing me from the front, though it seems he doesn’t know how he can help. If he moves away from the control center, our helicopter’s going down. He lifts his hand to the radio, and I act on instinct. I lift the tray Joey dropped and whip it straight at the pilot’s hand. My mark is spot on. The silver heft of the tray hits him at the knuckles, and he screams in pain. Joey barely moves.
I restrain Joey’s arms behind his back, and when he’s good and secured, I choke him out, just long enough for him to pass out, but he’ll regain consciousness. I don’t want to remove my hands. He’s out, and I blame him for fucking everything. Fucking everything. My captivity. Harper being taken. The asshole behind my abduction. And as he lies on the ground unconscious, I’m so tempted to keep choking him until he never breathes again. With a Herculean effort, I release him. I let him fucking live.