The coppery scent of blood perfumes the air, mixing with the acidic sweetness of aviation fuel. We are thousands of feet above the jungle, the sky a silvery blue, the storm a brooding gunmetal gray far to our left.
Prisoner’s head is pressed against the door; his left shoulder touches the tip of my sodden muddy sneakers. Blue sits between the two seats across from me, his tail stretching into the cockpit.
Prisoner’s eyes open slowly, like a flower greeting the sun after a night of protecting her pollen from the dew. They focus on the ceiling.
I unlatch my seat belt, drawing Prisoner’s attention. I smile, then stand, stepping over him, one leg on each side of his chest. Locks of my hair fall around my face, freed from the short ponytail at the back of my head. The headphones cupping my ears produce a tickling static, muting the loud thumping of the rotor blades and rushing wind. The floor vibrates under my sneakers. The whole bird quakes with the movement as we chop through open air.
Blue reaches from his spot between the two front seats to swipe his nose against my hip before I squat down, sitting on Prisoner’s bound arms and chest, settling my knees on the pulsating floor so that I’m not putting all my weight on his lungs.
Prisoner’s bound hands are at his waist, biceps duct-taped to his body. His knees are up, so that if I wanted to lean back I could use them as a place to rest. But I’m not here to rest.
I show him the knife in my right hand. His eyes have no issue focusing on it. “We’re going to talk. You’re going to give me some information.”
He doesn’t respond. And it’s not just the tape over his mouth. Prisoner is going full dead eyes on me again. I reach forward and work the edge of the duct tape on his cheek—its adhesive is still strong despite the sweat slicking Prisoner’s skin. It takes me a moment to loosen it enough to get a good grip. Then I yank it hard, ripping it off in one long stripe.
Prisoner grunts, his lips pressed tight, a rectangle of red around his mouth. He parts his lips for a breath large enough that it raises his chest, lifting me slightly. “So,” I say sweetly, “let’s start with your name.”
He closes his eyes for a long moment like I’m frustrating him. Oh, buddy, you don’t know the half of it. “Come on now, that won’t hurt to say.”
Dead eyes meet mine. I get that same sense of apprehension. I don’t have Blue’s heightened senses but I know what a person without a soul looks like…and I know how dangerous they can be. I swallow my revulsion at his lack of humanity and take a deep breath. “You really want to start the torture over your name?”
Nothing.
Fine.
My phone pings and I reach into the pocket where I stashed it. A response from Rebecca.
He’s an assassin. Name is unknown, aliases are Silent Phantom and Mute Strangler.
So the not talking thing isn’t just me.
He is missing his tongue—unknown how he lost it.
I glance down at him. He is staring at the ceiling, expressionless.
In his mid-forties, has been an active assassin for over twenty-five years. Suspected to have advanced military training but his country of origin is unknown.
I should have nicknamed this guy Unknown.
He is a known pedophile, has been on our radar for a few years.
Bile burns the base of my throat. The one thing we know about this guy disperses any guilt I might have felt about ending him.
He was part of a child pornography dark web cabal we took down. We didn’t realize he was a trained assassin until he disappeared. There is a reason they call him a Phantom.
Well, he won’t be one of the ghosts haunting me. “You not only won’t talk. You can’t talk,” I say. Prisoner meets my gaze, nothing on his end, rage on mine.
“Well, then we can end this relationship.” I stand, slip my knife back into its sheath. He watches my movements like a camera lens—taking it all in, no emotion coming back.
“Stay,” I tell Blue. He cocks his head at me because there is nowhere to go. Not yet anyway.
“I’m opening the door,” I tell Daniela.
“You’re what?”
“I’m opening the door,” I say again.
“That’s not a great—”
I grab one of the safety straps mounted in the ceiling and rip open the door before she can finish the sentence. I know you’re not supposed to open doors while thousands of feet in the air without anything holding you in the aircraft. But I need to toss this fucker out before I do something I regret—like flay him for fun.
