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It won't be taking off with him on board either, but that's a given.
There's no doubt in my mind that Michel remembers me from the day of my mother’s murder. The more I think about it, the more he had to have seen me, cowering behind my mum's potted shrubs, scared out of my wits.
I'm not that scared little kid anymore.
I'll be damned if I let him take Alize from me.
Wesley and George are at my side, waiting for my instructions. Michel can't shoot all three of us at once. But it only takes one stray bullet to hurt Alize, and that's my hesitation.
"Do any of you have a clear shot?" I lower my voice so it doesn't carry.
To my left is Wesley. "No, I don't."
"No, sir." George frowns.
Fuck.
Michel is inching up the stairs, closer to the door. If he's inside that plane, it doesn't matter if it can't take off. It'll become another hostage situation, and I don't want to have to deal with that.
Not when Alize is so close.
I fire a warning shot. It ricochets off the metal stairs.
Michel doesn't startle. He doesn't even shoot back. He just stands there, with his gun drawn, assessing the situation.
The screeching of tires pulls my attention away from him for a moment.
Three SUVs are peeling down the tarmac towards us.
"What the..." I mutter to myself, my attention split between Michel and the approaching cars. Wesley and George wear equally confused looks.
Even Michel's attention is diverted for a heartbeat.
There are no other planes preparing for takeoff on the tarmac. I haven't the slightest clue what's happening and who these people are.
Did someone see something and call the police?
But MPS doesn't respond with unmarked vehicles, so who the fuck could this be? The two SUVs pull up beside us, and a handful of men file out.
They're all dressed in black suits armed with submachine guns.
And they point their weapons at Michel.
It's when one of them shouts something to the other in Italian that I start to put things together. These are Beneventi soldiers.
Did Vesuvio really send them? All he had to do was have air traffic control deny Michel’s plane clearance and have them use a fuel truck to block the runway. But to send some of his own soldiers to help too?
I'm shocked.
Grateful, I think.
But shocked.
I’m certain my own father wouldn’t have been this thorough if I asked for his help.
I shake the conflicting thoughts swimming around in my head, forcing myself to focus on the present. We have reinforcements now. It's no longer one versus three. It's one versus thirteen.
Michel is obviously outmanned.
