Page 105 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“Change of plan,” he says, turning his attention back to the assassins. “You’re to take a Cessna from here. It’s already fueled up and waiting down the tarmac. No need to go in the terminal, just head straight over to gate forty-two. It’s a two-minute walk south.”
Two minutes. A lot can happen in two minutes. In two minutes, a person can die of a heart attack, achieve an orgasm, post a Facebook status update, fall in love.
In two minutes, a person could find a way to escape from her captors.
But no. I have to see this through, because Reynard’s life is in the balance and maybe, maybe there’s a way for me to escape or make a new plan after I know Reynard is alive and safe. Until then, I’m stuck.
We exit the plane. The morning is cool and bright, the salt air bracing against my heated cheeks. There are a few airport workers within sight, a luggage handler unloading bags onto a conveyor belt, a guy with neon signaling sticks and headphones steering a twin-engine jet into a nearby gate, a woman driving by in a pushback tug. The urge to scream to all of them for help is almost overwhelming.
I choke it back with thoughts of how Reynard sounded on the phone, that bloodcurdling shriek he made when Capo did whatever horrible thing he did to cause it.
Waiting for us at the Cessna is another man in a black suit. They seem to be in endless supply. He motions for us to come quickly, but as soon as we’re at the steps that lead up into the plane, he stops us and produces a long, black plastic wand from behind his back.
A metal detector.
With brisk efficiency, he swipes it over my head and neck, my chest and arms, my stomach and back, then stops abruptly at my waist when the wand emits a frazzled squawk.
He yanks up my hoodie and stares at my belt.
Then he glares at my three companions. “You fucking idiots.”
“What?” says the leader, offended. “We searched her!”
“Not good enough.” New guy rips off my belt and throws it on the tarmac.
I stare at it in disbelief. Another GPS?
I decide that if I ever see him again, Ryan and I are going to have a nice, long talk about this “trust” thing he keeps harping on about.
The man proceeds to slowly wand down both my legs, then around my feet, where the wand squawks again. Muttering curses, he straightens and glares at me. “Take the boots off.”
I do as I’m told and shuck them off. He kicks them aside, then begins another careful full body wanding until he’s satisfied I’m clean.
Thank God the wand doesn’t penetrate flesh, because I don’t want to imagine what horrible thing would happen to me if my bare midriff gave off an alert.
I’m roughly loaded onto the plane. There are only enough seats for me, the three assassins, the pilot—who’s already seated—and the new guy. After a short wait on the runway and clearance from the tower, we take off once more, banking hard into the glare of the morning sky.
God, if you’re up there, now would be a good time to prove it.
* * *
The small plane lands on a tiny island, deserted except for the concrete strip of runway and the black helicopter waiting at one end. No one has spoken for the duration of the flight, so I have no idea where we are or where we’re going, but if the next leg of the journey involves a helicopter, it must be close.
The pilot coasts to a stop at the end of the runway but keeps the engine running, the props spinning.
“Out,” the lead assassin commands, opening the small door.
He barely moves aside to let me pass, so I’m forced to press against him. He grins down at me, leering, and I quickly jerk away and hop down to the cracked runway.
It’s obvious he’s not worried about me escaping at this point, which makes sense. Unless I had a mind to drown myself, I’ve got nowhere to go. There’s nothing on this island except sand, scrub brush, and seabirds wheeling overhead, their lonely cries like the wails of lost children.
The assassins follow me out of the plane, one by one. They lead me over to the helicopter as the Cessna turns around. The plane takes off again as I’m climbing into the chopper. I watch it go, getting smaller and smaller until it’s just a glinting speck against the sky.
Blue as a dragonfly’s wings, that sky. Blue as my lover’s eyes.
The chopper starts up with a mechanical roar and a burst of wind, the blades rotating until they’re a silver blur above us. When we lift off, I’m praying again, only this time with all my might.
* * *
