Page 207 of Mine Again
I want him dead. No more games.
I pivot into planning mode. I need to get to my jet in Gibraltar. It will be hours before I find out where Hale is taking Isa. Until then, I’ll follow her current route.
I return to the cellar and copy the dossier onto three differentstorage devices. A drive for my pocket. A backup shard, encrypted and sealed, sewn into the lining of my jacket. And one final copy loaded onto a remote transmission chip, rigged to fire off should I disappear.
Next, I set the dead man’s switch.
Seventy-two hours without a manual check-in and the files go wide. Interpol, select journalists, and two former enemies who will open anything signed with my signature out of sheer morbid curiosity.
When I’m done, I close the laptop and lean back in the chair. The room is quiet except for the hum of the generators and the hammering of my pulse.
I refresh the tracker again, forcing myself not to do it too often in case Hale has a way of sniffing out the outgoing signals.
The red dot is well over the Atlantic now, steady, moving.
I picture Isa slumped in a seat, head lolling, still drugged. Do they have her strapped in? Is she cold? Did they touch her? Every answer is a torment I can’t prove, and still my mind won’t stop supplying them.
My stomach pitches, bile clawing up my throat. My hands twitch for something to destroy, but all I have is air and the gnawing ache of not being beside her.
Where are you taking my girl,bastardo?
The States. Chicago makes the most sense. His main residence there is a fortress. But it could be New York, DC, or someplace remote. He’s got properties everywhere, and I’ve seen enough to know any of them could be it.
Wherever Isa lands, I’ll be there. And when I find Hale, I won’t just kill him. I’ll make him wish he’d never touched her.
The last thing I remember of Isa is her smile, the softness of her lips when I kissed her before I went down the ladder. That moment should have carried us through the night.
Now it has to last me until I have her back. And for that alone, I’ll delete Hale’s name out of existence.
Hold on,farfalla, I’m coming.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Luca
Iland my jet on Maximo Marcos’s private strip outside Chicago. The runway lights cut a narrow path through the darkness, flaring against the black sheen of asphalt. I keep my head angled low as the wheels shriek and the cabin tilts forward.
I don’t have the luxury of anonymity anymore. Interpol has circulated a mock-up of my face, and every minute in public increases my odds of being recognized. Chicago is risk layered on risk, but Isa’s tracker stopped here. I had no choice.
It’s bold of Hale to bring her to his main residence, though it is the most fortified of his properties. Fort Knox has nothing on it.
I knew about the estate long before tonight. When I discovered Hale was the Jackal, I traced everything tied to his name.
The house was impossible to miss. It sits on the outskirts of Chicago, a sprawl of wealth and stone, large and ostentatious. It isn’t a home; it’s a monument to his ego, a warning to anyone who might think to challenge him.
The place has been featured in every architectural and high-end magazine worth mentioning, always with Hale center stage, smiling that sickly charming smile.
He loves to pose on the marble steps with his arms spread wide, the picture of a benevolent tycoon showing the world his kingdom. The interviews are nauseating. He talks about legacy, about vision, about building a home that embodies power and possibility.
The reality is simpler. It’s a shrine to himself.
The coverage lists every detail. Imported limestone, gilded balconies, a glass dome crowning the central hall. Gold-leaf ceilings patterned after Versailles. Hand-carved doors brought in from Morocco. Artisans flown in from half a dozen countries so he could brag about them later. Even the gardens are designed to impress, modeled after Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna.
And Hale makes sure it’s all photographed. Helicopter shots of the sprawling acres, drone sweeps of fountains and reflecting pools, the private helipad glinting in the sun. Footage he no doubt approved himself, edited to make him look untouchable.
Arrogance layered on arrogance.
But Isa isn’t in a magazine spread. She’s locked inside that palace of smoke and mirrors.
