❝It's not blood that runs through my veins, but vengeance.❞
Tatum Braddock wants to beat her sister at a decades-long search for fortune.
Nathan Drake wants to find his long-lost brother and complete the mission they've dreamed of since childhood...
FOR SOMEONE WHO LOVES to travel, it's a shame that Tate loathes airplanes.
The fact that they're flying on a private jet doesn't make her feel any better. First, she's overly conscious of the environmental impact of their flight. She would rather be crammed elbow-to-elbow with a random person in economy than choose to fly privately if it was up to her. Second, the spacious jet draws more attention to her miserable expression as she clutches her stomach and fights off each wave of nausea that attacks her.
"First flight?" Sully asks from his spot across the aisle from her.
"No," Tate replies, glaring at him for commenting on her displeased appearance. "I just hate planes."
The jet is small. Usually, international flights allow for larger aircrafts, giving Tate more room to breathe. Or there would be a screen for her to watch movies on and distract herself. There's nothing of the sort here. She's forced to spend the seven-and-a-half-hour flight with her own thoughts.
It's almost as bad as the flight to Florence where Ronan had been on one side of her, and on her left had been an older, neckbearded man with some of the worst B.O she has ever had the misfortune of encountering.
Despite her preoccupation with trying not to hurl, anxious thoughts about her sister begin to invade her thoughts. Tate has spent the past day trying to convince herself that being face-to-face with Jo after so long hadn't bothered her, but it's quickly becoming futile. The encounter had ripped open old wounds that she thought she'd sewn shut long ago.
Maybe the worst part is that Tate doesn't understand why she is still hurt by everything Jo has done to her. It had been easy to convince herself the only thing she felt about her sister was animosity when she was keeping tabs on her from afar, but now that she's tailing her so closely... maybe Tate hadn't been making as much progress as she thought.
Her hand drifts to the spot on her abdomen where the bullet had embedded itself in her flesh. Sometimes it feels like it's still there, ripping through her organs and making her hands slippery with blood as she tries to apply pressure to the gushing wound. Now is one of those times. She shifts to ease the phantom pain, trying to stretch out her torso.
There are six seats on the plane that face each other in pairs. Tate is alone for hours, leaning her head back with her eyes closed so she doesn't have to look at the plane, until Nathan plops into the chair opposite hers.
