Page 113 of Mile High Heist

The Viper laughed, but it was a sickly, gasping sound. Good. “You know what you need to do,” he said.

“Fuck you,” I spat. I wasn’t playing his game. “Call them off,” I warned, “or I’ll break that fucking watch and the prototype with it.”

That made him pause.

“If you do that, we both lose.”

“Fucking try me,” I snarled back.

He paused again, weighing up his options. I could hear my own heart pounding in my head. But as desperate as I was, he was worse.

He was bleeding out every second. Soon he’d be unable to stand, much less follow through with whatever crackpot plan he had. He needed that first aid kit. I needed him to call off the manhunt.

Another stalemate.

“I’m willing to bet I have more time than you and your crew do,” he said. “You can’t fight them all. Their survival instinct will overpower your fury. So, bring me the kit.”

“Call off the manhunt first.”

“No,” he wheezed, sounding amused. “I still have the gun on the captain. If I feel like I’m losing consciousness, I will shoot him. Just to be sure you go down with me.”

My jaw clenched. We were out of time. Madoc could only hold them off for so long. He wasn’t actually invincible. I knew he’d keep fighting until there was nothing left of him. He’d die protecting Olivia.

“Clock is ticking, Jax.”

He hung up.

Where the fuck were Ryle and Nate?

I smashed the phone back into the bracket. My whole body fucking throbbed. I couldn’t lose a second. I turned back to the cabin, then immediately zeroed in on Marcus.

He was squashed up on the wall like a bug on a windshield, his hands cupping his bloody nose. When he saw me approaching, his eyes widened in terror.

He squawked like a chew toy when I grabbed him and hurled him into the aisle. “First aid kit!” I barked at him. “Where is it?”

He gulped. “Overhead.”

“Which one?”

He pointed a shaky finger to the other side of the cabin. Fucking brilliant.

“You’re coming with me,” I growled. He tried to resist, but he was no match for me. Gripping his shirt, I thrust him ahead of me like a sweaty shield. Anyone who swung at him, I swung back.

It took him three attempts to open the overhead. Another three to unlock the lockbox with his key. His hands were shaking so bad, he dropped the kit and then stared at me like I was going to slap him for it.

I considered it. My patience was a frayed wire.

Instead, I let him be and returned to the cockpit, kit in hand. I bashed on the door, blood clotting in my mouth. I spat just as the phone rang.

“You got it?”

“Yes,” I snarled. “Now call it off.”

He hung up the phone.

A second later, the cockpit door handle blinked green. The door cracked open, and a gun poked through, attached to a blood-soaked sleeve. I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch when it pointed directly at my chest.

Call. Them. Off,” I gritted out.