Page 115 of Mile High Heist

Oh god.

This was Madoc’s true nature. The mask lifted, the demon unleashed.

Even his opponent looked unnerved as he clocked the reaction. Darkness in its purest form.

Then Madoc moved. Like a cobra strike, he was so fast my brain struggled to process it.

Madoc striking. Madoc punching.

Madoc holding, and twisting.

Snap!

My stomach dropped as bile filled my mouth. There was a shocked, breathless silence. Madoc stood, rolling his shoulders back like a predator gloating over his kill. Blood splattered his skin, dripping from his jaw, down the column of his neck.

Madoc turned to the restless audience. “Who is next?” He asked quietly.

No one moved.

For a moment, fear held them there.

Then desperation won.

They all moved, climbing into the galley, overwhelming us at once. Hands grabbed at me, but then Madoc was moving again, striking with his deadly hands.

He was a man haunted.

I’d never feared him more. I’d never been so certain of my desire to be as far away from him as possible.

And yet…

Green eyes met mine, bright in a blood-stained face. My breath hitched in my chest.

Suddenly, the intercom crackled above us.

“Attention, passengers. We have reached a new agreement. The girl will no longer be necessary for your survival. You may leave her be.”

What the hell?

All movement stopped, a stunned silence falling over the cabin. A man who’d made the heinous mistake of touching Madoc’s shoulder quickly withdrew his hand. Madoc stared at him with a disturbed smile.

“Please return to your seats for the remainder of the flight.”

The mob exchanged nervous looks, reluctant to believe it was over. Madness lingered in the blood-tinged air.

Madoc cracked his neck, looking completely at ease. “You heard the snake,” he said, and stepped forward. The mass of suits immediately recoiled as reality set back in.

Then horror took the leading role in this macabre production. It spread just as quickly as the initial hysteria had. There was a dead man at my feet. Likely more were scattered throughout the plane. These people, who made their living arguing for justice, retreated to their seats, nursing bloody limbs and whatever was left of their consciences.

I sagged against the wall in relief. Madoc turned to me, his bruised hands slotted in his pockets casually. All the while blood dripped down the side of his face.

“Jax did it,” I whispered, hope creeping into my voice.

Madoc’s tongue snaked out, tasting the blood on his lip. I cringed, but I couldn’t make myself look away.

“It’s not over yet,” Madoc said, smiling. A truly gruesome sight. “Come on.”

We left the galley and walked slowly down the aisle. Faces turned away from us. Eyes avoided mine. Grown men sobbed, while some were already speaking rapidly into their phones. Confessing? Or building a defense?