Page 3 of Arrogant Bastard

“Damn, you must have the worst luck in the world, huh?” The customs guy is standing next to the immigration guy. They’re both staring at me. Because what? They think I’m going to fuck up and confess that I hacked into their system to input the information that is allowing me to fly outside the aviation curfew? Right.

“I go where I’m needed. These things can’t be helped,” I reply insincerely.

He laughs, and we both shrug. He follows me across the carpeted reception area, and I slip him a couple of hundred-dollar bills although he’s getting paid triple time for the half an hour’s work it’ll take for my flight to be cleared for takeoff.

We part ways, each feeling marginally satisfied but a little screwed over and a little dirty. The money means less than nothing to me, and although very little would make me feel bad about faking an excuse to fly outside curfew hours tonight of all nights, I detest the extraneous lies I have to tell to achieve what I want.

Which is beyond laughable considering what my chosen profession is.

I hurry toward my plane, the grip of anticipation getting tighter with each step. Nelson, trim and tall and much younger looking than the sixty-three years he is, emerges from the plane first, followed by Will. The father-and-son piloting team have been in my employ for three years. Between them, they have forty years of aviation experience, which gives me one less thing to worry about in the grand, fucked-up landscape of my life.

“We’re ready to hit the skies as soon as you are,” Nelson says as he signs the requisite preflight papers and hands the clipboard back to the official. “I’ve been informed your doctor will be on standby at Teterboro,” he adds, tongue firmly in cheek.

“That’s excellent news, Nelson. I’m assuming my doctor is also capable of doubling as my driver?” I ask as I follow him up the steps into the plane.

“He’s willing to be whatever you need him to be, sir. He has a helicopter license if you want him to be your chopper pilot. He’s very versatile that way.”

“Remind me to add a little extra to your Christmas bonus this year, Nelson.”

“Don’t worry, sir, my reminder email will be right on time.”

I allow myself a little smile, but it’s soon eaten away by razor-sharp memories, acid guilt, and churning anticipation. I wave the flight attendant away as she arrives beside me with my usual preflight shot of Hine cognac.

She quietly retreats, and when I’m finally alone, I dare to glide my finger over the screen, across her cheek. One artificial touch and my insides go into free fall.

The shaking could be from the power of the engines thrusting me and my crew into the sky. Or it could be the cataclysmic chain reaction that has only ever come from her.

It’s a universally held belief that you can’t help who you fall in love with. There are a fuck-load of books expounding on that theory.

I call bullshit.

I could’ve walked away that day, got someone else to do what I went there to do. My superiors were already whining about the conflict of interest before I made that trip to Arkansas. I could’ve waited another three years to see the brother who hated my guts twice as much as I hated his.

I should’ve walked away when the crackle and flash and roar of flames warned me the fires of hell were consuming what remained of my pathetic soul.

I could’ve stopped myself from soiling her goodness. From falling ass over feet in love. But I carried on walking. And with each step I took, I knew we were doomed. Because with each step, I glimpsed her potential, absorbed her genius and her beauty and her flaws.

She was everything I’d been waiting for without even knowing it.

And somewhere between the sparkling pool and the shitty Tupperware strewn on the floral-clothed table where she stood cutting her birthday cake, I decided to just…take.

The only problem was that Faith Carson, the woman I eventually turned into the Widow, the woman who fucking conquered the world, wasn’t mine to take.

She belonged, legally, according to the laws of Arkansas anyway, to another man.

Did I change course? Retreat? Accept that the conflict of interest wasn’t professional but viscerally, irrefutably personal?

Fuck, no.

Chapter Two

Killian

The first step was easy.

I’m a spy. Albeit a reluctant one. I never asked for this role, but I eventually accepted it. Also…turns out I’m fucking great at it. Or I was. Until I met Faith. She made me think recruiting her was easy. I soon discovered the truth.

She was way better than I was.

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