Tom shrugged, tucking his gun at the back of his waist.
The jet turned, gathering speed to roll down the runway, bushes flashing by outside. Josie let out a shriek and jumped at Tom. He pivoted, shoving her up into the air and over two rows of seats. She slammed between the seats and down to the ground with a dull thud.
Fury roared through Shane’s body with a heat to match the fire they’d just left. He growled and shot forward to tackle Tom. His shoulders were too wide for the aisle and slammed against chair armrests as the men went down. The bastard shot an elbow into Shane’s face. Blood sprayed, but Shane held on to Tom.
The hit to Shane’s face destroyed all other pain. He slid into a soldier’s state, the place they’d forced him into so many years ago. Pain flowed away. Conscience disappeared. All emotion, all thought… dissipated. Pure instinct took over. He pressed up, levering his forearm against Tom’s throat.
The plane tilted, ascending into the dark night. Tom took advantage of the shift, clapping his hands against Shane’s ears. Levering his knee up, he shoved into Shane’s bleeding belly. Another rib cracked.
Shane sucked in air, loosening his hold. While he could keep pain at bay, his body still reacted to the damage. Tom grappled for position and then tossed Shane over his head.
Rolling, Shane gasped for air, grabbing the nearest armrest to struggle to his feet. The wind whistled outside the still-open hatch. Behind Tom. Out of his peripheral vision, Shane watched his wife yank herself into the seat. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she hissed. A dark bruise had already begun to form under her right eye. For that alone, Tom would die.
Gears screeched as the wheels were tucked into the plane. Shane settled his stance while the plane ascended at full tilt, swerving side to side as the pilot struggled for control with the hatch open. Air rushed by outside, sucking out papers from the counter near the doorway. Chilly night air filtered through the small cabin.
Tom yanked his gun out. Shane lurched forward, slamming Tom’s gun hand against the wall and hooking his arm through Tom’s. Shane took a step, twisted his arm, and yanked back, sweeping Tom’s knee at the same time. The crack of Tom’s arm breaking preceded the thunderous thud of the men hitting the floor, Shane on Tom’s back. Tom bellowed in pain.
The plane pitched to the side.
Josie yelped, smacking into the window before grabbing the headrest in front of her with white-knuckled hands.
Tom gave a furious roar, kicking Shane in the back and dislodging him. Both men scrambled to their feet. Shane wiped blood out of his eye, forcing the pain down deeper. It was becoming more persistent.
The plane leveled off, the open hatch a hole of doom. A guarantee someone would plunge through it before the flight ended.
Tom clutched his broken arm, anger etched into the lines of his face.
Shane smiled. The guy lacked Matt’s special brand of training to let such emotion show. Good. “Ready to die?”
The cockpit door opened behind Tom, and the pilot stepped out, nine-millimeter pointed at Shane. “Shut the hatch.”
Josie gasped. “Who’s flying the plane?” The wind whistled an ominous trumpet outside the gaping entry.
The pilot smiled crooked yellowed teeth. A weird light glowed from his eyes, his pupils completely dilated. Was the guy on drugs? “Autopilot.” He raised his arm, pointed at Shane, and fired.
Shane jumped in front of Josie, forcing her to the floor. The bullet tore into the wooden paneling at the rear of the aircraft. Dun-colored metal caught his eye. In one fluid movement, he grabbed Tom’s dropped gun, slid into the aisle on his knees, and fired at the pilot.
Tom dodged to the side.
The bullet whammed between the pilot’s eyes. Gray matter splatted against the cockpit door. Blood cascaded across the front row of seats. The pilot dropped to the ground, his gun clanking on the floor.
Tom reached for the weapon, but Shane leaped forward, his foot pressing down on Tom’s hand. Hard. “Not nice, Tommy.” If Shane left Tom alive, the man would just keep coming after them, along with the commander. Time to end this—for good.
Tom scooted until his back rested against the far wall, blood dripping down his face, the broken arm dangling uselessly to the side. Fury lit his brown eyes. Hatred curled his lip.
Memories. Flashes of light ripped through Shane’s head like sharp knives. Pain coursed until he was sure his ears bled. He couldn’t block it. Like a million paparazzi cameras flashing at once, the sight and sounds grew deafening.
Jory.
His brother, shot in the chest, falling to the floor. Eyes open.