33. Showdown

The impact when Winter rammed himself into Tems knocked the breath from him. Both crashed to the ground. The jet's engines roared nearby.

Winter glanced up to where the plane approached them. From the open jetway, he could see Dameon crouched at the entrance, a rope ladder in his hand. He tossed it down. The ladder unfurled, its bottom snapping to a stop right above the ground.

He kicked Tems's gun out of his hands. The weapon spun across the tarmac as Winter shot to his feet and began sprinting toward Sydney.

"Go!" he shouted.

She gauged their distance once before turning toward the jet and running for the rope ladder. He glanced over his shoulder to see Tems run for them, too.

Sydney reached the rope ladder and grabbed it. Winter followed close behind her. One of his hands grabbed the ladder, while the other hung back, as if he were having trouble getting a good grip.

Behind him came Tems. Winter glanced up to see Sydney nearly at the top. As Tems lunged toward him, Winter suddenly grabbed the ladder with both hands and jumped up a few rungs. The spotlights from the airport dotted his vision.

He had almost reached the top of the ladder when he suddenly felt a hand yank his ankle down. It was Tems, clawing for him. Winter kicked out with his boot and forced himself up. One arm swung up into the jet.

Then Dameon and Sydney were hauling him up—the jet was increasing in speed—and with a mighty pull, they stumbled inside the cabin.

Winter felt the edge of something metal and sharp against his neck. He stilled as he heard Tems's voice against his ear.

"I'd be careful, if I were you," Tems snapped.

Winter slowly got to his feet as the blade pressed harder. He wanted to swallow, but his throat felt like it was filled with fire. His eyes darted to Dameon, who watched him with a sickened expression—and then to Sydney, whose gaze never left Tems.

"Sit down, Dameon," she said in a steady voice without looking at him.

Dameon did as she said, settling into one of the cabin's seats. The plane sped up more until the roar of its engines filled the air around them. When Winter glanced out the windows, he could see the world speeding by.

Sydney stood in the aisle, each hand gripping the back of a seat. "What do you want us to do, Tems?" she said.

Winter felt the agent's grip tighten around his neck, the blade pressing hard enough now to draw blood. Tems shifted toward the open door of the plane, yanking it closed. The roar from outside turned muted, the engine noise muffled.

"Your cuff," Tems said to Winter.

"What?" he said hoarsely.

"Unlock it. Now."

In a flash, he remembered the explosives on the cuffs of his suit, remembered Niall demonstrating how to remove them.

Tems tightened his grip on the blade. "Nice and slow," he murmured in Winter's ear. "No sudden movements."

Winter gritted his teeth and reached down to the cuff, tapped its edge three times, turned it sideways.

The device came off with a click.

"Activate it," Tems said.

Winter hesitated. Tems pushed the blade harder against his neck. From his seat, Dameon flinched, as if wanting to rush at him.

"Now," Tems snarled.

"Winter," Sydney murmured, giving him a pointed, searing look. "Do it."

Winter tapped the cuff. His fingerprint activated the device, and the sockets of the cuff's skull flashed red in an ominous rhythm.

"Now send a message to Panacea," Tems said to Sydney. "Tell them the pilot is having trouble. Tell Sauda the plane won't climb."

Then, in Winter's periphery, he saw the agent pull something out of his pocket and hold it up.

With a sickening feeling, Winter understood.

Tems wanted them to be on the plane. He wanted the plane to crash, would use the explosive to disable the jet. If it did, it would make for the perfect excuse to Panacea about what had happened. They had tried to escape the country with Tems in tow; the plane had run into trouble during takeoff on the runway and exploded; the plane had crashed, taking the lives of Winter and Sydney and Dameon—while Tems, most likely, followed an escape plan.

The plane's speed stayed steady, as if the pilot were afraid to take off and too afraid to stop. He must be able to see everything that was happening in here.

Winter closed his eyes for a moment. Somehow, one of his past performances came back to him now—a stunt where he was tied up in midair, dangling arched over the stage as the audience gasped. He had twisted out of a silk rope that had been looped loosely around his neck, had pulled off a stunt that made him look like he defied all laws of gravity.

What is a mission but a performance?Sauda had once said to him.

All of his concentration now homed in on the blade pressed against his neck.

The show must go on,he thought.

Then he threw his head back as hard as he could.

The back of his head collided with Tems's nose. He felt the agent flinch, giving him a slight inch as the blade loosened against his neck. The blinking cufflink dropped from his hands, rolling away and disappearing underneath a row of seats.

Almost instantly, Tems had the knife pressed against his skin again—but Winter was already twisting in his grasp, sliding out like water between rocks.

As he did, he saw Sydney move.

Tems grabbed his arm in a viselike grip and twisted it back. Pain lanced through his muscles—Winter bent with the movement. A lesson from Sydney shot through his head, when she had used his own weight against him and thrown him to the floor.

Tems tightened his hold and pulled up, aiming to break his bone. Winter felt the pressure against his arm. Now, he told himself.

When Tems yanked up, he flipped with the motion—channeling all of his momentum in the direction of Tems's movement. The sudden shift in weight threw the agent off balance. Both of them fell backward.

Winter hopped to his feet. But then Tems was on him again. Winter felt a weight hit him hard in the back. He fell forward, collapsing against the floor. The plane veered slightly to one side, as if turning in its run down the curving tarmac, and he felt his body roll with the movement. When he flipped over, he saw Tems standing over him, his eyes flashing with rage, his arm raised, blade in hand.

"Not much of a fighter, are you?" he hissed with a grim smile.

Then he brought the blade down on Winter's chest.

A hand stopped the knife before it could hit him. It was Sydney.

"Oh, but I am," she snarled.