by Jasmin Quinn
Too dark, but she could make out shapes, she was facing the wrong way, to the rear of the plane. She had to be careful not to spear herself with twisted metal. Her hand reached out cautiously in the dark, felt around the floor before she climbed gingerly to her knees. Steadied herself, waited for the small wave of dizziness to pass. Her head was heavy but not swimming, no nausea, not yet. A cut that trickled not gushed, shallow. And a brief moment of vanity hoping it wouldn’t scar.
She twisted around and fumbled her way forward, to where she thought Rusya would be. Where he was last, across from her, his anger. Touching each item, cold metal, cold fingers. She needed her gloves. Carefully inching forward, a mess of cushions, and supplies, boxes, seats. The force of the crash caused it all to fall apart, gravity winning, down on the floor.
She felt his fingers first, the tips of hers swiping up against his. She breathed, worked her way to his hand, then his arm, to his shoulder. No movement, no response, unconscious at least, maybe dead, but as she inched forward, she heard his shallow breaths, felt his warmth on her fingers. But blood too, trickling down his face, but only a trickle, like hers. Her fingers found his neck. His pulse was strong and she teared up, grateful that he was okay, at least alive. She checked him in the dark, her fingers through his hair, down his neck, his arms, torso, legs. Cuts, bruises. Maybe broken bones. She wouldn’t know until she had a light source, until he woke up.
She brought her hands back to his stomach, found the buckle of his seat belt, undid it and tried not to jar him as he dropped a few inches. It was all she could do for the moment. Then she crawled to the cockpit. The door had been forced open by the crash and the pilot was belted to his seat. Evan, she remembered as the strong metallic scent of blood invaded her nostrils. Her hands roved over him, the wetness on his legs, sticky, gushing. An artery probably nicked. It was a bad sign. He was going to die from blood loss if she couldn’t find something to tie it off. She grasped at her neck, no scarf, groped around in the dark. Then crawled back through the cabin. The tangle of debris. Rusya’s belt. She fumbled for it, unbuckled it and pulled it from the loops, her hands shaking now with cold, with adrenaline. And Rusya’s fingers on her wrist, circling, trying to hold her in place, but she pulled away, her heart skittering at his unexpected touch in the dark.
His voice creaked when he spoke. “What are you doing?”
“The pilot. He’s bleeding bad.” As she crawled back to Evan, her dream state was giving way to cold reality. They were down, in a blizzard, in north-east Russia. Not far from Jackman’s compound. She shuddered at the implication. Jackman would find them. Nika Petrova, his Disappearist, would track them down, point the way. Know it was Rusya’s plane. Jackman would have the prize. He’d have Rusya and he’d kill them all.
In the cockpit, she ripped the pilot’s pants further apart and felt with her fingers. The thigh was split open, a deep gash to the bone, but whatever had done it was not embedded. Esma felt queasy, almost vomited at the gaping wound under her fingers, the little bubble of blood that wouldn’t stop. She wrapped Rusya’s belt around the thigh as high as she could and pulled tight, using both her hands. They were slippery with blood and her left arm protested the pressure. She was sure it was fractured but it didn’t fucking matter. She gritted her teeth and worked through the pain until the belt was cinched tight. If Evan survived, he would lose the leg, she was sure of it. Her hands were wet, sticky and she rubbed them down the front of her jacket, her jeans. She heard the shakiness of her breath as she crawled back to Rusya, hoping he wouldn’t snap her neck.
“Anything broken?” she asked as she neared him, feeling for him, finding him, hands on his legs to his thighs. He was sitting up now, back against the hull of the plane.
“No. Shoulder dislocated. How’s Evan?” His voice, full of pain.
“I don’t know. He’s still unconscious.”
Their exchange was hushed like they were at a funeral. She stared at the man in front of her, tried to see him through the inky blackness, heard his soft breaths. The man her heart kept saying it loved. “We can’t stay here. Jackman will find us.”
