Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
This is it.
I won’t make it.
My gun clicks empty just as a black van barrels onto the airstrip, screeching to a stop next to our car.
45
Sara
I’m already by the plane when I see the black van.
Interpol.
They’ve caught up to us.
“Anton!” I shout over the gunfire and the chopper noise as he reappears in the plane’s doorway with a rocket launcher propped up on his shoulder. “They’re—”
Boom!
The flash of the explosion burns my retinas, the sound so deafening my eardrums nearly explode. The sky seems to turn into a ball of fire, and burning bits of metal rain down.
Holy fuck.
Anton shot down the chopper.
My stunned gaze falls on the van, and I see two familiar figures jump out.
“Yan! Ilya!” I’ve never been this glad to see them—especially when they bend down to drape Peter’s arms over their shoulders and sprint together for the plane.
“Hurry!” Anton yells, and I hear the sirens getting louder. “We have to go now.”
He disappears back inside the plane, and I rush after him, with the twins and Peter on my heels.
The police cars appear just as our wheels lift off the ground.
“So they were pursuing you, not us?” I clarify with Yan as I wipe the dirt and blood off Peter’s face before removing a few shards of glass embedded in his skin. I feel bizarrely calm, as if I’m performing a routine Pap smear instead of treating my husband’s injuries after a harrowing escape.
I’m either getting used to life on the run, or I’m still in shock and the adrenaline crash is about to hit me.
“Yeah, and we barely made it,” Yan says from the seat next to the couch where Peter is stretched out. “The chopper was flying ahead to trap us, but then you must’ve drawn their attention.” As he speaks, he holds up a mirror to apply an antibiotic salve to his ear, where a bullet grazed it, leaving an ugly gash.
“Glad we could serve as your accidental decoy,” Peter says as I raise his shirt to inspect the bandage at his side. His color is still off, but he’s conscious—and apparently feeling well enough for sarcasm.
“Hey, it was a team effort,” Ilya says, a grin splitting his broad face as he lounges in his seat—somehow completely unhurt. “Couldn’t have gone better if we’d planned it.”
I shake my head, trying not to think about what it felt like to run for the plane while Peter was pinned down by the chopper’s fire. It’s a miracle that he survived—that we all survived and got away.
My hands start to tremble as I unwrap Peter’s bandage, and I realize it is hitting me.
Peter could’ve been shot again.
He could’ve been killed, his skull destroyed by a bullet just like—
No, stop.
“Where are we heading now?” I ask to distract myself from the memories threatening to invade my mind. I can’t dive into that dark well, can’t focus on what happened to my parents or could’ve happened to Peter.
I’m not ready to face that yet.
“That’s a good question,” Yan says, putting down the salve to pick up his phone. “Let me see if our Turkish contact has come through.” He swipes across his screen a few times and grimaces. “Fuck.”
“What?” Peter tries to sit up, but I push him back.
“Lie still,” I say, glaring at him. “I’m not done yet.”
“Our air traffic control guy is in jail,” Yan says as Peter obeys, letting me clean around his torn stitches. “Someone’s sniffed out his extracurricular income.”
“So Turkey’s out.” Peter doesn’t sound surprised. “What about Latvia?”
“Let me see.” Yan punches in a number, then begins speaking in Russian.
Whatever the person on the other line is saying must not be good because Yan’s frown deepens with each moment.
“What is it?” Ilya asks when Yan hangs up. “What did that bastard tell you?”
“Apparently, every airport in Europe is on the lookout for our plane,” Yan says. “That includes private airstrips as well. Interpol has put a ridiculous price on our heads, and all four of our faces are splashed all over the news as the suspects behind the FBI bombing. I wouldn’t trust anyone right now; they’re as likely to turn us in as to help us.”
“Fuck.” Peter tries to sit up again, and this time, I let him. The shock-induced calm has completely worn off, and I’m cognizant of a terrible weariness combined with chest-crushing anxiety.
We might’ve escaped, but we’re far from safe.
“If Europe is out of the question, our best bet is Venezuela,” Peter says as I tape a fresh bandage to his side on autopilot. “Do we have enough fuel to get there?”
“Let me check with Anton,” Yan says, getting up from his seat. He disappears into the pilot’s cabin, then reappears a minute later. “Yes, but barely,” he reports. “If anything goes wrong, we’re fucked.”
“I say we go for it,” Ilya says, scratching his tattooed skull. “At least it’ll be warm there.”