Page 85 of Imprisoned

I watch in amazement as Tommy creates a clear path for us while throwing obstacles in our pursuers’ way. By the time we reach the rural roads leading to the airstrip, we’ve lost all signs of police presence.

“There it is,” Gary points ahead to a small runway where a twin-engine plane waits, propellers already spinning.

The plane sits waiting for us, its propellers whirring in the morning light. My heart gallops so hard I wonder if the others can hear it. Gary gestures for us to follow him to the trunk of the Suburban, where he pops it open to reveal a hidden compartment.

“Papers,” he says, pulling out a manila envelope. “All here as promised.”

I take the envelope, checking its contents—two sets of passports, visas, and identification cards. The faces are ours, but the names belong to strangers. I’ll have to get used to being “Elise Carter” now.

“Money,” I say, reaching into my backpack and retrieving the vacuum-sealed package of cash. I’d prepared more than the agreed-upon amount, anticipating potential complications. “Extra for Tommy.”

Gary counts it quickly, his weathered fingers flipping through the bills with practiced efficiency. He nods, satisfied. “Smart to have backup funds.”

“Always prepare for contingencies.”

Gary tucks the money into his jacket. “Thanks for the business. Wish I could say it’s been a pleasure.” He glances atAxel, who hasn’t taken his eyes off him. “Your pilot knows the route. There shouldn’t be any problems from here.”

We hurry across the tarmac toward the small plane, the wind whipping my hair across my face. Tommy boards first, followed by me and Axel, who keeps one hand on my back, guiding me. I climb into the cabin, ducking my head beneath the low doorway.

The interior is sparse—six seats, three on each side of a narrow aisle. I choose a window seat, and Axel slides in beside me while Tommy takes the seat across from us.

The pilot, a middle-aged man with silvery stubble, gives us a curt nod without asking questions. Moments later, we’re settling into our seats as the plane’s engines come to life.

I stare out the window, releasing this is the last time I’ll be in the country I’ve known all my life. This is really happening. We’re escaping. We’re about to be free.

38

AXEL

Freedom sits thirty feet ahead of us, strapped into the body of this rickety twin-engine. The pilot, some greasy-haired guy Gary vouched for, keeps glancing nervously between his instruments and the runway.

We’ve barely settled into our seats when the radio crackles.

“Unidentified aircraft at Sawyer’s Field, this is Sheriff Department. Maintain position. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt takeoff.”

The pilot’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “I can’t do this,” he mutters, reaching for the radio.

Before his fingers touch the dial, my Glock presses against his temple.

“Yes, you absolutely can.” I keep my voice even, almost friendly. “And you will.”

His eyes dart to the blue and red lights flashing in the distance.

“They’ll shoot us down,” he whimpers.

“Not if we’re already gone.” I dig the barrel deeper. “Now.”

Willow’s breath catches behind me. Though I can’t see her face, I feel her tension filling the cabin.

“Axel...” Tommy warns, leaning forward from the back seat.

The pilot’s hands tremble on the controls. Outside, tires screech on the tarmac as the first police cruiser skids onto the airstrip.

“For fuck’s sake.” I grab the gun by the barrel, spin it around, and shove it into Willow’s hands. “Keep this against his head. If he stops, pull the trigger.”

Her eyes widen but she takes it, knuckles white around the grip.

I reach behind the seat for the hunting rifle I stashed there—a beat-up Remington I found mounted above the fireplace at the cabin. Not pretty, but it’ll do.

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