Free One Kick by Chelsea Cain

didn’t have the address of the house in the satellite photo. If he left without her, she realized, she’d have nothing.
    Technically, you’re not supposed to exit a helicopter until the blades stop rotating. But if the chopper is on level ground, the main rotor blades are going to be above your head. Kick knew this, and she also knew that most people who got chopped up by helicopters trudged right into the tail rotor. She took hold of her hair, hunched under the main rotor blades, and cleared the tail rotor by fifty feet, her black boots slapping against the wet runway.
    Bishop was halfway up the stairs to one of the larger private planes. Emblazoned on the fuselage, glistening in the wet slick of rain, Kick noticed a logo, a black W in a circle. It probably stood for “Weasel.” A flight attendant was waiting at the top of the stairs with a huge black umbrella. Kick knew she was a flight attendant because she was dressed like some sort of caricature of a flight attendant, like Flight Attendant Barbie. Kick called Bishop’s name but he didn’t turn. Kick considered shooting him to get his attention but decided it would take too long to draw her weapon. Bishop disappeared through the plane door just as Kick reached the bottom of the stairs. Flight Attendant Barbie was at the door folding the umbrella. Kick stomped up the steps. Flight Attendant Barbie looked up, seemingly flummoxed by Kick’s arrival, or maybe by the complex mechanism of the umbrella. Her sky-blue uniform was spotted with raindrops. Her white blouse showed a lot of freckled cleavage. She was wearing nude pantyhose and stilettos that could take out someone’s eye.
    “Excuse me,” Kick said, shoving past her, out of the rain and into the cabin.
    The interior of the plane was all light wood and creamy leather. It smelled like an expensive car, like it had just been Armor All’d. No industrial blue carpeting. No foldout trays. No fighting for spacein an overhead bin. Six enormous cushioned seats sat on either side of the plane.
    Kick stood motionless, dripping onto the carpet.
    “Take a seat anywhere,” Bishop said. He had settled into one of the chairs at the back of the plane and had his nose in his smartphone again. He didn’t look up. She wasn’t sure how he even knew she’d come on board.
    Flight Attendant Barbie had managed to fold the umbrella and had wriggled around Kick through the door. She pulled the door closed behind her and locked it.
    Kick tightened her grip on her backpack strap and considered her seating options. Then she plunked down in a chair a few chairs back from Bishop. She put the worry book on her lap and the damp backpack at her feet. The chair swiveled. She pushed off the floor and spun around. Flight Attendant Barbie dropped a towel in Kick’s lap, then moved on to Bishop.
    “Would you like a drink, sir?” Flight Attendant Barbie asked him. Kick watched her, fascinated. Her face was somehow both pretty and indistinct, and she had the curves of one of those girls from the mud flaps of eighteen-wheelers.
    “No, thanks,” Bishop said. He looked back at Kick and smiled. It was a reptilian smile, thin-lipped and hard to read. “But I’d love a bag of ice,” he said.
    “Certainly, sir,” said Flight Attendant Barbie, and she appeared authentically delighted at the task. She wiggled past Kick on her way to the galley, eyes fixed with purpose. She didn’t ask Kick if she wanted a drink.
    Kick’s phone buzzed in her lap, startling her. It was a text from James. YOU STILL OKAY? it read. When she’d dropped Monster off she had agreed to text James every two hours. YES , Kick typed back.
    Then she crossed Vomiting off the list.
    Flight Attendant Barbie tottered back with the ice. Kick turnedoff her phone for the flight. When she looked back up, Flight Attendant Barbie was hovering over Bishop with ice in a ziplock bag and towel. Her blouse was tight. She’d lost the jacket somewhere between the main cabin and the