Rusya reached out, groped in the dark, found her fingers and wrapped his around them. Held them for a moment before moving his hand up her arm, feeling her. His fingers slipped past her neck to her head, slowing as he felt her matted hair. Reaching around it, looking for the source of the blood. “Are you okay?”
She nodded in the dark. “It’s a small cut, not anything too bad. My left arm might be broken. I don’t know for sure.”
“He won’t send a search party out in the storm, not at night. We can sort through what we have here, get ready to walk.”
Rusya back in charge, but at least he wasn’t threatening her death. At least he said we.
“In the dark?”
“In the morning.”
She shook her head at him even if he couldn’t see her. “Evan can’t walk.”
Rusya was quiet, thinking. “Let’s try to clear an area, make some space and get him back here with us. There’s an emergency kit on board, near the rear. A duffle bag; it’ll have a working flashlight in it.” The wind howled at them through the hole in the hull bringing with it a blast of frigid air. “We need to plug that hole too, try to stay warm until the storm passes.”
Esma was already groping her way down the length of the plane. Hands feeling for the duffle bag, shoving debris to the sides as she crawled. The seats had all come unbolted, all of them. She wondered at the miracle of their survival. It was Evan who saved them, who did his best to land on the snow. She didn’t want him to die.
She heard Rusya behind her. His voice in the darkness, pain-filled, “Fuck.”
She froze. “What’s wrong?”
“Come back and help me. I need to put my shoulder back in place.”
She crawled back to him. “Should I check on Evan first?”
“And do what?” he growled. “You’ve done what you can.”
He was right. Esma drew on her training. “You need to lie down, so I can pull the arm down.” She groped in the dark, tried to clear an area enough to fit Rusya’s body.
“Do it while I’m upright.”
Fucking man was being contrary. “No. I know what I’m doing, Rusya. Trust me.”
Stupid words that settled between them like an ice wall. He shifted away from the hull, towards Esma, reaching out with his left hand until he found her. She helped him lay down, enough room for his torso if he bent his knees. Her left arm was aching from the activity, from using it to wrench the belt tight around Evan’s leg. She needed to find the strength to do this and she needed both arms.
She moved his arm out from his body at a 45-degree angle and then knelt between him and the arm, facing toward him, straightening her left leg, and pushing her right foot against his chest for leverage. “It’ll help if you relax.”
She heard a dark pain-filled chuckle, but he said nothing.
Fuck, Esma thought as she wrapped both hands around his wrists. He was lucky she was in the shape she was in. Lucky she was strong, tenacious, determined. “Okay.” She’d done this before, but not in the dark, not in the cold and not when her fucking arm was fractured. She dug her foot into Rusya’s side and started pulling Rusya’s arm towards her firmly and steadily, maintaining the angle. Little by little, stretching the tendons, so that the top of the humerus could slip past the muscle and back into the joint.
They heard the pop, a grunt from Rusya and Esma let go, shoving her left arm against her chest and hugging it with her right arm. The pain was so intense she was gasping.
Rusya’s left hand touched her in the dark. “Thank you.”
“You need a sling,” she rasped.
“So do you.” But neither moved for a few long minutes.
Then Esma said, “I’ll try to find the emergency kit.”
“I’ll check on Evan. Move him back here if I can.”
Esma had already turned and was crawling away. She stopped, looked beh
ind her at nothing. “Don’t hurt your shoulder again. I don’t have a do-over in me.”
The hull of the plane was miraculously intact and Esma got bolder in her search when she didn’t encounter twisted metal or other sharp objects. She thought she finally found the emergency supplies in a corner, in a cabinet that had twisted in the landing. She struggled to pry the door open wide enough to pull the duffle bag through. She needed two good arms and she didn’t have them. Neither did Rusya. Fuck, fuck. “Fuck.”
Then Rusya’s voice, drained of life. “Evan’s gone.”
