Page 45 of Hostile Bond
Didn’t I make it clear that she should never run from me––from us?
On a single-minded mission, I scramble through the rooms of the villa, noting heavy footfall behind me. Solely focused on reaching her as quickly as possible, I point my gun at the floor to ceiling doors blocking me from the outside and fire two bullets, shattering the glass so I don’t have to stop. There’s no way to fight this beast inside of me, not now that it's triggered by the one thing I’d made her promise not to do.
I’m coming for you, Wifey, and you’ll fucking pay for this.
“What the fuck is going on? Are we under attack?” Matheus’ gritty, tired baritone follows me, competing with the sound of his boots crunching over broken glass.
“Has someone breached security?” Giovanni rushes up beside me.
I can’t speak. I’m physically incapable of uttering a word, not until I reach my wife and get to the bottom of this misunderstanding. Stealth steps carry me into the hazy tangerine blush of dawn. I bolt barefooted past the table I’d fucked her on a few hours ago, my stomach flipping at the dirty memory.
Why the hell is she trying to leave me? This surpasses a game.
“Get security to stop it from taking off!” Tomás yells into his cell phone, keeping pace with me.
Four pairs of feet pound the pathways, snaking through a matrix of trees and wildflowers that lead to the concrete airstrip on the west side of the island. Every rapid step I take isn’t quick enough. I don’t care that my feet move from gritty stone to chopped grass, or when sharp stones burrow into my toes. Nor do I give a fuck that I’m half-dressed in a silk robe. All I feel is an unusual surge of blind panic.
I’m panting when the roar of turbine engines fire up. “SINÉAD…” I yell, my voice lost under the deafening roar.
In the distance, the jet plane starts to drive forward. Security men appear from everywhere, swarming the runway like the Feds. My heart beats so fucking fast it nearly chokes me. But the shaking of my hands, that's from the agony of the thumping muscle ripping into pieces when I can’t compete with the speed of an aircraft.
“Sinéad!” I bellow. “DON’T FUCKING DO THIS.”
And just as the plea claws its way out of my throat, the front wheels lift and the nose takes to the air, plunging into the golden sunburst of a new day. I skid to my knees, unable to withstand the spreading pain in my chest, utterly lost in the confusion of what’s happening.
I gasp for air and bang the heel of my hand against my temple to shake up my brain––to recall our last moments together––to figure out what the fuck I did to make her run away.
A swell of violence propels me back to my feet, my eyes on the jet the whole time.
“What the fuck?” I growl, squeezing the grip on my revolver like I’m throttling her damn elegant throat for being so rebellious.
Spinning on the balls of my feet, I raise my aim and storm toward a group of soldiers. Grabbing one of them by the collar of his combat jacket, I jab the loaded barrel into his cheek.
“Who the fuck let my wife get on that plane… huh? What part of ‘protect her with your lives,’didn’t you understand?” I snarl at him, spittle spraying from the wrath I can no longer control.
In the same breath, I glare at the guy beside him and hiss out an order, “Get a chopper ready. I need to be in the sky right away. We’ll follow the jet.”
The guy I’m close to shooting in the face speaks, his voice high-pitched. “We didn’t know she was on the plane until they were taxiing on the runway. She shot the co-pilot and threatened to shoot the pilot if he didn’t help her.”
The noise scraping out of me is nothing short of diabolical. “Then you should have shot the pilot yourself rather than give him permission to fly,” I yell into his face, one second away from pulling the trigger. “Do you even know where she’s going? Someone better fucking know…”
He swallows hard, his head nodding. “Ireland, sir… they’re going to Ireland.”
“Ireland?” I let go of him and pivot, my legs numb and my vision blood red.
My brothers stare at me, their bare chests heaving as they catch their breath, the three of them standing side by side, their weapons lowered.
“She’s flying back to Ireland?” I repeat, dumbstruck and dazed.
My eyes burn as if liquid sorrow is going to leak from the corners, but nothing comes out. Because this isn’t the last time I’ll see her.
It can’t be.
It wouldn’t be.
I never thought she’d burn a target on my heart and take a winning shot—blow a hole straight through its middle and leave me for dead. Because that's exactly what she’s done. The pain is so deep within my chest that I can’t breathe. I’m broken, standing at the edge of decorum, losing my ever-loving fucking mind.
I stagger toward my siblings, shoving shaky fingers through my hair in an attempt to establish some sort of balance. It doesn't help. The serious look in their eyes only confirms my worst fears––she's really gone and now they’re waiting for my over-the-top reaction.
