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Once Elayne Kasprak was out of the plane at Samara and standing on the ground, she dumped any thought of an aerobatics lesson.
All that mattered now was that b***h Holly Harper.
The tower parked them well away from the Progress building and there were no ground vehicles nearby.
She broke into a run. If someone came to arrest her, she’d commandeer their vehicle. But the Antonov was still on the ground and her Fendi calf-high boots were surprisingly good for running. They might have cost nine hundred euro, but she’d had to have them from the moment she’d spotted them at the Berlin airport last month.
She could sprint the American mile in under five minutes wearing track shoes.
She made it the kilometer to the plane in four, looking awesome.
The last fuel truck was pulling away. Clo
