Chapter 9
Harper hung on for dear life, feet braced on the floor as the jeep slammed through the airstrip’s already flattened gate. Pav corrected the rear and aimed for the tarmac ahead.
The airbase materialized through the snow—cracked concrete with straggly weeds forcing through ice in limp clumps, a rusted hangar with peeling paintwork. A windsock hung from a pole, shredded fabric snapping in the wind like something dead.
But a small blue and white plane was parked on the runway.
Next to it was the other jeep. The women were still inside. Fox and Zak were out, conferring, their heads dipped together.
They made it.
She closed her eyes for a beat, took a shaky breath, then opened them. She unclenched her hands from her seatbelt, her fingers stiff.
Pav brought them to a stop next to the other jeep and killed the engine. “Wait.” He squeezed her arm briefly before he scanned the perimeter, rifle ready.
“We’re good.” His voice was gruff as he exited the jeep.
She looked over her shoulder at the women. “Wait here.” Harper opened the door and stumbled out, following him. Her legs barely held her—forty minutes of adrenaline crash hitting all at once. Cold bit through her thin sweater, the frigid wind slicing straight to the bone.
“You said four people.” The unfamiliar voice was level, unbending in its surety.
She looked across to where Fox and his associate Zak were standing with a thick-set older man, his black mustache stark against his weathered skin. His arms were crossed, and his expression was stone.
Fox shook his head, hands on hips. “Things change, mate.”
“You paid for four.” This had to be the pilot. Harper scanned the plane. It wasn’t big.
“Four. Not—” The pilot gestured at the women climbing from the other jeep, at Zak helping one who could barely stand. “Not this.”
Her stomach rolled.
Fox blew out a foggy breath, exchanging a rapid glance with Zak. “We’ll pay more.”
Zak yanked off his balaclava and dragged a hand through his hair, eyeing the plane. “I don’t think money changes physics.”
“You paid for four.” The pilot jutted his chin as he patted the side of the plane. “My plane can take thirteen passengers. Any more, and we don’t get airborne.”
Twelve women from the barrack. Plus her. Fox, Zak, Pav. Sixteen.
“Give us a minute.” Fox turned his back on the pilot, facing Zak and Pav. “Ideas?”
Pav’s expression was contemplative. “The three of us could remain—”
“My brother has a helicopter. It is old, but it flies. You could buy.”
The three men spun back to face the pilot.
Zak narrowed his eyes. “Couldn’t you have mentioned that in the first place?”
“He is very poor.”
Snow fell, landing in cold whispers on Harper’s shoulders.
Fox sucked air through his teeth. “How much?”
“Thirty thousand US dollar.”
“Whoa,” Zak muttered under his breath.
“He has six children. And a wife.” The pilot shrugged. “Very expensive.” He waved a hand at the empty airfield and swirling snow. “Very good price in current market.”
Harper wrapped her arms around herself against the cold. “Thom, I can—”
Fox held up his hand and gave a clipped shake of his head. “I’ve got this.” His hands went to his wrist, and he unbuckled his watch—a Rolex, silver and black, likely costing more than most people made in a year—and held it out.
The pilot took it and lifted it to the watery light of the storm. He turned it over, and his mouth curved, a gold tooth flashing. “Very nice.” He pocketed it and beckoned. “Very good. Come.”
He headed toward the hangar, his feet crunching on old ice under the snow.
“Wait here.” Harper pressed Polina’s shoulder and followed.
The hangar access door screeched open on rusted rails. The pilot stepped inside and yanked a chain. A single bulb flickered to life overhead, making shadows lurch across the space.
The helicopter sat on a rusted tow platform, maintenance panels hanging open along one side.
Jesus.
Oil streaked the body in black rivers. The rotor blades didn’t even match—one darker, chewed up along the edges. Metal patches scarred the rear, bolted on as if someone had fixed it with whatever they could find. The windshield was filthy with grime.
“That thing flies?” Zak halted, eyebrows high.
“It did last month.” The pilot patted the nose and flashed his gold tooth again. “Very comfortable. Seats four.”
Zak fired Fox a side-eye. “We paid thirty thousand for this piece of shit?”
“We didn’t have a choice.” Fox paced around the helicopter, shooting Zak a narrow look.
“We absolutely had a choice.” Zak’s voice climbed. “The choice was asking to see it first.”
Pav walked past Harper without a word, circling the helicopter. His hands moved over panels, checking bolts, the tail. His face was unreadable—just cold assessment.
Finally, he came to a stop and looked back at Fox. “It’ll fly.”
He sounded certain in the worst possible way—like he knew exactly what could go wrong and had already decided it was survivable.
Harper’s throat closed.
Fox turned to her. “Harper. It’s your call. Who goes where?”
Okay. She exhaled. Doctor mode.
