Page 90 of Bad Luck, Hard Love
“We take them quiet if we can,” Ratchet murmurs. “Save the noise for when we need it.”
I nod, my focus narrowing on the task at hand.
The men reach the jet, one speaking into a radio while the other scans the perimeter. Their backs are to us—a mistake they won't live long enough to regret.
“Now,” I breathe, and we move as one, emerging from behind the containers like wraiths.
Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten. The men remain oblivious, too focused on the jet to sense death approaching. At five yards, one finally turns.
“What the?—”
Ratchet's knife finds his throat before he can finish, silencing him with brutal efficiency. I take the second man from behind, arm locked around his neck. I squeeze until his struggles cease, his body going limp. Both men drop to the tarmac without making a sound beyond the soft thud of dead weight hitting concrete.
“Drag them behind the containers,” I order, already moving. We can't afford to leave bodies in the open where they might be discovered.
Ratchet nods, grabbing the first corpse by the shoulders while I hoist the second. It’s awkward, but we manage to haul them out of sight quickly. I rifle through their pockets, finding radios, extra ammunition, and a set of keys that might prove useful.
“Two down,” Ratchet says, wiping blood from his blade on the dead man's vest. “How many more do you think?”
“Doesn't matter.” I check the radio frequency, listening for chatter. Static, then a voice crackles through. “Transport team, what's your status?”
I exchange glances with Ratchet, then key the radio. “All clear. Standing by.”
“Copy that. Package is being prepared for transport.”
Package. They're talking about Charlotte like she's fucking cargo.
My vision goes red around the edges, rage threatening to overwhelm. Five minutes. Whatever they're doing to her in there, it ends in five minutes—one way or another.
“We go now,” I growl, shouldering the AR-15. “Before they bring her out.”
“Wait,” Ratchet grabs my arm before I can move. “The plane. We need to disable it. If there's no plane, they can't transport her anywhere.”
My mind clicks into gear. “You're right. No escape route means more time.”
“I'll handle the jet,” Ratchet says, already pulling tools from his pocket. “You get inside, find Charlotte and V. I'll join you once it's done.”
“You sure?”
“Two minutes, tops. I'll put that bird down for good. Go. Now.”
I nod once, then sprint toward the hangar, keeping to the shadows. The door stands partially open, a sliver of lightspilling onto the tarmac. I press my back against the corrugated metal wall, listening. Voices inside—at least three distinct ones. Movement. The scrape of heavy objects being dragged.
The radio at my hip crackles again. “Transport team, respond.”
I ignore it, switching it off. They'll know something's wrong soon enough.
Easing around the edge of the door, I peer inside. The hangar is large, mostly empty except for a small aircraft at the far end—some rich bastard's toy—and stacks of crates along the walls.
A windowless room is in the back corner. The door heavily guarded.
My eyes lock on it immediately—a metal box built into the far corner of the hangar, like a prison cell dropped in the middle of an airport. No windows. One steel door. Two armed men standing sentry outside, automatic weapons held at the ready.
Charlotte.
I can feel her presence like a physical pull, drawing me across the open space between us.
I duck behind a stack of crates as one of the guards shifts position, scanning the hangar. His partner leans against the wall, cigarette dangling from his lips, the Heaven's Rejects patch on his cut gleaming under the harsh lights.
