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)
My friend Fletcher waited there, leaning up against the front end of a car that looked nondescript. But it was sure to contain a beast of an engine beneath the hood, or “bonnet,” as the Englishman called it. I left the car running, flung my door open, and didn’t bother to greet him.
My feet crunched over gravel as I strode to the back door.
“Hey.” I spoke softly when I pulled it open. “Is your hand still bleeding?”
She had it wrapped in the scarf she’d been wearing around her neck. She sat up, her desire to get out of the car clear on her face. It had to be awkward getting out with only one hand, and she was trying not to disturb the body.
I grasped her arm to help—
“No.” Her words were ice as she climbed out. “I’ve got it.”
“I thought you said you had the pilot,” Fletcher commented.
The discussion of what was going to happen after landing never made it this far, so she didn’t know someone else was around. When she took in the Englishman’s broad shoulders and intimidating expression, she slipped behind me, letting me shield her. Her instincts were correct. To most, Fletcher was viewed as a threat, but not in this situation. He was there to help.
I felt shot to hell. “She’s the pilot.”
Fletcher pulled his shoulders back, and I could only imagine that was what I had looked like when I’d assumed she was the cabin attendant.
Actually, you thought she was little more than an in-flight hooker. I’d been so wrong about the woman she really was.
She’d been through hell, and still, she held herself together.
Her back straightened to her full height as she stood on the gravel road, glaring at Fletcher but saying nothing. She’d clearly missed her calling; she would have been an impressive operative.
“Oh,” Fletcher said. “Sorry.” The embarrassed expression drained away when his focus switched to me. “How many bodies?”
“Two from the crew, and Renzo Librizzi.”
“Librizzi’s dead?” Fletcher wasn’t easy to surprise, but this did it. “How?”
“Giovanni.”
“Bollocks. First Constantine and now Librizzi. Do we know who took out Constantine?”
“No.” I ignored Olivia’s stare. My head ached. “We’ve been up a long time and need someplace to crash.”
He gave me a set of keys and directions to the hotel room he’d procured.
“What’s going to happen to my crew?” she asked when I opened the passenger door of Fletcher’s car, gesturing for her to get in.
“They’ll be held somewhere safe.”
For the first time, she looked beaten as she watched the other man get into Gio’s car. She was rapidly reaching her breaking point, so I needed to get us going. I lobbed a thanks at Fletcher and moved to the driver’s seat of the car he’d arrived in.
Her lack of movement was . . . concerning.
I knew I shouldn’t speed because it might attract attention, but I did it anyway. The sunlight crept over the ridge in the distance, and now I could see the dried crust of blood on her black uniform. Her blood that I’d spilled.
“I’m sorry about your hand,” I said.
She turned away to look out the window. “It had to be done.”
There was a twinge of relief at her understanding. “I didn’t want—”
“What happens now?” she said flatly.
“You’ll get some sleep, and I can figure out what the next step is.”
The hotel had a side entrance, and I brought my suitcase up with us, ducking into the room and making sure it was clear. It was cramped. A full-sized bed with a dingy, lumpy comforter and lopsided curtains that made no effort to block daylight. It had an en-suite though, thank God.
“Okay,” I said, after I’d gotten her inside and locked the door behind us. “Let me take a look at that hand.”
“It’s fine.” The stiff words were a warning to keep my distance. Understandably, she wasn’t too happy with what I’d done.
“Are you hungry? I could go downstairs and get something if you want to take a shower.” She hadn’t mentioned that, but I’d assumed.
“No. I’m not hungry.”
Food was probably the last thing on her mind. She went into the bathroom, closed the door, and there was a tiny click as she locked the flimsy doorknob that would be even quicker to kick open than pick. Plus, she was aware I knew my way around a lock, wasn’t she?
Moments later, the shower was running.
I set my suitcase on top of the dresser and dug out a white t-shirt for her to wear until Fletcher arrived with new clothes. Until then, she’d have to wear my shirt. That image stirred something inside my chest that was scary. I was coming apart with exhaustion; that was what this had to be.
I folded the shirt and placed it by the door then sat on the bed. I leaned back against the headboard and closed my eyes to rest for a moment . . .