Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
14
OLIVIA
I squinted against the vanishing sunlight reflecting off the fuel truck that was finishing its pump. In a few minutes, it would be done, and I’d have to get back on board to start checks for the final leg of the trip. It was nice to be up on my feet and outside, so I rounded the plane, habitually checking the landing gear and flaps for any signs of distress, even though the plane was sound.
My body felt like it had been stretched just past the point of comfort. I’d slept with a murderer. No, maybe not a murderer. Ethan hadn’t offered any details about what happened between him and Constantine, but he’d confessed he was a killer. It wasn’t new information, as I’d already witnessed that firsthand with the poacher.
And still, I wanted him.
It would be dark soon, and it was quiet except for the fuel truck driver unhooking the nozzle on the other side of the plane. The dusky Senegal air around me shifted, and I wasn’t alone anymore. The shadow on the pavement was impossibly long, signaling it could be no one else.
“Everything all right?” I asked, not bothering to turn. I wasn’t sure which version of him I was going to get.
“It’s fine.” The shadow reached into its pocket and then lingered, forcing me to look at him. Ethan’s brown eyes were vacant as he held out a slip of paper. It was a receipt with the name Shawn and a phone number scribbled on the back. I didn’t recognize the dialing code.
“What’s this?”
“Do you speak German?” he asked. I shook my head as I took the slip. “Doesn’t really matter. He speaks English. He can help you find a seat in a cockpit.”
My heart squeezed at the gesture. “Thank you. Does this Shawn have a last name?”
An odd look flashed across his face and disappeared. “Yeah. It’s Dunn.”
Shawn Dunn. Why did that name sound familiar?
Before I could ask, he turned and left me standing there. I jammed the paper into the pocket of my uniform slacks and straightened the scarf around my neck that always came loose. The fuel truck sputtered away, and when Rory finished the last of the paperwork exchange and the official zipped away on a cart, I gave a nod to my co-pilot that we should prepare for departure.
Angry Italian words punctuated the thick, muggy air. Renzo and Gio were arguing at the base of the jet stairs, and Renzo’s face was an ugly shade of red.
Ethan stood back a few feet, watching the exchange, but when he abruptly straightened to his full height and clenched his fists, it sent a chill through me. Like the quiet moment right before Gio had reached for the rifle in the Land Cruiser, Ethan’s body language projected that something was wrong.
The pitch and volume rose between the arguing men as Gio got in Renzo’s face, but the balding Italian refused to back down.
“No, sta ‘zitto,” Ethan said, holding up a hand to encourage them to calm down.
It was wasted effort.
The moment Renzo had pushed too far was made clear when a small, silver handgun appeared in Gio’s outstretched hand. He must have had it on him, but it seemingly came from nowhere.
The crack of this gunshot was so different from Ethan’s, or the rifle. Not as focused and less of an echo, but still a jarring retort, making me flinch. Renzo’s knees gave out and he crumpled to the sunbaked pavement, dead before his bloody head slammed into it.
I couldn’t comprehend what had just happened, but my body understood. Icy waves flooded across my skin and made me shake uncontrollably. I couldn’t breathe. All I could do was stare at the rapidly spreading puddle of blood Renzo was lying in.
Gio’s head tilted to the side, studying what he’d just done, as if surprised by the outcome. Then his gaze lolled toward Ethan, and the gun at his bodyguard’s side that was out, ready.
Oh, shit. Oh, fuck, my brain babbled over and over again.
The gunshot must have drawn Stuart’s attention. The young cabin attendant appeared at the mouth of the plane and unleashed a horrified scream when he discovered the body at the foot of the stairs. He clung to the railing as he stumbled down the steps and hurried toward the heap that had once been Renzo. “Is he all right?”
“Stop,” Ethan ordered. His voice was so sharp, so scary, the young man jerked to a halt.
Someone coughed and retched beside me. Rory. He’d sunk to his knees and proceeded to throw up on the pavement. I’d almost had the same reaction the first time I’d seen someone die, but my stomach then, like the rest of me now, had been too paralyzed to move.
What was Vitale going to do when he discovered his son had killed his right-hand man?