“Sasha’s been shot, she’ll need monitoring. She needs to come with me.”
Fox blew out a breath. “Plane takes thirteen. Eleven women with me and Zak.” He pointed. “Helicopter takes Pav, you and Sasha.”
“Excellent.” The pilot grinned. “You fly, yes?”
Pav met his gaze. “Yes.”
“Fine. Let’s get this show on the road.” Fox stalked out of the hangar, and Harper followed, jogging to keep up.
Her hands shook, so she pressed them against her thighs and forced her brain into gear. When she looked back, Pav was tracking her, his face unperturbed as if he’d already decided she could handle this.
“Polina.” Her voice came out steady when she arrived back at the jeep, stronger than she felt. “Sasha will go in the helicopter with me. You’re with everyone else on the plane. Help them board.”
Polina nodded, climbing out of the relative warmth of the jeep. Women clung to one another in tight knots. Polina moved among them, coaxing them apart, but some wouldn't let go.
Harper helped Sasha from the back, one hand clamped over the wadded strip of torn shirt pressed to the wound beneath her ribs. Blood had already soaked through the fabric and warmed Harper’s palm.
Don’t think. Don’t count. Don’t weigh one life against another.
Behind her, the men maneuvered the maintenance platform toward the open hangar doors, rusty wheels shrieking across cracked concrete. Pav and Zak handled the tail while Fox pushed from the side, the pilot barking directions over the wind.
Once outside, Pav dropped beneath the fuselage long enough to release something Harper couldn’t identify. Then he moved to the skids and kicked free the locking clamps.
He made a rolling motion with his hand. “Push.”
The helicopter rolled backward off the platform and dropped onto its skids.
Harper guided Sasha across the tarmac as the rotors creaked overhead in the rising wind. The younger woman sagged heavily against her, clammy and trembling, each step weaker than the last.
Before Harper reached for the door, Pav appeared beside them. He took Sasha’s weight without a word and lifted her into the rear seat as if she weighed nothing.
“Headlights!” Zak’s shout bellowed above the wind.
Lights in the distance. Multiple vehicles. Coming fast.
“Three minutes.” Zak jogged toward the plane. “Maybe less. Let’s move people.”
Someone wailed as the women stumbled toward the plane. Harper came up the rear, her frozen hands firm on the straggler’s backs. “Come on. You’re doing great. Up the stairs. That’s it.”
A strong hand grabbed her arm, and she spun. Thom.
He pulled her into a tight hug and kissed the top of her head. “Pav’s the best. He’ll get you out.”
Over his shoulder, Pav was securing Sasha into the rear seat of the helicopter.
“See you on the other side. Go.” Fox released her and gave her a gentle push. “Zak, let’s get this fucking bucket in the air.” He slammed the plane door shut and locked the lever.
Harper ducked and ran across the icy concrete.
Pav was already in the pilot's seat. She glanced into the back. Sasha was strapped in, eyes closed, head lolling—but breathing. The makeshift bandage was still in place, dark and wet beneath Harper’s hand when she reached back to check it. Still bleeding, but slower.
Satisfied, Harper dropped into the co-pilot's seat.
Pav worked through the startup sequence with precision, fast and confident, as if this was something he’d done before—not something he hoped would work.
The door didn’t close all the way. She yanked it shut with a grunt, metal grinding, and the latch caught with a click that felt way too fragile.
She pressed back against the seat for a moment. “You can fly this?”
Pav didn’t look at her. “Yes.”
His hand moved to the ignition. Twisted. The engine caught, the entire frame vibrating.
Harper sucked in a breath and focused on securing her seatbelt, but her hands were numb and her fingers un-cooperative.
Fuckfuckfuck
“Let me.” Strong, warm hands nudged hers aside and clipped the belt home in one smooth motion. His face was inches from hers, his scent of woodsmoke and wool wrapping around her. “Breathe.”
She nodded, clenching her fists so the tears wouldn’t come.
Through the windshield, the plane was taxiing toward the far end of the tarmac, engines roaring to life.
The headlights were closer now. Three. Maybe four.
Muzzle flashes.
Bullets hit the concrete ten feet away. Sparks burst white in the darkness.
“Hold on,” Pav said.
The helicopter shuddered, skids scraping across the concrete before it lurched upward.
Harper gripped the straps of her harness as vibration climbed up through her spine, rattling her skull. The plane was already airborne, banking away smooth and clean into the storm.
More gunfire. Their pursuers raced straight at them, firing wildly from the jeeps. The helicopter climbed, and the ground dropped away. Ten feet. Twenty. Fifty.
The storm closed in around them—white and violent, swallowing the airbase, the plane, everything.
Her breath stuttered. If this went wrong, there was nothing she could do but trust him.
The helicopter shuddered again, rough enough to knock the breath from her chest. She risked a glance at the man beside her.
Trust it was.