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I ignored him and pushed forward, heading straight for the runway.
But fuck, we weren’t moving fast enough.
We needed to get on the runway. We needed to pick up speed.
If I didn’t get moving, we’d be surrounded and utterly fucked.
I gave her some speed, letting the jets deter anyone getting too close from behind. It didn’t stop our problem of being cut off, but at least it was a good start.
Heading straight across the deserted tarmac, I aimed for the closest runway, lit only by emergency lights.
There was no tower to check in with, no one there to authorize our take-off.
So I punched it.
The moment I had a straight shot, I pushed up on the thrust lever, urging Zali’s baby to take-off speed.
Pain rocketed through my shoulder as I gripped the yoke and guided her into the air.
We climbed and climbed, levelling out at forty-one thousand feet.
I was in agony.
My breathing was shallow.
Sweat poured off me.
I gritted my teeth and fought back the nausea.
“Get the autopilot on, Ry. We need to get you checked out,” Flynn murmured from beside me. “I’ll stay in here and call you if anything happens.”
“Yeah,” I groaned. “Yeah, okay.”
I scooted back my seat, and Ezra was there to help me up. “Let’s get you taken care of,” he said gently. With an arm around my waist, he led me over to the armchair and eased me down into it.
I was woozy, unsteady on my feet. It could have been shock or blood loss. Whatever it was, I hated it. I hated not having my wits about me. But if I was going to choose anyone for it to happen with, it’d be these four people. I knew I was safe even though I was the one who had responsibility for everyone in the plane.
Ezra peeled back Tristan’s balled up shirt and cut away my own. “Jesus, you’re torn up.” He cleaned my shoulder, the saline solution freezing against my clammy skin. I shivered and clutched my arm, trying to stop the agony-causing movements.
The liquid shot straight into the Grand Canyon that had been carved through me, and I hissed, then ground out, “Motherfucker.”
“Sorry, hon. I’m trying to be gentle.”
“Not you,” I panted, squeezing my eyes closed. “That fucking bitch for shooting me.”
I don’t know how long he worked to clean me up, but each agonizing second was like a lifetime.
“Your collarbone is broken. It’s going to need to be set. Without knowing a whole lot, I think it needs surgery. It’s a mess.” He was poking and prodding, strapping gauze or some other sticky stuff over my shoulder, but I couldn’t look at him. Blood was never my strong suit, but if I saw it now, I’d puke.
“The bullet exited your shoulder through your trapezius.” He eased a sling over my good shoulder before helping me slide my arm into it. “This should help take the weight off your collarbone, but you’re going to be sore for a while.”
He pressed a kiss to my forehead, and I leaned into his touch. “Five centimetres,” he whispered, his voice hitching. “That’s it. We would have lost you.”
I wrapped my good arm around his waist and tugged him to me. He wasn’t a small guy, but he managed to gingerly straddle my hips. He threaded his fingers through my hair and eased my face against his shoulder.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I mumbled against his chest, needing him to just hold me for a moment. My world had been rocked on its axis. Turned upside-fucking-down.
The things I’d been struggling with—my sexuality, my identity—seemed so inconsequential now. Insignificant in the face of what we’d seen in the last few hours.
