The Things We Leave Unfinished by Yarros, Rebecca (best free e reader .TXT) 📗

that picture right there. Besides, there wasn’t anyone he wanted to dance with besides his Scarlett, and there would be plenty of time for dancing once this war was over.

“We’re making good time,” Howard said over the radio, using their designated squadron channel.

“Don’t count your chickens,” Jameson replied, looking to the right where Howard flew as blue lead about two hundred yards off. The only thing he liked about the astern formation was flying lead alongside Howard. Today, he was red.

But he was right, they were making good time. At this rate, he wouldn’t make it home before dinner, but he might make it in time to put William to bed.

Then, he’d take his wife to bed. He was going to make every single second they had together count.

“Blue lead, this is blue four, over,” a voice came over the radio.

“This is blue lead, go ahead,” Howard called back.

The thing Jameson hated about the astern formation was it left their newest pilots, those with the least combat experience, in the back.

“I think I saw something above us.” The shaky voice broke toward the end. That had to be the new kid, the one who had just come in last week.

“You think? Or you know?” Howard asked.

Jameson looked up through the glass of the cockpit, but the only things he saw on the cloud layer above them were their own shadows from the dying sun.

“I think—”

“Red lead, this is red three, over,” Boston said across the radio.

“This is red lead, go ahead,” Jameson answered, still scanning the sky above them.

“I saw something, too.”

The hairs on the back of Jameson’s neck stood at attention.

“Above at two o’clock!” Boston shouted.

He’d barely gotten the words out when a formation of German fighters broke through the cloud cover, firing down upon them.

“Split the flights!” Jameson shouted to the radio. In his peripheral vision, he saw Howard bank hard right, and Cooper, who was flying white lead to the left, banked the same.

Jameson pulled on the stick, climbing sharply, leading his men to higher ground. In a dogfight, he who had the elevation had the upper hand. Clear of the blue flight, Jameson turned to face the enemy, locked the first fighter in his ring sight, and let the world fall away.

He fired at the same time the German did, and the glass just behind him shattered as they nearly skimmed each other in a flyby.

“I’m hit!” Jameson shouted, checking his gauges. Wind whipped through the cockpit, but she held steady. Oil pressure was fine. Altitude, stable. Fuel level, stable.

“Stanton!” Howard’s voice broke.

“I think I’m okay,” Jameson responded. The fight was below them now, and he banked hard left, heading back into the fray.

The dive brought a new rush of air through the cockpit, ripping Scarlett’s picture from the rim of the gauge. It was gone before Jameson could even try to catch it.

The radio was a cacophony of calls as the German fighters headed for the bombers. His goggles protected his eyes, but he felt a warm trickle down the left side of his face and lifted his gloved hand quickly.

It came away red.

“It’s not bad,” he said to himself. It must’ve been the glass. He’d be dead if he’d taken a direct shot.

Punching through the cloud cover, he kept his finger on the trigger and sped toward the nearest fighter, who happened to have a Spitfire in his sights.

Adrenaline flooded his system, honing his senses, as he dove faster.

The German’s first shot missed.

Jameson didn’t.

The German fighter fell from the sky in a plume of black smoke, disappearing into the thick fog of the clouds beneath them.

“Got one!” Jameson shouted, but his victory was short-lived as another fighter—no, two other fighters—came up behind him.

He pulled back on the stick hard, climbing as he banked right, narrowly missing what he considered to be a standing appointment with death as shots whizzed by.

“That was a close one, baby,” he said quietly, as if Scarlett could hear him across the North Sea. Dying wasn’t an option, and he had no intention of doing so today.

“I’ve got one on my tail!” The new kid shouted across the radio as he passed directly under Jameson, the German fighter hot on his heels.

“I’m coming,” Jameson responded.

He felt the shot as though someone had hit the bottom of his seat with a sledgehammer, before he even saw the other fighter.

The aircraft still responded, but the fuel gauge began a steady decline that could mean only one thing.

“This is red lead,” he said as calmly as he could manage across the radio. “I’ve been hit, and I’m losing fuel.”

He’d landed without an engine before. It wasn’t pretty, but he could do it again. The only question was if they were still above land or the sea. Land would be better. Land, he could handle.

Sure, he might get taken as a POW, but he’d grown up in the mountains and his evasion skills were top-notch.

“Red lead, where are you?” Howard called over the radio.

The fuel gauge hit empty, and the engine sputtered, dying.

The world went horrifyingly quiet as Jameson fell from the fight into the clouds below, the sound of rushing wind replacing the roar of his engine.

Calm. Stay calm, he told himself as his beautiful Spitfire transformed into a glider. Down, down, down. He could only steer now—just along for the ride.

“Blue lead, I’m in the clouds.” His stomach bottomed out as his visibility turned to shit. “Going down.”

“Jameson!” Howard shouted.

Jameson glanced at the blank space where the picture had been. Scarlett. The love of his life. His reason for existence. For Scarlett, he would survive, no matter what lay beneath the clouds. He’d make it through for them—Scarlett and William.

He braced.

“Howard, tell Scarlett I love her.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Noah

Scarlett, my Scarlett,

Marry me. Please have mercy on me and be my wife. Days here are long, but the nights are longer. That’s when I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s odd to be surrounded by Americans now, to hear familiar phrases and accents when all