All eyes snapped to me.
“He’s a greedy, smart bastard. Not a mass-murdering psycho who will take down a hotel with innocent women and children inside it. It’s just—”
The timer hit zero.
I braced for impact in case I was wrong, as if that’d do any good to fight a blast and fiery inferno.
Nothing.
Just silence.
No explosion. No fireball or death.
“—a distraction,” I finished, exhaling the truth with every breath I had left.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Audrey
The wind from the helicopter’s blades hadn’t even settled before I was yanked out of the harness by two men in black tactical gear. Faces hidden, movements unforgiving. Either they hadn’t received Hollis’s brother’s mass text—or they had and picked the wrong side.
My bare feet hit the concrete. I stumbled forward, barely catching myself as they dragged me ahead. My dress clung to my legs, sticky with sweat and dust from the airlift.
We were maybe fifteen minutes from the hotel, somewhere remote.
One truth kept me going, kept me strong: The teams would get to me in time.
“Keep walking,” one guy at my left snapped.
My wrists were bound, but only loosely. Enough for some movement. They guided me toward a row of eight armed men standing like statues in front of a large garage-like building. More men were more than likely on the perimeter or hiding in the woods.
From the shadows, the mastermind himself stepped into the light. Rhett. Lit from behind, his features were unmistakable.
“Where’s Mitch?” I called out, playing the part I’d been rehearsing since yesterday. This moment was inevitable, ever since we’d learned the truth behind the lie.
The explosives had been a twist, though. But this part? Expected.
The guy off to my right handed Rhett the ring he’d taken from me. It had burned my palm like iron before he pried it away.
Rhett ignored my question and studied the ring under a flashlight. “Mitch is dead,” he muttered, then looked up. Calm and composed. Like he hadn’t threatened to blow up a hotel.
A hand clamped down on the back of my neck, forcing me closer. Close enough to smell Rhett’s breath. Close enough to want to puke.
The smug curl of Rhett’s mouth said it all: He thought he was two steps ahead of the universe.
I wanted to do more than spit in his face. I wanted to end him. For endangering my son. For trying to send Trevor off to die in Afghanistan. For impersonating a dead man. Forcing Alex into a position to have to face his ex. And so on.
“Time to unlock the vault and end all of this,” he said a little anticlimactically. “I’m sure you’re just as anxious.”
The building’s huge doors groaned open. Floodlights bathed the aircraft inside in a sterile, surgical glow. Not a commercial-size one like Hollis’s. Not nearly as big as the Costas’ jet, either.
This was a matte-gray death sentence with no visible tail number. Probably no transponder, either.
The concrete under my feet wasn’t a path; it was a taxiway lined with faint-blue lights and a retractable barricade. The hangar sat directly off a private strip, probably owned by some unsuspecting millionaire.
Standing near the jet was Cipheria—also known in real life as Lisa. Gwen had identified her this morning. From what we could tell, she was also Rhett’s girlfriend.
Rhett pocketed the ring. Bruises still lingered on his face from when Alejandro had dragged him into the lodge on Sunday.
