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The pilot takes off without question the second the door is shut, and we’re on our way back home.
THIRTY
RONAN
Sydneyand I are antsy the entire way home.
We have five hours to clean up, and thankfully, there’s a case full of medical supplies sitting in the bathroom of the plane.
“Hold still,” I tell her, carefully pulling the shard of glass out of her hand. It went deep, and she definitely may have nerve damage. “Princess, you’re not sitting still.”
“I have glass in my fucking hand, and you’re yanking it out. Of course I’m not sitting still.”
I roll my eyes, attempting to be gentler.
Although I couldn’t find rubbing alcohol in the back, I did find vodka. Pouring it on a rag, I place it on her cuts, and she yells. It’s not a pleasant sound, and I hate doing something that hurts her.
But we need to clean the wounds.
I strip of my shirt and vest, thankful I really did decide to wear it, and tend to a gash on my lower stomach, pouring vodka over it before grabbing medical tape to try to hold the skin together until we get home. Zach is fantastic with stitches.
“Do you think it was just Jeffrey or all of them?” Sydney asks, and if I’m honest, I don’t know. It could be either.
I shrug, wincing in pain. “I’m not sure, but it was at least Jeffrey. And there’s a hit out on us.”
“What does that mean?” She sits in her seat, her legs curled up underneath her as she watches my every move like a hawk, ready to jump up at any moment and help me.
“I mean that the second we’re going to have problems.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“What are we going to do?”
“The only thing we can do is fight back.”
* * *
Right before we land in DC, I take Sydney to the back of the plane, opening our big storage compartment. The thing is totally filled to the brim with different kinds of weapons.
“If you want any chance of getting out of here, you’re going to have to use one of them,” I tell her. She looks through them all, asking me a couple of questions about them.
I can tell that she regrets not remembering much about her training with them, but that’s okay. I can always train her again. Make happier memories.
Grabbing a handgun that packs a punch, she tucks it into the front of her pants, giving me the thumbs up. I smile at her, but I can tell she can see right through it. I’m exhausted, still covered in spots of blood, and I just want to be home, safe and sound where we can sleep. I’ve been on plenty of hard missions, but this has been unrelenting.
We just have to try to get home alive.
If we can even go home. We can’t just lead people directly to the building.
I’m not sure what my plan is going to be. I don’t have a phone, and I don’t have a car to get there.
“Get ready when we get off, okay?”
She nods.
The plane lands, and I watch her cradle the gun closer to her chest, making sure she knows where everything she may need is on it.
