Page 115 of A Queen and HER Bad Boy
They could be on the world’s most dysfunctional double date.
Achilles’s hands found her shoulders, and reaching up, he pulled the safety harness across her chest, clicking it securely into place. “Seatbelt on, now!”
Fear choked against her throat. What was he about to do?
The rotors above them whined to life with a thunderous mechanical roar that vibrated through her bones. Achilles’s fingers left the collective lever as he engaged the engine. The Blackhawk helicopter shuddered beneath them like a beast awakening.
Peleus’s voice crackled over the radio again, this time sounding urgent: “Maintain position on the ground. Do you copy, Achilles? I don’t care who has a gun to your head! Airspace is not yet secure for departure.”
It was too late. The Blackhawk lurched into the air with violent force. Bris cried out as her stomach dropped, the world tilting sickeningly beneath them. The helicopter dipped and turned sharply, sending screams erupting from the back as Charisse and Aggie were thrown against the cabin walls. The ancient coliseum spun below them in a dizzying blur of weathered stone and emerald olive groves, growing smaller and more distant with each passing second.
“Achilles! Son!” Peleus’s voice carried desperate urgency through the radio and was lost in the noise.
Bris clutched her harness, horrified to see that Achilles hadn’t secured his own seatbelt in his rush to protect her. His body lurched against the pilot’s door as they plunged to the left. His shoulder slammed into the metal frame. She reached over, trying to catch the belt with her fingers. “Get that on! Achilles! Please!” Her voice was lost under the deafening blades churning above them.
A voice returned over the radio—possibly O Skia’s—but just like before, his words were swallowed by the mechanical chaos surrounding them.
Bris ripped her gaze from the Aeaean’s landscape streaking past in ribbons of blue sea and green hills, whipping her head around just in time to see Aggie wrestle the pistol away from Charisse with a violent jerk that held absolutely no love.
If Charisse hadn’t accepted the truth of his betrayal before, his rough handling should show the heiress exactly who she was to him—a bank account and a prison break wrapped in designer pleather pants.
Letting out a growl, Aggie clawed through the seat to reach Bris at the front, sliding back then fighting his way forward through the Blackhawk’s violent pitching. She watched him approach like she was caught on a carnival ride spinning out of control, too helpless to move, too helpless to fight back against Aggie’s manic strength fueled by the rage she saw blazing in his pale eyes.
She could only let out a scream that was muffled by the rotor’s blades, seconds before she felt the cold metal of the pistol’s barrel press against her temple. “Steady the aircraft or she dies!” Aggie shouted above the noise. He swung around to glare at his unhinged accomplice. “Get Medes on the phone! Tell that assassin to finish the sister now. Finish her!”
Bris took a shuddering breath and screamed back, “You think Medes will take orders from you, Charisse? He’s tricking you!” She reached out, her fingers digging into the woman’s soft flawless arm. “She’s going to be Aggie’s bride. The Myrdons won’t touch her!”
Charisse’s face contorted with rage. Shrieking, she launched at Aggie again. The pistol jerked upward, discharging into the helicopter’s ceiling with a deafening crack. Sparks showered down on them. Another deafening shot punched through the instrument panel. Glass exploded in a crystalline spray. Warning lights flickered and died. Then a third shot—and Achilles slumped forward over the controls.
Bris screamed, her throat turning raw under her cries. Her fingers found his shoulders as his blood—hot and terrifyingly real—spread across his white shirt in an expanding crimson stain. His chest heaved as he struggled for breath.
Snatching her hand, he pressed her palm firmly against the control stick near his knee, his grip desperate and slick with blood as he guided her fingers around the cold metal. The stick vibrated under their joined hands. “The cyclic… keep level…”
Aggie was rage-screaming orders she couldn’t hear over the failing engines. Achilles fumbled for a headset beside him with trembling fingers. He managed to push it into Bris’s stomach. “Get my father… guide us.”
Bris’s hands shook as she threw on the headphones, adjusting the microphone with fingers that felt numb with terror. “O Skia? O Skia, are you there?”
“Bris? Is that you? Where’s Achilles?”
“He’s been… shot.” Her voice broke as she saw how pale his face had become, the olive tone draining to ashen gray. “I have to land us.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes! But… we don’t have long.” She wasn’t sure how she said it, like she was reporting on the weather, when she wanted to scream and shake Achilles awake, but her hands were meant to keep them alive… at least for a few minutes longer.
“Listen carefully.” Peleus’s voice turned steely with military precision. “I’m going to talk you through this step by step.”
“Thank you,” she breathed.
“First, ease back on the cyclic—that’s the stick in front of you. Gentle pressure, just enough to level us out.”
“Yeah…” She wasn’t sure how she did it, her hands following his calm instructions as the helicopter steadied slightly.
“Now, I need you to reduce the collective—that’s the lever by your left knee. Lower it slowly, very slowly.”
Bris found the control, reducing that thing they called “the collective” to begin their descent. The aircraft shuddered like a wounded bird fighting to stay airborne.
“You’re doing beautifully. Now, keep the nose up slightly as we descend.”
