Page 22 of Blackwood

“Plans.” I grin, tapping the steering wheel. “I’ve got plans. This one. The one behind it. And two more stacked under that.”

She sighs. “Of course you do. Nerd.”

We hit a stretch of road with no lights. Just trees and dark. She pulls her knees to her chest. “You were never gonna leave me behind.”

I shake my head. “Never.”

She leans her head against the glass. “Good. ’Cause I was already making a list of people’s throats to slit.”

“That’s… sweet and deeply concerning, Bells.”

“Learned from the best,” she salutes.

“Psycho.”

“Takes one to raise one.”

Chapter 10

ZEKE – Age 18

Fort Meyers, Florida

The tires crunch across gravel as the airstrip creeps into view. No signs. No lights, except a few hazy ones lining the runway. Just cracked asphalt, a rusted-ass hangar, and a shiny black jet sitting there like a loaded gun nobody’s claiming.

I reach over and nudge Bella’s shoulder. “Yo, sis. We’re here.”

She stirs, hugging Mr. Piggles like he’s luxury bedding, then blinks at the jet. “You stole a plane?”

I roll my neck, everything in me aching. “Didn’t steal it. Paid for it.”

“With what?” she snaps. “A punch and a dream?”

I shoot her a look. “No, smart-ass. I used their money. Drained it from creeps who deserved worse. Hacked the accounts and rerouted the funds. Long story.”

Her eyebrows go up, but she stays quiet.

“Basically, I’m a vigilante philanthropist. You’re welcome.”

“Yeah, if Robin Hood had a god complex and unresolved rage issues.”

I shrug. “He probably did. Fucker wore tights and robbed rich people. I’m just better dressed.”

“Debatable,” she mutters.

I toss her a look. “Keep runnin’ that mouth and you’re walking to New York.”

“Wait, why the fuck are we going to New York?”

“Watch your mouth, Bells.”

She crosses her arms. “Seriously. You pull me out of hell, bleed all over everything, magically conjure a damn jet, and now we’re just moving across the country like this is some family road trip?”

“Glad to see you’re catching on.”

The wind cuts sharp as we walk toward the jet. The smell of jet fuel in the air mixes with the weird, metallic taste of freedom. At the bottom of the stairs, three silhouettes wait.

One of them steps forward. Polished black shoes click on the tarmac. Gray suit, shoulder holster, hazel eyes like scanners. Every breath controlled. He walks like a guy who gives orders, not suggestions.