8. Avery
AVERY
I’ve never been on a plane. I eye the private jet warily, a week after my date with Kill.
And at least I don’t have to dance this time, I guess?
No homework this time, but Kill sent me a string bikini and a pair of comfortable but flattering wide leg trousers and top that says “effortlessly chic yet casual, as well as hugely expensive”.
I was a bit shocked when the first outfit arrived from him, but wearing clothes from him feels surprisingly good. A secret ownership.
The plane is white, with discreet green markings on the tail, and I know that it works, but seriously how can anything that big get into the air and stay there? It seems impossible. Magic.
Like everything Kill does.
I’m at the back of the group standing on the tarmac, the other women having nudged their way politely or not so politely to the front.
And honestly, it’s fine. I’m scared of flying, I’m not too proud to admit that.
It doesn’t help that Kill isn’t here. I’ve begun to use him as my North Star, around which everything else turns. Well, I say that. I wouldn’t know how to navigate by the stars. He’s more like my maps app. Whenever I’m unsure, I look to him, and the path is clear.
He’s my boss, and all these women want to marry him. That seems like a pretty good reason both to want him, and also not want him.
But while I can’t see him, something in me is wary.
There are some other cars on the other side of the airfield, and a helicopter, and I suppose they’re Kill’s as well. The vehicles are black SUVs similar to the one that picked me up and brought me here.
At our plane, they’re loading our bags, but someone is fussing about opening the door to get into the plane, and some of the other women are getting impatient. Even though it’s only been a few minutes of waiting. They’re lining up a set of stairs.
“So slow, this doesn’t ordinarily happen at City Airport,” complains Violet. “I’d expect it of Heathrow or another commercial airport, but this is supposed to be well-run.”
Oh wow. This is how out of my depth I am. I am with women who know what usually happens when boarding a plane.
Just then, the black cars on the other side of the airfield move. I track them, expecting them to go to the exit, the large gate in the wire mesh fence. But they’re moving fast and, I suddenly realise, towards us.
It’s Kill. It has to be?
This is…
I freeze as the cars screech to a halt around us and the doors are thrown open. Men in black suits get out, and my mind registers that they aren’t familiar. They have straight brown or black hair, and grey eyes. I don’t recognise them.
And then they brandish guns.
“Get in the cars, now!” a man yells. He has a heavy Russian accent, and fear explodes in my veins.
He’s not one of Kill’s team. He’s not Irish.
Katy shrieks next to me.
“What’s going on?” Violet stands up straighter, her spine solid. “Where’s Killian?”
“Now. Move!” The man shoots into the air, and there are cries around me. Terror grips my throat as one of the men steps forwards, grabbing the nearest woman by the arm.
And in that moment, I decide I’m not going anywhere with these men, even if they have guns. I lunge for the far side of the steps, trying to run away.
“Everyone co-operate and no one will be harmed!”
That’s a lie, and I don’t fall for it.
I sprint, my movements jerky and panicky. I fall on the tarmac, onto my hands and knees as I sprawl on the floor behind the steps.
The other women are screaming. Except Jemma, who slides in next to me.
“Get in!” There’s a combination of shouts and yells of the Russian men and fearful cries in response.
“They’re the bratva,” Jemma hisses. “The most ruthless of the mafias. Russian. We need to get a gun.”
My heart vibrates. My brain stalls.
I haven’t got the capacity for this. I’m shaking. I didn’t sign up for being kidnapped and… Imagination is an issue. The things that roll through my head aren’t pretty.
I don’t want to die.
“We’re not going to die,” Jemma whispers back, and it’s only then I realise she’s replying to me and I said that aloud.
One of the vehicles roars off in a screech of wheels. There are more shots, and shouts.
“In the car,” the Russian man’s voice repeats.
I’m so torn. I search for somewhere better to hide, but there’s nothing. And the other women… “We should help them.” I glance across to Jemma, my words hardly more than mouthing.
