Page 1 of Born To Be Bad

CHAPTER 1

The Bullet

ALISTAIR

I signal Lucky to take off the man’s balaclava. He rips it off, and every single person in the room is stunned into silence.

Not only because it’s a woman, with her dark hair tumbling down onto her shoulders, but because we all recognize her, even though it’s been over twenty-six years.

I can’t fucking believe what I’m seeing.

Mother stumbles; I try not to do the same. The unmasked woman looks at us defiantly, lips a thin line, familiar hazel eyes searching mine.

My voice comes out sounding choked. “Ariana?”

The floor is falling away. I have to reach out and grab the back of a chair to stay upright. The only other time I remember being this shocked was when we were told she was dead.

“It can’t be,” murmurs Henderson, pale as paper. “I saw them shoot you. I couldn’t stop the bullet. You fell. A puddle of blood.”

Ariana narrows her gaze at him but remains quiet. Her face is waxen, her head listing as if she can no longer hold it up.

Ivy snaps out of her own stunned silence and grabs the first aid kit. “Ambulance!” she yells at Christopher, who fumbles and almost drops his phone. She pulls the blanket off my sister’s lap, revealing a terrifying amount of blood seeping from the bullet wound in her thigh.

“Fuck,” she curses. She looks at me, eyes wide. “Belt,” she commands, beckoning with her fingers. I attempt to break the slow motion of shock; the feeling of being underwater. I remove my belt as quickly as my numb fingers allow and pass it to Ivy.

“Ambulance is on the way,” announces Christopher.

“There’s too much blood,” Ivy says, cinching the belt as tightly as she can around Ariana’s thigh. Ariana sways, but Ivy props her up. “She’s bleeding too quickly. We can’t wait for the ambulance.” She looks up at me again. “Alistair. We can’t wait. Alistair!”

I blink, as if waking up. Finally, I’m able to snap out of it and take charge.

“Mother. The Agusta — is it fuelled?”

She tears her gaze from her prodigal daughter and blinks at me, not comprehending.

“Is the helicopter ready to fly?” I ask.

She raises a hand to her heart and nods.

“Henderson, get Ariana to the chopper. Christopher?—”

“Don’t touch me,” growls Ariana, but she has no strength to fight Henderson as he scoops her off the floor and sweeps out of the panic room, carrying her like a sleeping child. Mother’s hand reaches out as if to touch Ariana, desperate to feel her—impossible—physical presence.

Twenty-six years.

Dozens of questions swarm, but we don’t have time to do anything but save Ariana. There’s no way I’m letting her go again.

We follow Henderson up to the helipad and I’m praying the Agusta is ready to go. Every second counts.

“They’re expecting you,” says Christopher. “Pad 3 is open. The paramedics will be there when you land.”

I nod my thanks.

“I’ll stay with the folks,” he says. “But call me the minute you know anything.”

“I will.”

“I can’t believe it,” Christopher says, his voice on the edge of breaking. “I can’t believe it’s Ariana.”

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