The craft bobbed then dipped like a rollercoaster, and for another stomach-lurching moment, I thought we were going down.
We locked eyes, his aflame with fear and rage. He kicked out, hitting my thigh, causing me to swing again. My strength was ebbing. Another kick like that, and he’d knock me off the skid.
Hand over hand, I moved away from him. Then I switched my handhold and turned around, eying the other skid, opposite me, about seven or eight feet away.
I looked back at my attacker. He gained hold of the rifle, pointing it in my direction.
I jackknifed my legs and swung, hard and fast, like a gymnast getting ready for her dismount.
Gunfire crackled behind me.
I eyed the opposite skid—
—and let go.
The brief moment of weightlessness, soaring through the air under the chopper, seemed to play out in super-slow motion.
I felt the wind, cold and sharp, invading every pore on my body. Heard the rotors and the shots, impossibly loud but surprisingly easy to ignore. Stared up at the blue steel underbelly of the helicopter as my body became parallel to the fuselage. Waited for my legs to hit the other skid, waited so long that I had plenty of time to second-guess my aim, sure I’d missed my mark, sure I’d plummet to the ocean where I’d shatter my body and drown.
But then my knees found the opposite skid, my legs bending over it, my hands reaching up and locking on.
Before I could celebrate, I caught a hot burn across my shoulder, like I’d been touched with a branding iron.
Shot.
I’d been shot.
I turned around, still able to hold on, facing the man who shot me. He had one hand on the opposite skid, the other on the rifle, pointing at me.
He was too far away for me to kick him, but, incredibly, I noticed I still had my cross-body purse hanging from my shoulder.
Hanging from one hand, I pulled the purse strap off my shoulder and made a quick slipknot around my ankle.
He fired, bullets breaking to my right.
I swung at him, kicking out my legs.
My handbag continued forward on its strap, and hit him right where I was aiming—square in the nose.
He cried out through closed teeth, the sound driven away in the whipping wind, and his grip broke. He followed his assault rifle into the water.
From this height, it was like hitting concrete. He wouldn’t be swimming back to shore.
The wind was slamming against me so hard it was difficult to breathe, to think, and for a moment all I could do was hold on and wait for the helicopter to stop its roll and pitch.
I’d only seen one other man at the house with Julianne, the skinny guy from the pool. Since I didn’t recognize the guy who had just gone into the Sound, Skinny was probably inside with Julianne, along with the pilot.
I pivoted my hands, swung my legs over the opposite skid and pulled myself into a sitting position. Then I wound my purse back over my shoulder, simultaneously checking my wound. Barely a nick, not even worth a stitch.
I was banking on my hunch that the second armed man would be focused on the door his buddy had just exited. It took most people a moment to recover from something as traumatic as watching a human being plunge to his death. I’d put in countless hours to shorten my own reaction time.
I felt the door open above me.
Apparently someone else had shortened his reaction time as well.
I saw the gun barrel first, but instead of putting a foot on the skid to gain balance and see what he was shooting, this guy just pulled the trigger.
Even in the roar of the wind and the rotors, the crack of the rifle was deafening. I had no place to go, nowhere to run, and bracing yourself against gunfire was impossible. If he hit me, it would hurt, and I’d fall to my death. Or maybe it would kill me instantly. Either way, I had no defense.
But luck continued to be on my side. The man fired eight rounds, none of them even coming close.
I grabbed the rifle barrel. It was hot as a stove, and in the back of my mind I was aware of my palm burning. But I had a lot of practice ignoring the somatic reflex and hung on tight, shifting my body to the side to get out of the way in case he pulled the trigger again, tugging with all my strength.
Like the first man, Skinny had the gun strapped around his shoulder, so when I pulled, I didn’t just get the weapon. He came with it.
I released the searing barrel and let the whole package fall. I didn’t wait to see him hit the water. Instead, I climbed to the outside of the skid and lifted myself into the passenger compartment behind the cockpit. I pulled the door closed behind me.
The cabin was separated from the crew’s compartment, and the first thing that struck me was how quiet the space was inside. I could still hear the blades making the classic
Julianne was slumped in the middle seat, her vacant eyes suggesting she might have had a little extra medication for the journey, or perhaps whatever they’d given her earlier was fully kicking in.
She opened her eyes halfway, and I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
“What … how did you do that?”
“A little training, and a whole lot of fearing for my life. You ready to get out of here?”
“How?”
It was a good question.
Process. Evaluate. Segregate. Then take control of the situation.
The sun shifted through the windows, the pilot turning the craft around, heading back to the mansion. I touched the wall between passengers and pilot, soundproofing material backed with steel. A check for parachutes, weapons, or anything else I might use came up empty.
To get to the cockpit, I would have to climb back out of the craft and access a separate door, a door that would be locked. Not the best plan. But I couldn’t wait for the craft to land. No doubt the pilot had used his radio to arrange for a welcome party to greet me.
And by greet I meant kill.
I finished scanning the compartment, spotting speakers but no cameras, and then I brought my attention back to Julianne.
My assignment was to get her out of this mess, unharmed.
I’d get her out. But the
A dip in altitude and a glance out the window told me we were approaching the mansion, the bay where it nestled already in sight. I had to make my move soon, or I wouldn’t get to make it at all.
“You got shot,” she said, pointing an unsteady hand at my shoulder.
“Just a little bit.”
I grabbed the bottom cushion of the seat opposite me and pulled. The Velcro holding it in place made a ripping sound, and it detached. I ripped another free then released Julianne’s seat belt.
“What are you doing?” Her words came out in a slow ooze.
I didn’t answer. After the sound of the Velcro and her muttered question, no doubt the pilot was listening over the intercom and would be wondering the same thing. I didn’t have much time before he figured it out.
My heart hammered hard enough to break a rib.
I grasped the door handle and shoved it open. I moved quickly, not only hoping to catch the pilot off guard, but Julianne, too. Even in her state, she would resist if given the chance.
Hell, I was resisting it myself.