Jemma’s jaw sets. “We need a gun.”
“Where are the rest of these girls?” the same Russian man asks. His voice is sinister, and growing closer. The slow, heavy thud of his feet is underlaid by my pulse going at what feels like twenty beats for every one step.
Then there’s a shout, engines and guns pop, and the Russian falls to the ground just next to us, with a curse, blood splattering on his chest.
I slap my hand across my mouth to prevent a shriek of terror as the gun fire continues.
“Bratva bastards,” Kill growls, and the fear is immediately worse and better. He’s here. He’s here.
But now he’s in danger too.
The urge to break cover and run to Kill is almost as irresistible as it is insane. But I look to the side, over the fallen Russian… And something sparks in my mind as the fight continues around us.
This isn’t right…
“Get his gun!”
My brain crackles.
“Now!” Jemma says again.
“It’s paint,” I breathe.
“What?” Her eyes are wild, then follows my gaze and sees it too. The red paint. Not blood.
The man lying on the ground, apparently dead, opens his eyes, winks, then closes them.
Jemma gives a gleeful hoot as she dives for the gun, then back undercover and pulling it to her shoulder and shooting around the side of our cover like she’s in a thriller movie.
Another barrage of shots fired, then silence and groans.
Kill laughs. “I think that’s all the ‘baddies’ finished, well done.”
There are a couple of half-hearted protests, and some whoops of celebration, along with a variety of swearing in several different languages.
“I was sure we were going to get you,” grumbles the Russian next to us, sitting up and attempting to wipe the red paint from his otherwise crisp white shirt.
Quick footsteps, and Kill is in front of us, offering a hand to Jemma and me to help us up. We both take the offer, Jemma keeping hold of the paint gun and grinning.
“That was great!” she enthuses.
“You did well,” Kill says before sliding his gaze to me.
“Are you okay?” He doesn’t let go of my hand for another second, and I look up at him.
I’m simultaneously so cross with him for doing that, scaring me, and everyone else, and also absolutely desperate to dive into his arms and have him hold me.
“It was paint!” And I’m not sure if I’m furious with him, or just elated to be alive.
“Yep.” He squeezes my hand tight, then turns away to where the remaining girls are emerging from their hiding places, and the cars they got into, and the men are rising from the “dead”.
“Ladies, let me introduce your attackers, my friends Rotherhithe, Hampstead, and Canary Wharf.” He points to three of the men around us.
“And their teams. Gentlemen, thank you for your help.”
“No problem.” Rotherhithe straightens his lapels and nods happily. “That was a lot of fun.”
“Agreed,” says Hampstead.
Jemma’s eyes gleam.
“We should do regular training sessions like this,” muses Canary Wharf, inspecting the red paint on his arm.
“I train my men, don’t know about you,” Kill says dryly.
“Yeah, but it’d be better as groups like this,” Rotherhithe points out.
The conversation disintegrates into banter about when and whether they’ll have another paint gun and trauma session, and I just gape.
The other girls are either similarly shocked, giggling with relief, or wiping away tears as they try to get themselves together.
Jemma is laughing with Hampstead about something.
Kill is watching me out of the corner of his eye, I can tell.
“Right, that’s it,” he announces. “I appreciate your time, and I owe you. Now clear off, we have a plane to catch.”
There’s good natured grumbling about the party being broken up, but in just a few minutes, all the men who aren’t Kill’s have gone.
“What about the other girls?” I gesture towards the cars that have already sped off.
“They weren’t wife material,” he says mildly. “They’ll be well looked after. Safe, and compensated, don’t worry.”
I’m only partially comforted. It was close. So close. If I hadn’t seen that the men were using paint guns it could have been me leaving, out of the competition. And I don’t know how I feel about that.
Even with the reminder of the deadly serious nature of being associated with the Archway mafia, I want to be here. I want to be with Kill.
“Right.” Kill smiles, and it’s positively wicked, his green eyes sparkling. “Ready for your treat?”