Page 86 of Imprisoned

I slide open the side window as the engine finally roars to life. The plane lurches forward, picking up speed.

“That’s it. Keep going,” I tell the pilot as I chamber a round.

The cruiser accelerates toward us, attempting to cut across our path. I steady my breathing and squeeze the trigger. The rifle kicks against my shoulder, and the cruiser’s front tire explodes in a spray of rubber. It fishtails wildly before spinning out.

“Don’t stop,” I order, already chambering another round. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

I line up the shot with practiced ease despite the plane’s vibrations. A second cruiser swerves, trying to block our path, but I’ve got him locked in my sights.

“Not today, fuckers.”

My second shot hits the rear tire with surgical precision. The cruiser fishtails violently, spinning across the runway before flipping sideways. The momentum carries it, rolling twice before settling into a crumpled, smoking heap.

The plane picks up speed, rattling beneath us as we hurtle down the airstrip. Through the scope, I catch a glimpse of the officer crawling from the wreckage, dazed but alive. Good. I don’t need more bodies on my conscience today.

“Jesus, Axel,” Tommy mutters from behind me.

I lower the rifle and catch Willow’s wide-eyed stare, gun still pressed against the pilot’s head.

“You can ease up, little pixie.” I tap her wrist gently. “Unless he tries something stupid.”

The pilot is too busy now, hands flying across the controls as we reach takeoff speed. The nose lifts, and suddenly, we’re airborne, the small plane lurching upward with a stomach-dropping surge.

Through the back window, I spot a convoy of vehicles pouring onto the runway—county sheriff, state police, and even what looks like SWAT. Too fucking late.

“They’re here,” Tommy announces unnecessarily, pressed against his window.

“Higher,” I order the pilot. “Get us above their range.”

He complies without argument, sending us climbing steeply into the thin morning air. Below, tiny figures spill from vehicles, some raising what must be guns, but we’re already too high. Even with scopes, they’d need to be exceptional marksmen to hit a moving aircraft at this distance.

The plane banks east, away from the rising sun, and I finally relax. The rush of adrenaline sustaining me begins to ebb, leaving behind a profound stillness—not the quiet of peace—the quiet of survival.

I glance at Willow. Her hair is wild, her face smudged with dirt, and her eyes still electric with fear and exhilaration. But she’s smiling—somehow, impossibly, she’s smiling.

I hand the gun to Tommy, never taking my eyes off the horizon.

“Keep this on him. If he tries anything stupid, shoot him.”

Tommy nods, his face grim but determined as he takes the weapon. The kid’s grown a spine since we broke out. Good. He’ll need it.

My blood still burns with adrenaline, the thrill of the escape coursing through me like electricity. But there’s something else, too—a hunger that’s been building since we lifted off.

“Come here,” I demand, grabbing Willow’s wrist and pulling her toward the back of the plane.

The small aircraft has a rear section separated by a half-wall—four leather seats facing each other across a narrow table bolted to the floor. It’s not private, but I couldn’t care less.

Willow’s eyes widen as I pull her down onto my lap, her back against my chest. “Axel, they can see?—”

I silence her with my mouth on hers, one hand tangling in her hair while the other slides under her shirt. She tastes like freedom.

“Let them,” I whisper against her ear, feeling her shiver. “I want them to see who truly possesses you.”

Willow makes soft sounds as I pull her shirt up. Her skin is pale in the dim light, marked with bruises from our escape—badges of honor I trace with my fingers.

I can see Tommy’s shoulders tense as he deliberately keeps his eyes forward. The pilot’s gaze flicks over his shoulder once before Tommy adjusts the gun barrel against his ribs.

“Eyes on the sky,” Tommy orders him.

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