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The killer lunges forward and grabs the yoke, steadying the plane. “I need your help, Molly,” he says as he turns to me. “Hold this.”

My hands shake as I look at the controls. There are smoking bullet holes all over the dashboard. The pilot with the thin ugly mustache is lying on his yoke with his vacant blue eyes staring straight ahead. The killer grabs his shirt and yanks him back. Fresh blood pours out of the bullet hole in his neck and leaks all over his crisp uniform. Ew!

I can’t do this! I can’t!

“Molly!” the killer snaps. “Grab the controls or we’re going to crash.”

How can he be so calm? I feel like I’m in the middle of a panic attack!

“You can do this, Molly. Do you want to die today?”

“No,” I squeak out.

“Good. Then grab this control.”

I reach over and grab the yoke. It’s wet. Oh, God, it’s wet.

The killer lets go and grabs the dead co-pilot. He pulls him out of his seat and drags him into the cabin as the wind roars around us like a tornado.

I’m staring at the calm slow-moving clouds, trying not to look as he comes back and grabs thin ugly mustache next. He drags him into the back and then returns and slips into one of the seats.

“Sit,” he says as he grabs the controls and steadies the jet. “I need your help.”

“You need my help flying the plane?!” I say, feeling my heart drop.

“I’ve never flown one before,” he says as his eyes dart around the dashboard. “Have you?”

“No! Why would I? I’m a stewardess!”

Something beeps and I scream.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters.

“What is it?!” But I see it before he answers. The fuel is almost empty. Maybe one of those stray bullets tore a hole through the tank. We’re lucky it didn’t cause the plane to explode.

“We’re going down,” he says as he struggles with the yoke. I feel it too—the plane is trying to nosedive. His thick tattooed forearms are flexed and straining as he tries to straighten the wings. “Look under the seats.”

“For what?”

Those deep green eyes land on mine. “For parachutes.”

“Parachutes,” I whisper as my stomach sinks. “Parachutes? No! Absolutely not!”

“You’d rather land this shot-up jet in the middle of the ocean?”

Oh god, that doesn’t sound good either…

“Do as I say and we’ll make it out of here,” he says in a firm confident voice. I’m feeling so helpless and terrified that I cling to that confidence and nod my head.


“Under the seats. Look for packed parachutes.”

I let go of the yoke and start searching under them. “Found them!” I say as I pull them out.

“Good. Now, put one on.”

My heart is racing as I slip the straps over my shoulders like a backpack and then fasten the clip around my stomach. I secure the ones on my thighs as well and he nods in approval. Even though I should hate him, I still get a burst of excitement from that sexy nod.

“Good job. Now, grab the yoke and try to hold the plane steady.”

I grab it and he lets go. The plane immediately nosedives and he stumbles into the dashboard. He grabs my hand and helps me get the plane back under control.

“Hold it as hard as you can,” he says before letting go. This time I hold it with two hands and use all of my strength.

He quickly puts the second parachute on and then grabs the yoke, helping me out.

“We need something to wedge this level,” he says.

“I got it!” I race into the galley, grab the tray I warmed the cookies on, shove a cookie into my pocket, and then hurry back.

“Good job, Molly,” he says as he takes it from me and shoves it between the dashboard and the yoke. It creaks and groans under the strain. “Let’s go. Quickly!”

We race to the door as cards and money whip through the air, roaring as the plane shakes and teeters.

“Open it,” he commands.

I stare at the big door in horror. Opening an airplane door thirty thousand feet in the air is the last thing in the world I want to do. Good thing I can’t.

“It won’t open,” I yell over the roar of the swirling wind. “The cabin is pressurized.”

He points at a couple of bullet holes in the fuselage. I can see bright blue sky shining through them.

“Not anymore, it’s not. You can do it, Molly. Let’s go. Now.”

There’s something about his voice that makes me move. It makes me feel like I can get through anything. I start working on the door and it swings open. The roar is deafening. The fierce heavy wind assaults us—pushing us back one second and then pulling us forward the next.

I grab onto the closest leather seat with both hands as the killer double-checks my straps. There are dead bodies littered all over the plane. The asshole who felt up my leg is lying in the walkway, staring at me with dead eyes.

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