Broken Wings (Dark Legacy #1)(37)
The water I’d just sipped shot down the wrong pipe and I choked a bit. “You’d better be fucking joking,” I snarled, glaring daggers at the flawless asshole opposite me.
He just shrugged and grinned. Fucking psychopath.
Looking around the plane, I hunted for a change of subject. “Whose plane?” I asked. “Yours?”
Beck shook his head. “Delta’s.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course. Militant Delta Finances. Care to tell me any more about your world dominating company? What do you do anyway besides deal in illegal arms? Hang out and make threats?”
He just stared at me with that blank gaze, and I knew he wasn’t going to suddenly start spewing out answers so I sucked another deep breath and released it with a long sigh.
“What sorts of speeds do these planes get up to?” Why I was trying to make small talk, I had no idea. The fact that he’d just so casually alluded to having seen me practically naked left me on edge, and it was nerves that made me chatter.
Beck leveled another blank stare at me, and I huffed, folding my arms.
“Why don’t you go annoy Darren with your questions?” he suggested, already turning his attention to his phone. Clearly, I’d been dismissed.
He’d been sarcastic, but chatting with Darren—the pilot I assumed—sounded considerably better than dealing with Beck’s surly attitude. Unclipping my seat belt, I decided I’d go and learn a bit about jets.
Beck raised a brow at me, but I ignored him and made my way through the cabin toward the cockpit. Celia, our lovely flight attendant, was back in Jasper’s lap so no one stopped me when I tapped on the little white door. A sound came in response, which I assumed to be something along the lines of “come in,” so I let myself in.
“Hey, Darren?” I greeted him, latching the door and then admiring the vast array of buttons and levers, not to mention the view. “Wow, this is incredible,” I breathed, in total awe of the fluffy white clouds ahead and the tiny glimpses of land below.
Turning to the pilot, who was yet to speak, I gasped. In his lap, clutched in his shaking, white knuckled hand was a sleek black handgun.
“Uh, Darren?” I prompted, “Why...” My words faded out and I needed to lick my lips a few times before trying again. “Why do you have a gun?”
My words seemed to jerk him out of the trance he’d been in, and his bloodshot eyes snapped up to my face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Sweat ran down his forehead in beads, and tears leaked from his eyes. Every vein in his face stood out with the sheer tension thrumming through him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he started to sob as he apologized and panic seized me. I froze, totally unsure what the hell to do. Was he going to shoot me? Why?
“Darren,” I started, holding my hands up, palms out. I had no idea why, it just felt like a calming sort of gesture. Or maybe I’d been watching too much TV. “Darren why don’t you put the gun down?” I was aiming for soothing, like I was talking to a wild animal.
He shook his head slowly, tears still running from his red, puffy eyes. “I’m so sorry; they made me do it. I had to keep my kids safe.”
I’d been so focused on the gun, I hadn’t noticed the device in his other hand until it was too late. Not that I could have done anything, anyway. Without any further hesitation, he pressed a button on the little remote, and an explosion rocked the aircraft from the left side, followed by one on the right. Still holding my horrified, stunned gaze, Darren raised the gun to his face and pulled the trigger.
Blood splattered the walls, the controls, the windows, me. It was everywhere. Frantic screams ripped from me as Dylan and Beck came bursting into the cockpit, and found the mess which was once their pilot. But that was the least of our problems. The plane shifted and Darren’s lifeless body fell forward, leaning heavily on a large lever and sending us hurtling toward the ground.
“Move!” Dylan barked, shoving me aside. I was still frozen in shock, whimpers ripping from my throat, and I didn’t even flinch when Beck grabbed me around the waist from behind and held me firm within his strong arms. As I watched, Dylan heaved the dead pilot from his seat and sat down. He hesitated only a moment before taking the important looking lever thing in his strong grip and slowly, painfully slowly, pulling it back in an attempt to control our descent. Or, that’s what I had to assume he was doing.
The plane was shaking and jolting like we were in a giant blender and it was only by Beck’s impressive strength that I hadn’t been thrown clear across the cabin.
“Sit down,” Dylan yelled at us. “Strap in, we’re going to crash.”
I couldn’t have moved if I’d tried. My whole body was locked up in sheer terror, and my gaze was fixed on the smears of crimson decorating my arms. Somehow, Beck manhandled me into the co-pilot’s seat and buckled my seatbelt with cold efficiency. He yelled short, sharp commands back into the cabin—for Evan and Jasper—then strapped himself into the jump seat.
“Can you land us?” he demanded of Dylan, whose pale, tense face was firmly fixed on the controls and displays in front of him.
It was only a brief hesitation before Dylan replied, but it seemed like a lifetime while we continued hurtling toward the ground. Fast. Too damn fast. “No,” he said, and my stomach dropped through the floor. We were going to die. Holy shit.