Page 32 of Vengeance

“No,” Dele says. “They’re ours. Undercover. Escorting us.”

With the cops flanking us, it’s not as hard to maneuver through what traffic there is at this time of the night. People get out the way at the sound of sirens. But that also means they get out of the way of our pursuers.

Well trained as they are, Dele’s guards don’t have her precise aim. She would have already shot out the tires of half the cars by now and been working on the rest. It has to do. But it also means that by the time we get to our destination, our pursuers are still on us.

Fortunately, Bond had the forethought to have more of their bought and owned cops and men at the site of the Uccello’s private jet. They let us through to the plane and immediately close rank to block our pursuers.

A chaotic gunfight immediately ensues. I get out, duck behind a car and join the fight. I find Eileen right at my side soon after.

“Marcus and Jeune are handling it,” Eileen answers my question over the loud gunfire before I can ask why she isn’t helping Dele and the children.

So that’s Dele’s guard’s names. I’ll have to figure out which is which later.

“We have to go,” Eileen says to me next, grabbing onto my arm to force me to retreat.

She’s right. I chance a glance back to make sure Dele and the children are safely onboard before nodding and backing away to the plane. Eileen keeps herself just in front of me as we both back toward the stairs and onto the plane.

We’re halfway up when a body barrels past us.

It’s Bond Uccello. One of his men is behind him, shouting, “Sir. No.”

“What the fuck is he doing?” I ask.

“I’m going to kill that motherfucker if I have to do it with my bare hands,” he shouts belligerently.

“Pray killed Isabella,” Eileen says quickly in explanation as we back into the plane. The man who followed Bond takes one last look at his employer before turning back to get on the plane. He reaches out to close the door, only for a bullet to whizz through at the last minute and strike him in the shoulder.

The door is closed and we’re secure, so I give little thought to him, instead going over to where Dele is sitting with the plane medic holding some kind of monitor to her stomach and a stethoscope to her heart.

“What’s wrong?” I demand in time with Dele gripping the side of chair she’s in as a contraction wracks through her.

“Frankly,” says the medic, “the problem is she’s about to give birth on an airplane when someone with her conditions should be in a hospital.”

I’m about to ask exactly what he means by that because it sounds foreboding when Eileen shouts, “Adrian.”

“Not now Eileen.”

“Yes now. Our pilot has been shot.”

I turn to Eileen, who is kneeling next to the man that was shot while closing the door. He looks fine. For a man that’s been shot in the shoulder, but he definitely can’t fly the plane. Even with Eileen controlling the bleeding as she wraps his arm.

“He says if you take control he can guide you through it,” Eileen says.

It takes me a second longer than it should for me to comprehend what Eileen is saying.

“I can’t fly the fucking plane. You don’t have a co-pilot?” I snap.

“The only reason you didn’t get the license is that you didn’t pass the physical. But that’s irrelevant given the situation,” Eileen reminds.

“Think you can do it?” the pilot asks, wincing as Eileen tightens the wrapping on his arms.

“That’s probably irrelevant right now too,” I snap as I drag the man up from where he’s sitting and drag him to the cockpit with Eileen behind us.

“Where are you going?” Dele asks reaching to grab my hand.

“To fly the fucking plane,” I snap, snatching my hand out her reach and continuing to the cockpit.

A groan and then something that sounds like a scream comes out of Dele’s mouth, and I belatedly realize that was probably a harsh manner to talk to my pregnant fiancée while she’s in labor. But the situation is getting to me.

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