SUSAN TIPPETT BRAITHWAITE

Blood roared in Amy’s ears. Her view ahead obscured by her hair hanging limply toward the roof. Metal creaked and groaned. Please, don’t let it roll again.

“This is what I get for agreeing to a female pilot,” croaked the man beside her.

Amy snapped her head to the dickhead. “We were shot out of the fucking sky.” She narrowed her eyes. “Friends of yours?”

Kelvin, the dickhead, tilted his head and smiled at her. Actually smiled at her like he was being charming. “Who says they were after me? A woman like you must have enemies.”

Amy lurched for the son-of-a-bitch and instantly regretted it when the harness compressed her ribs. White-hot pain shot across her chest.

“Let’s agree to disagree on who did what.” Kelvin braced a hand down on the ceiling while he used the other to disengage the harness. He landed in an inelegant heap with a thud.

Amy laughed, really laughed, for the first time in…months.

Kelvin righted himself before scrambling for the lockbox he’d been cradling the whole flight. Seemingly happy with its condition, he stuffed it into a backpack and crawled to the exit.

Amy wrestled with the harness lock, but it wouldn’t budge. She was going to die, upside-down because her client was a selfish arsehole.

“Brace yourself,” Kelvin said as he forced the lock.

She didn’t care why he’d come back. But as they made their way outside, she knew why.

Snow. Mountains. No engines. Well, none that were attached.