Page 112 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
I feel nothing.
I feel nothing when I look at the mangled pulp that was Reynard. I’m aware I must be deeply in shock, that my body is responding to severe trauma by instinctively defending itself with psychological detachment, and that later I’ll probably develop PTSD, but right now, I don’t care.
When I look at the armed men standing frozen and gaping at the doors, I still don’t care. My utter lack of fear or feeling must show in my face, because they stare back at me in obvious trepidation.
Then one of them whispers, “Capo di tutti capi,” and slowly takes a knee.
He isn’t looking at Vincent or Reynard, lying there motionless.
He’s looking at me.
One by one, the other assassins sink to their knees.
Then they bow their heads, paying their respects to the new leader of the empire.
Thirty-Three
Ryan
“Which one is it?” I shout over the roar of the engines as I stare though the Cessna’s window at the ocean, fourteen thousand feet below me.
And the three fucking megayachts floating within a mile of each other off the coast of Vis.
This was as far as the GPS got us before the final working tracker blinked offline. One mile of ocean, not five feet.
Serves me right for only attaching four trackers to Mariana’s clothing.
When I get my woman back, she’s not going anywhere without a dozen.
“We can’t dial down tight enough on the satellite images to get the hull identifiers to see who owns them, but there’s a huge heat signature coming from the one farthest west,” Connor says in my ear. Our connection is shitty, and his voice is cutting in and out, but I can still hear him when he says, “There’s gotta be hundreds of people on that craft.”
Which would make sense if your business is trafficking bodies.
Imagining a ship full of scared little girls in addition to Mariana, I seethe with anger. I can’t wait to bury a bullet in this sick motherfucker’s skull.
“Copy that. Out.”
I hang up the sat phone before Connor can say anything else. At this point, there’s nothing else that can be said. Except maybe good luck.
Or sayonara.
I zip the phone into a pocket in my jacket, shove a pair of tactical goggles on my face, and give the thumbs-up to the skinny guy with the dreads from Skydive Italia. He was more than happy to take me up solo when I gave him five thousand cash, plus another few thousand for the chute and rig he won’t get back, but he isn’t too happy now, after watching me pull a shit ton of guns and ammo from my ruck and strap ’em all over my body.
He’ll get over it.
He yanks open the door and steps aside. Freezing wind slaps my face. The roar of the engines becomes deafening. At this altitude, I don’t need supplemental oxygen, but breathing’s still gonna be a bitch until I’m under canopy. I sit on the overhanging platform and scooch all the way to the edge, then arch my body and kick my feet back as I jump.
This shit is way more fun when you’re running out the back of a C-130 with your buddies.
Within seconds, I’m falling at terminal velocity. The force and roar of the wind is enormous, but the fall itself is peaceful. I lie on my belly in the void of the sky, the earth a huge blue crescent below, curving at the horizon, the sun a brilliant white gleam above. The sound of freefall is like an everlasting, crashing wave.
And all I can think is Mariana. Mariana. Mariana.
She’s a pulse in my blood. Knowing that I’m this close to her, that I’m almost there, is a kind of madness. I force myself to focus and count the seconds until my altimeter tells me it’s time to pull my chute.
Once I do, the noise level drops. The roar of the wind abates and there’s only a whistle through the lines of the canopy. Breathing is easier, and everything is peaceful.
And now I’m a sitting duck.
