Chapter Three
Roman’s POV
“I don’t need to tell you to do a smooth job, do I? The tiniest charity affair is a public event these days,” I told Stepan as we descended the stairs of my jet.
“Not at all, boss,” he assured. “The cars are set. We’ll be in and out in a blink.”
I nodded, my feet landing on Russian land as he motioned for the two mafia soldiers to follow him.
“People like her don’t wait until the very end to leave. We’ll extract her and be back in less than two hours,” he said as he turned back around to face me.
“People like her,” I repeated, raising an inquisitive brow.
“You said you don’t remember her, but you’re sure you’ve met her before?”
“I can’t place her face, yeah. I just know I must have met her a few times, maybe at galas. But glam girls like that tend to look the same. Bright colors, statement jewelry, glistening makeup,” I disclosed. “How is this relevant to your extraction?”
“We might just be spinning an interesting web,” he answered, the corner of his lips lifting as they often did whenever he dropped his usually witty remarks. His face was all serious again, mirroring mine, as he said, “We’ll leave now.”
Hands in my pockets, I didn’t move from my spot as he and the other two men got into the two black cars, which had slowed to a stop at the far end of the private runway.
“Sir?”
I turned to the right to see Drew gingerly approach me. He was a tall guy in his late twenties, with blonde hair peeking from the sides of his white cap.
Formerly the stand-in pilot until Ian died the previous year, Drew had worked with me since he graduated from aviation college. However, our long-standing work relationship didn’t make him any more relaxed in my presence. Especially when he had to approach me alone,
Drew was always like this. But, since he wasn’t one of the men or soldiers who handled guns, it didn’t bother me.
“Drew.”
“Mr. Stepan mentioned to me that we’re not staying long in Russia,” he expressed, his hand moving to scratch the back of his neck. “We just ended a flight within a 10-hour range, so we might need to refuel if we’re flying back anytime soon. I thought to ask when our return flight would be.”
“Didn’t Stepan tell you that?”
“No, sir. He didn’t specify.”
I wanted to ask whyhedidn’t ask him then, but I thought better of it, knowing it was most likely because his jelly brain couldn’t conjure the idea of asking Stepan a question. He was probably fidgeting and counting down to when he could leave while Stepan talked to him, just like he was doing now.
“We leave in an hour or two.”
“We'll have to refuel, sir. I’ll get them to bring the fuel here. We'll be ready to go in an hour.”
“Why didn’t you fuel the jet adequately? What if I changed my mind and decided to go to Moscow or another distant city? Would we have been stuck?” I asked, bringing my hands out of my pocket before adding, “Or did you reach the fuel maximum capacity?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, emphasizing his response with a nod. “I always fill it to maximum capacity, regardless of destination.”
“Hm. Then, how come we never had a reason to refuel for all these years of coming to Russia? Did the jet suddenly grow a smaller fuel storage?”
It was in my pilot’s job description to handle everything concerning the jet—from fueling it to every type of maintenance. So they had contacts of fuel suppliers in every city I ever traveled to, and I never had to interfere. But I definitely would have known when the jet was being refueled on a journey.
“I always refueled, sir,” he claimed. “Just that it’s always after you’ve alighted and before you get back to the runway.”
“I’ve been on trips where I only spent minutes before flying back,” I pointed out, frowning slightly at the new knowledge.
“Even then, sir.” He was certainly pleased with himself to the point of sporting a small smile.
I wasn’t displeased, either.