She dropped back from the cabinet, her ass on her feet, her chin to her chest and closed her eyes. They were burning. She was going to cry over a man who had done nothing to help her when Rusya hauled her on the plane, told him where to fly and why. But he’d died trying to save them. Or Rusya, or maybe himself. It didn’t matter. She wanted to be better. She wanted to believe she could have saved his life.
She heard Rusya approach her in the dark, stopping when he was behind her, his chest against her back. She shifted over, took his hand and guided it to the cabinet. “The bag’s inside but I can’t jar the door open wide enough to pull it through.”
She moved further from him, didn’t want him near her right now. They weren’t friends, they weren’t lovers. They were enemies and he was her would-be killer. Her heart ached as she thought this, but the spirit inside her was still burning, her will to live. She needed her anger now, her resentment. She couldn’t soften or she wouldn’t make it.
She heard the sound of a zipper, the groping for things and then light flooded the plane, flashing into her eyes and causing a flare of pain, but it was nothing compared to the relief she felt at being able to see. Rusya passed the flashlight to her, pointing it down the plane in the direction of the cockpit. “Hold it. We’ll dig the supplies out one by one until the bag is thin enough to pull through.”
Yep. That made a whole bunch of sense. “Good plan,” she muttered, taking items as he handed them to her and placing them on the floor. Everything they would need was there. To fix them up, keep them warm and alive, at least for the night. Tub candles, matches, tinder, an insulated all-weather blanket, first aid kit, some rations and water.
When the bag was empty enough, Rusya pried it through the opening. He turned and dropped down. In the light she saw the grey in his face, the shadows under his eyes. The blood. She wondered if that’s what he saw when he looked at her. “I need a minute,” he said as he closed his eyes and rested his head against the cabinet. Esma watched him, Rusya in a rare moment of weakness. But no one around to see except her and maybe she wouldn’t live to tell about it.
He opened his eyes to see her studying him. “The seat cushions will make a soft place for us to lie down, and we can light the candles. The blanket will help us retain our body heat so we don’t need to waste energy trying to close the hole in the hull.”
“What if fuel’s leaking?”
“We’d smell it.”
Esma nodded. “We should clean our cuts.”
“We can sort out the rest of it in the daylight. What we’ll need to take.” A match flared and he lit both of the tub candles, then she clicked off the LED flashlight. It was better with the candles. She wasn’t sure why, maybe because it felt less stark, less real.
Rusya made his way down to the other end of the hull, carrying one of the candles, started to pull cushions from seats, throwing them into what used to be the aisle. She followed suit from her end and then as he arranged them into a makeshift mattress, she pulled the all-weather blanket from its package. Other blankets, thin ones that passengers used to keep them warm while in flight, lay in a pile, dumped from an overhead bin. Still wrapped in plastic. She threw them to Rusya, who opened them, draped a couple over the cushions, then a few more, meant for a cover.
They worked silently, no words, the howl of the wind through the gap in the hull a reminder of their fragile mortality. Once the bed was in place, Rusya dropped the all-weather blanket on it. They would curl up under it for the night. It would keep them from freezing to death. Esma carried the first aid kit to the bed, setting it down, then kneeling on the cushions. The bed was like an island, the cold air circling, but better than being against the hull.
As she pulled bandages and antiseptic cloths out, she felt the sharp sting of tears in her eyes. Her head hurt, she was tired, she wanted to sleep until this nightmare was over. She watched as Rusya pushed the cockpit door shut, blocked the wind and cold that was seeping into the hull through the broken windshield. Blocked the sight of Evan.
“Is there anything in the cargo hold that’ll be useful?” she asked.
“Maybe winter gear, some supplies. We’ll check after the storm’s passed.”
He eyed her. “We should look at your arm. Is there a splint in the kit?”
Esma sorted through the first aid supplies. “Yeah, but no tape.” She looked around for something to keep the splint in place. “Your tie?”
Rusya shrugged out of his coat, his suit jacket. He had on his holster, his gun at his side and her gaze slid from it to his eyes.
He pulled at the knot on his tie. “I’m not going to shoot you.”
