Page 86 of Justice for Francesca

“I need Hubble up high somewhere on the airstrip. We’ve got to keep that plane on the ground at all costs. He might need to shoot out tires, an engine, hell… maybe the pilot. Whatever it takes to keep her on the ground.”

“And the rest of us?”

“I need you to take care of the flunkies, as well as get that pilot out of there if you can. Not sure if any of the brothers or Oisin can fly a plane. Let’s hope not.”

“What about the brothers?”

“They’ll do their best to keep things from progressing. I’ll take care of Oisin and Francesca.”

By this time, Tripoli had come up to the parking lot for the private hangars at the airport. As he exited the car, there were a series of pops, and the lights in the lot went dark.

“Jesus, they were a mile behind us. How did he catch up so fast?” Tripoli asked.

“Hubble has a buddy down here who loves fast cars. I don’t even want to know what that’s going to cost me.”

Pulling a black balaclava over his blond head and pulling on a pair of thin leather gloves, Tripoli checked his weapons. Cosmos put on a black ball cap, jogged to the trunk of the car, poppedit, and pulled out a rifle, proceeding to load it and dump extra rounds into his pockets. Triumph climbed into the front seat, his laptop showing that Francesca was still where she had been for the last hour and a half.

“As soon as your job is done, get out of here. Don’t worry about me. I’ll meet you back at the club when I can. If I get arrested, my attorney will call you.”

“Don’t get dead, yourself.”

Tripoli nodded. “You either. This isn’t your fight.”

“She’s yours. That makes it my fight. But… one thing. I texted you a number. Just in case something does happen to me, I need you to call that number. It goes to a girl named Abigail.”

Tripoli raised an eyebrow.

“My alibi. I wouldn’t want her to think that I abandoned her or something.”

“I’ve got you covered, but I’m not going to have to call her.”

Hubble and the rest of Cosmos’ team arrived, black clothing and caps in place. With a nod to the men and a fist bump to his friend, the men were off and running.

Less than fifteen minutes later, the group had entered the hangar and were engaged in a fire battle with Oisin’s crew. The men were better shots than Tripoli expected. One of Cosmos’ crew managed to get the pilot out of the line of fire, then joined back into the fray. Unfortunately, another took a shot to the leg, and he had to be tourniqueted and dragged out of the hangar.

Tripoli could see Oisin in the office with Francesca. She was so fucking strong. Once again, her whole world was being turned upside down, yet she was a powerhouse. He couldn’t be prouder, but he also couldn’t be more scared because he knew that strength was likely leading her to make a dangerous choice.

As he attempted to cross the hangar along the outside wall toward the office, he ran into one of Oisin’s goons. He was fucked. There was no way he could get his gun up in timebefore the man pulled the trigger. Suddenly, there was a single shot, and a red star formed in the center of his forehead. He toppled at Tripoli’s feet. Whipping around, Tripoli saw a man with a wrapped, bloody shoulder about ten feet behind him, lowering his weapon with the opposite arm. Fionn. The man simply nodded at him. With a salute of thanks, Tripoli turned and continued his journey to the office window.

Oisin was paying no attention to what was going on. Probably assumed his sons were taking care of the firefight. His assumptions would have been wrong. They’d been helping pick off the crew and clearing the path for Tripoli to get to Francesca. If necessary, one of them would take the shot against their father, but Tripoli was their buffer for now.

26

THE FACE-OFF

Francesca

“C’mon, Frankie-girl. Need you to wake up.” The whispered voice was raspy. It sounded familiar but unrecognizable at the same time. Like she’d heard it a long time ago but not since.

Francesca frowned and tried to roll over, but she couldn’t. Movement was stopped. In fact, she wasn’t even sure she was lying down, so rolling over probably wasn’t going to happen.

“Sick,” she managed to cough out.

A swear word was followed by the snick of a knife. Whatever had held her immobile was no longer holding her, and a hand shoved her forward at the waist. Vomit spewed from her mouth into a bucket someone had placed between her spread legs. As she heaved, a hand brushed up and down her spine.

“Get a towel. Cold water. Rory, get a bottle of water.”

When the heaves stopped, Francesca tried to shake the hand off of her back, but she was too weak. She couldn’t even sit up onher own. Another set of hands helped her sit against the ladder-back of the chair, and then the hand that had been rubbing her back was wiping her mouth with a damp cloth. She opened her eyes, but it was hard to see.

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