The images that are trying to assault my mind can only be stopped by one thing: this monster’s death. Air whooshes in, pulling more hair free from my ponytail and whipping it around my face. The too-big clothing I borrowed from Declan presses flat to my body.
The safety strap is for people to hold onto right before they leap out wearing parachutes. It’s got a clip at the end and is adjustable—unraveling from a spool set into the ceiling. I lengthen it until I can tie it around my waist, using the clip to secure it.
Prisoner wriggles at my feet, trying to get away from the door, his feet climbing the opposite door. Oh, want to make my life easier? How kind of you, sir.
I take a step toward the other door. My strap spools out behind me. I grab the handle. Prisoner swings his legs into me, knocking my wrist. It doesn’t hurt much but blocks me from opening the door.
Prisoner swings his legs again, going for my face. I retreat a step, then grab his ankles with both hands. Prisoner bucks hard. I lose my grip and his feet clang against the closed door. Lurching forward, I grab the handle and pull, unlocking the latch and getting the door open a few inches before his feet slam into me again. This time he hits me in the shoulder, knocking me off balance, so that I have to grab the seat to my right.
Blue growls. “Back,” I tell him again. He snarls as he scoots more into the cockpit.
“Want some help?” Daniela asks, cool as a cucumber in my ear.
“Like what?” I ask. The second door is parted about a half foot. Not big enough for Prisoner to go through. He’s swinging his legs around like some kind of twisted amusement ride. I block another vicious double kick. My forearm throbs.
“Blue, come up here,” Daniela says. Blue looks at me and I nod. He scoots even further backwards until he’s next to her seat. “Hold on to something,” Daniela says.
I grab the seat belt attached to the seat nearest me. Prisoner swings his legs again, I deflect the blow. The helicopter tips to the right, toward the wide open door. Everything tips with it. I roll over the seat, grabbing the belt with both hands.
Prisoner slides across the floor like a sausage tipping off a plate—a sausage that doesn’t want to go. He throws his legs up again, catching the strap I tied around my waist. It jerks, cutting into my stomach. His feet are hooked on it, head raised, staring at me. There is life in his gaze now. The man doesn’t want to die.
But he’s going to.
I let go of the seat belt, and gravity takes me. My body scrambles, incapable of just letting me fall even though my brain knows I’m secure. Every instinct grapples for purchase but there isn’t time. Not for me and not for Prisoner.
He’s sucked out first, his bound body slipping into open space in an instant. A cry escapes him—something guttural and terrified. Good.
I have the same feeling in my chest as the helicopter gives way to empty space and I’m looking down at an undulating sea of green. Prisoner twirls below me, the silver duct tape glinting in the light. My safety strap pulls taught as I begin my downward plunge. My headphones fly off and tumble away into the abyss.
The strap slides up my body and catches at my breasts, cutting into my skin, all my weight pressed against it. It steals my breath. My legs kick as if they can run right back into the helicopter. Wind yanks at me, gravity presses. I’m supposed to fall. But that’s not what I do.
The helicopter straightens out. Reaching up, I can almost grab the landing skid, it’s inches away. So I grip the strap instead and pull like it’s the fifties and this is gym class. I put one hand on top of the other, swinging my body to help my momentum. The pressure on my breast line eases. I get my right fingers on the skid.
With my left hand still gripping the strap, I start to bend my arm, breath paused, bicep on fire, right fingers fighting for my life, I lift my weight until my chest is even with the skid. My right fingers are numb and it takes them a second to follow my command to let go. But as soon as they do I throw that arm forward, wrapping my right armpit over the skid.
My breath comes in harsh pants. The wind and my throbbing heartbeat are competing for loudest thing in the world. My arms shake. Adrenaline flies through my veins screaming danger!
But I’m okay. Legs dangling thousands of feet above the jungle, heart hammering, I’m doing just fine.