Cabal doesn’t look or answer; he’s answering his cell phone like we’re on a Sunday drive. How the hell he’s got reception is beyond me. I’m fast seeing how different his world is to mine and why law enforcement agencies around the world have a hard time catching people like him.
Eerily, we hit a patch, like the eye of the storm, where everything vacuums out, letting me hear the person on the other end of the phone.
“Ronin?” he asks, and then his whole being becomes still in a way that is at odds to his size and usually impossible-to-ignore presence. It’s an action that reminds me again of how dangerous and cunning he can be.
I misjudged him once, and that mistake nearly cost me my life.
Cabal’s eyes stay staring ahead, but he knows I’m watching and listening; it’s hard not to. The plane is small.
Tension starts to leak off him. He’s been in a mood since we left, but with the spike in his smoky, amber fragrance, and the new intensity to his presence, those alarm bells in my head are going off.
Without warning, he flicks his harness off and twists out of the pilot seat, and I flinch, thinking he’s coming at me. But at the last second, he’s out of the cockpit and squatting in the back of the plane.
“Are you fucking serious?” I shout.
The bastard doesn’t hear a word. He’s completely absorbed in his conversation, like something is more important than keeping the fucking plane in the air.
I’ve never flown private, let alone sat in a cockpit. The controls look alien, because they fucking are. Shit like learning to fly takes time, but he’s thrusting me into taking control. I undo my harness and move to take his seat, putting my hands where his were. Trying to become him.
If I survive this, I’m quitting undercover. It’s too easy for me to slide into mimic mode without properly knowing what the fuck I’m doing. On the ground, sure I could pretend I was nearly anyone to get the job done, but up here, it’s a bit more complex.
Across the sky, something ripples as the storm intensifies, driven by something no one can see. Stupid shit like barometric pressure, wind velocity, and cooling indexes make sense on paper, which is entirely the same as the driving force I can’t currently see, but it’s no less instrumental for me being here. Quinn.
My memory keeps feeding me more resolve to do whatever it takes when I hear some of the last words she ever said to me—Who I marry is of no concern to you.
Just like that, I stop second-guessing and start to see what’s in front of me—a bank of dials. Some are so technically intricate, I skip right over them, while others make logical sense. Using the arrow that’s tilting as much as we are as a guide, I push and pull a fraction on what is clearly the steering wheel. I’m sure there’s a technical name for what I use, but right this second, I can’t find it in me to give one shit if I’m not being correct in my aviation terminology.
Whatever I’m doing makes a difference, and with the needle as my guide, I work on making the dial straight as a ruler. Seriously, not being able to fly a plane isn’t going to stop me from saving Quinn.
There’s literally nothing I wouldn’t do to reach her, including chumming up and being “pleasant” to Santiago Cabal.
A big gust of wind shakes me off course, and the whole aircraft lists violently to the side, and no matter what I try, I can’t get the needle to sit right. We fly on an angle, and I know enough to understand it’s not great.
Cabal reappears, dropping his phone into my lap, talking as he sits in my seat. “Ronin, I’ll have to call you back.”
A volley of explicit Irish swearing draws me back to when he left me trying to fly a goddamn plane so he could have a chat with a friend. Now that Cabal is grabbing the controls andputting us back on course, the name Ronin and the heavy Irish brogue fit together like a jigsaw.
Ronin O’Connor.
Heavily involved, like deep, in the Irish Mafia. He and his pack are poised to take over from his father, Paddy O’Connor, the man currently running the Irish. Big time criminals who tend to blow shit up, or burn it down, often with those who have done them wrong inside.
Exactly like the asswipe sitting next to me again, O’Connor sits high on any international criminal watch list, with the last of the fresh-blood leaders of the Mafia being Valentine De Luca. To be involved in the takedown on any or all of them would be a move sure to shoot my career with Interpol into the stratosphere.
Cabal grabs his phone, flicks it off speaker, and balances it in the crook of his head and shoulder while taking control of the aircraft. “I get how pissed you are, but I’m not sure why you are yelling at me.”
Cabal is quiet as Ronin speaks again. He doesn’t sound happy, but Cabal doesn’t look happy either. He clenches his jaw and takes deep, measured exhales.
There’s a pause in the conversation, and Cabal jumps to fill it. “Send me the name of who it was, Ronin. I’ll try my hand at catching the prick while I’m visiting.”
Another explosive response. This time, Cabal doesn’t wait for Ronin to stop talking; he just starts talking over him. “I told you I was heading to Russia. And for the love of our alliance, you better think carefully about the next words you use. Honestly, where in our conversation have you heard me saying anything about being friendly with the Russians? And don’t try to deny or twist your words now. As sure as shit, seconds ago, you accused me of being one of their allies and lying to you,estupido. I’ll be sure to let Valentine know what you said, too, so he canprepare himself for your asinine self, since you’re supposedly questioning all our intentions." There’s a pulse of silence that stretches, and it doesn’t sound like Ronin is saying much anymore.
Cabal drops his head, as if he’s weighed down. “Ronin, go be with your loved ones. I’m sorry your wife is missing. I’m sorry Paddy and Jeanie have been hurt. You know I’m here for you, no matter how difficult you make it sometimes.”
His swift but seemingly genuine shift of emotions is hard to ignore and makes me wonder who the better actor is.
“Swap seats,” Cabal says without looking at me.
We barely manage to buckle back into our respective seats when the storm surges. We dip and dive through turbulence so bad, I nearly have to vomit into a bag.