Esma nodded as he passed her the tie. She had to believe him. They needed to work together to survive. She wasn’t dead weight and he knew that. He knelt beside her on the cushions, and helped her off with her jacket, felt her arm through her sweater, his hands sliding along the length of it, squeezing gently until she grunted. The fracture was clearly in the forearm.
“Hold your arm steady.” He wrapped the tie around the splint, knotting it in place, then sat back, looked at his handiwork. “We still need a sling.”
He spied his scarf stuck under a service cart and reached for it, pulled it out.
Esma shook her head. “You need that for warmth.”
Rusya ignored her, wrapped the scarf around her arm and knotted it at the back of her neck, immobilizing her arm. They took turns wiping each other’s cuts with the antiseptic pads, a few small bandages over the worst of them. After, Rusya took her jacket, helped her into it, then zipped it up and pulled the hood up over her hair. He redressed himself, then sat next to her, uncapping a bottle of water, taking a drink, then handing it to her. She took a few sips, handed it back and he capped it.
He eased her down on the cushions, onto her right side, adjusted the bucket candles so they offered up a small bit of warmth in the cold night. Then he lay down beside her, tucking the blankets around them, wrapping the all-weather blanket up over their heads, and then tucked her into him, his chest to her back, his arm around her waist.
Chapter 35
Jackman didn’t particularly liked being roused in the middle of the night, but the banging at his apartment door was loud, insistent, and unrelenting. He rolled over, looked at his clock. It was well after midnight. He was instantly alert, grabbing a robe on his way to the door. When he opened it, he was shocked. Nika Petrova was on the other side, long hair in disarray, pouty lips in a perfect face, a short silky kimono wrapped around her small frame. For a moment, not the first time, he felt the lust for her. Her husband, the lucky fuck, got to wake up to that sight every morning.
She started talking, rapidly in Russian, about a plane crash, motioning with her hand for him to follow her, leading the way in quick, almost skipping steps. He belted his robe as he followed her to his office, two men in fatigues outside the door, one opening it for them as they reached it. As he stepped in, he took in the scene. Dean Copeland and Nika’s husband, Finn McQueen were at his desk, bent over a laptop, fast exchanges of words in English. Then stopping as they saw him. Straightening up. And Mack Welling there too, standing apart from the others, leaning his ass against the back of the couch, facing them, arms crossed. All operatives on his payroll.
“What the fuck’s going on?” It was almost 1am, a storm was raging outside, but none of those present took notice of its ferocity.
Dean grinned wickedly. “Savisin’s p
lane went down.”
Jackman stopped dead. “What?” His heart hammered in his chest.
“It’s true!” Nika slipped into English as she glided around him like a cat and over to the laptop, pushing her way in front of Finn.
Jackman stepped up and looked at the screen as she pointed to a red blinking dot. “Savisin’s plane went down here, 30.68 kilometres north from us. The plan filed by the pilot said that he, Esma Akkaya and the pilot, Evan Reardon were on board.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, making Jackman’s head spin as she brought up a map of the flight plan. “They were on their way here, Mr. Jackman, to our compound. At least that’s what I think. The final stop was Vancouver and the trajectory takes the plane overhead.” She flicked another picture up, a satellite image of the downed plane, enlarged it. “It looks to me like the pilot tried to land on the snow. The storm most likely brought it down.” She glanced up at her husband, a smile on her lips. “The hull is intact. They may still be alive.”
Jackman saw her giddiness, her wide smile. Rusya Savisin. Nika, sweet Nika, hated the mob moss. He’d kidnapped her, had her tortured. She was still carrying the physical and emotional scars of that nightmare. And now the fucker was suddenly within arm’s reach.
Finn put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her tight into him. He wanted Savisin too. And Copeland. All had been at the mercy of the sonofabitch at one time or another. Shared the little Disappearist’s thirst for vengeance. The best Christmas present ever if the prick was still alive for them to bring back here, to make him fucking suffer like he had made each one of them.
Nika looked at Jackman with expectation. “What will we do?”