Page 104 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
In the sink, caught next to the drain stopper, is a round metal object the size of a dime. I instantly recognize it, because I’ve seen this thing before. I pick it up and stare at it until my hand shakes with the hot rush of adrenaline flooding my veins.
GPS.
My mind is a sudden blizzard of flying goose feathers. I have to stuff my fist in my mouth to stifle my groan.
What do I do? If Ryan follows me, Capo will kill him. And me. And Reynard.
Which he’ll probably do anyway, my brain unhelpfully reminds me.
I stand holding the tiny tracker until there’s a knock on the door and a sharp question in Italian.
“Give me a minute!” I snap. Then I’m overcome with terror at the thought of what will happen if Capo or his men discover this device.
I look frantically around the small lavatory for a hiding place, but the knock is coming on the door again, louder this time, and I decide there’s really only one thing to do.
I swallow the tracker in one gulp.
I yank the hoodie back over my head, take a breath, smooth my hands down my stomach to calm myself, then open the door and stare up into the glowering face of one of the black-suited triplets. His hand rests menacingly on the butt of his sidearm.
“Had to go number two,” I say, and push past him to go back to my seat.
The assassin takes a long, narrow-eyed look around the bathroom, then closes the door and moves silently past me toward the back of the plane. I stare out the window and watch a rugged coastline rise up to greet us. In a few minutes, we’ve landed at a small airport and are taxiing off the runway and toward a gate.
A cell phone rings behind me. It’s answered with a curt “Ya.” There’s a short silence, then a deferential “Si, Capo. Certo.”
Then one of the assassins is lifting me to my feet with a hand wrapped around my upper arm.
“Ouch! You’re hurting me!” I try to yank away, but his grip is steel. He gives me a quick, hard shake that makes my teeth clatter.
He tells me in Italian how he’d love to hurt me in other ways, to which I furiously respond, “Capo will kill you if I come to him with even a bruise!”
It’s a long shot, but it hits the mark. The assassin’s nostrils flare and his lips thin, but his grip loosens so it’s no longer cutting off circulation.
“Be nice,” I add bitingly, “or I’ll tell him some pretty lies about what you did to me in the bathroom.”
He smiles, a dark, lazy smile that makes
my skin crawl. “Who do you think gets his leftovers, bitch?” he says in succinct English. He drags me closer as I try to pull away. “The three of us share them,” he says hotly into my ear. “You’re a little old, but you’ll do.”
He grabs my other arm and pushes me in front of him down the aisle. I stumble but quickly regain my balance, throw him a poisonous look over my shoulder, then stand with my arms folded protectively over my chest in the galley near the cockpit door.
All three men in black come to stand in a row in front of me and stare at me with identical small, knowing smiles.
It’s so creepy, I have to look away, even though it makes me feel like a coward.
“First dibs,” one of them says to the others.
Their smiles grow wider when they see my expression. Then I grow so angry, I want to spit.
“Well, I hope you like AIDS,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster, “because I’ve been HIV-positive for eight years, and it’s recently taken a turn for the worse.” I motion to my mouth. “I get these sores. Painful, pus-filled things, and skin rashes like you wouldn’t believe, and right now I’ve got a really nasty yeast infection—”
“We’re allowed to subdue you if you fight,” interrupts the one I think is their leader. “What do you think, Sal? Is she fighting?”
My blood runs cold, but Sal merely shakes his head. “She’s just scared.”
“Ya,” says the leader, softly. “Scared.” He adjusts a thickening bulge in his crotch, and I want to throw up.
Mercifully, I’m saved from any further discourse with the sicko squad when the cockpit door opens. The pilot emerges, tall and slim with hair the color of cast iron, and a nose that’s been broken more than once. He looks sharply at the four of us. His gaze lingers the longest on me.
