The smell of aviation gas hit Elise’s nose the moment the big truck rumbled past them. Men in coveralls unloaded the truck and wheeled drums of fuel into place near another plane.
They waited as the King Air’s props wound down. Blake guided her quickly across the tarmac, while Rook was a silent shadow at her side. The aircraft’s door lowered like a drawbridge, and a crewman waved them in.
Blake handed them her suitcase and his. Rook didn’t have any bags and climbed the stairs into the plane. She followed Rook, and Blake was up next. The small plane had hard seats,and the interior never got warm. Her feet were freezing by the time they’d climbed to their flight altitude. When she shivered, Blake pulled her closer to him, wrapping his arms around her. Dropping her head to his shoulder, she sighed. Even with the cold seeping in, she felt a peace and comfort from his strong presence. The flight south took less than an hour. Out the window, Elise saw only patches of farmland broken by the occasional scatter of villages. The King Air dropped smoothly onto the long concrete runway of Batajnica Air Base, which was a far cry from the sleepy aerodrome they’d left.
The air here smelled of cold metal and kerosene. Sodium floodlights surrounded the tarmac, capable of transforming night into daylight. Elise glimpsed hulking silhouettes of fighter jets parked in distant rows. Their King Air taxied to a shadowed corner where a gray hangar gaped open. Inside, a much larger aircraft waited with its engines silent but its fuselage gleaming under the sunlight.
Once they’d stopped, Blake hustled her down the King Air’s steps. A man in a black flight suit pressed papers into his hand and jerked his chin toward the waiting plane. Soldiers in uniform stood at a distance, uninterested, more focused on their cigarettes than the transfer taking place under their noses. Still, Elise felt the hairs on her arms rise at the quiet efficiency of it all.
“What kind of plane is this?” she asked as she was hurried up the steps.
“This is a Gulfstream G550.” Rook answered, and Blake chuckled.
“Finally got one right.”
“Asshole.” Rook snorted.
“Always,” Blake smiled and agreed. She noticed that the fuselage bore no markings, nothing to tie it to any company or country. A fuel truck idled nearby, hoses trailing, the smell of jet fuel thick in the air.
Inside, the cabin was composed of muted leather and dark wood, a stark contrast to the Spartan exterior of the hangar. Elise sank into a wide seat, but her heart still pounded from the gauntlet of the last hours. Blake settled across from her, his expression unreadable but his presence steady, grounding. Rook dropped into a seat near the galley, already buckling in with practiced ease.
Engines spun to life, a low vibration that grew into a roar. The Gulfstream rolled forward, tires bumping from concrete to runway, and then, with a powerful surge, they were airborne. Serbia fell away beneath them, swallowed by darkness. Ahead stretched only the sky and the long, unbroken promise of the Atlantic.
When Rook pulled out his phone and started thumbing through it, Elise glanced at Blake. “Can we use our phones?”
He nodded. “You can. Here, I’ll hook you into the wireless.” He extended his hand, and she pulled her phone out of her bag.
She watched him key in the code to access the internet. “I want to see if my article was published.” She leaned forward. “Does that make me vain?”
“No, that makes you proud of your work.” He smiled at her and closed his eyes. She stared at him for a long moment. He had to be exhausted; she knew she was, but she was so hyped on adrenaline right now that sleep was the furthest thing from her mind.
She connected to the internet and typed in the address of the paper where she’d submitted the article. She’d thought it would be the lead, but it wasn’t. The lead was an article about Zajac, who’d beenmurdered. The authorities in Hungary believed the murder was the work of an assassin. Someone had slipped into his private residence and killed two of his guards before killing Zajac.
Her article followed the headline, and the comments below her article were brutal. Several suggested Zajac had been killed by someone he’d crossed. She read more, switched to a different news source, and continued reading. Her article was picked up by Reuters. She read another interview from the Hungarian Chief of Law Enforcement, who reminded everyone she was wanted for murder. The fake video was linked to the article.
She clicked the link, but instead of the video, a page appeared stating that the video had been identified as a deepfake and removed. She drew a deep breath and continued to read, going to the Hungarian papers. That was where she found information gold. Or perhaps it wasn’t gold. It gave a timeline. She read the information and looked up at Blake. He was staring at her.
“What did you do last night?” she asked.
“You know what I did. You’ve deduced what I do for a living.” It was a statement. There was no anger, no emotion attached to the statement.
She put her phone on her lap and stared out the window, looking at the clouds that they were flying above. He didn’t ask her any questions. He didn’t push her, nor did he ask her not to reveal who he was or what he’d done. She was a reporter. Information like this was something she would have rushed to file. But that was before. Before being framed for a crime she didn’t commit. Before being rescued by a gruff man who wasn’t supposed to be her protector. He was in the country to kill Zajac, yet he saved her from the same fate as her mentor. He wasn’t an assassin, no he was … justice. Zajac was vile and evil and profited from other people’s suffering. Suffering he’d created, catered, served up, and suffering that had made him so rich that he could play the part of a patron. He wasn’t. He was a demon.
She glanced over at Blake, who cocked his head and asked, “What are you going to do?”
“Étienne once told me not every story needs or should be told. Sometimes the best thing a reporter can do is look away.” She knew in her heart that was what she needed to do. No, that was what shewasdoing.
Blake leaned forward and put his hand over hers. The warmth of his touch made her realize how cold she was, and she turned her hand over and clasped fingers with him. “I’m not asking you to look away. I wouldn’t do that.”
She stared at him, seeing the absolute truth in his eyes. “I know. That’s the reasonI canlook away. I know who is in the right in this situation. I’ve seen the entire story, and I know that even with the evidence I provided in my story, he probably would’ve been able to buy himself out of the charges.”
“He’s done it numerous times,” Blake agreed.
“I saw that information in the Guardian brief. Whoever gave me the information wanted me to see that he was almost untouchable. I knew submitting the article was keeping the target on my back, and I was willing to live with that because it was what I could do to stop him.”
“I did what I could to stop him.” Blake stared at her.
She nodded. “And you did. Iknowthe truth, Blake. But nothing I can say will add anything to the story that has already been told or the result that has happened.” She cleared her throat. “Is that your job?”
