Ryan waves to him, a smirk stretching across his face.
“And I’m sure you’ve heard of the Retribution Killer, right? After all, they were killing off Daddy’s friends and employees, correct?”
Trey sputters out a laugh. “That was you?” he asks timidly.
“Oh, no,” Trey assures him. “That wasn’t me. That was my wife. Would you like to meet her?”
Andrea wisely says nothing, so I continue. “How about The Duke? Strategist, assassin, torturer … she’s sitting just through there, along with several of her men. And last but not least—the Bannermans. Elite assassins. Oh, sorry, Trey. And then there’s Trey Williams here, also known as The Unseen, and Eric Bannerman, two of the top hackers in the world.” I can see his face going ashen as I go on. Reality is setting in, and he finally realizes the predicament he’s in.
I can’t help twisting the screw. “So, Andrea, just what did you do to piss my father off? Hmm? Because if he knew about my plan, and he was able to find out about this flight and get you on it when it was a last-minute change of plans—well, that means he must know just who is on this plane. And he would know that sending you would be a death sentence. But you’re right, I don’t want to kill you.”
“I knew you couldn’t,” he rushes out, relief in his voice.
“Well, I’m a forgiving person, Andrea. So here’s the deal. I’ll give you one chance to earn your way off this plane. If you answer my question, I’ll tie you up below and you can go back to Vincenzo, alive and well. If you refuse, then you’ll be dead within the next minute. Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
“Who is the mole?”
Andrea’s fists clench, a drop of sweat trailing down his cheek. He blows out a breath, then replies, “I only know his first name. Carl.”
“Thank you, Andrea,” I coo, then tighten the garotte. Andrea’s eyes bug out, feet kicking against the floor, hands slamming against the armrests. It’s over quickly, the wire severing his carotid artery, his blood mixing with that of the pilot and co-pilot.
Ryan is watching me with his mouth hanging open. Tilting my head to the side, I ask, “So, Ryan. Do you happen to know how to fly a plane?”
Chapter 8
Dutch
SeeingthelookonRyan’s face is everything. The admiration quickly leaves his eyes as he regards me. “That was maybe a question you should have asked before you killed Andrea,” he replies.
Stepping around the cooling body, I trail my hand up Ryan’s chest. He catches it with a growl, holding it away from him. Pulling away, I smirk up at him. It annoys me that all the men tower over me, but I’m pretty sure my snark makes up for my height. And I’m five-foot-seven, fuck you very much; I’m notthatshort.
“How did you get in here, anyway?” he asks, glancing around the room.
“Floor panel,” I say, pointing to the hatch beside the pilot’s chair. “The hatch goes into the hold, with a connecting one at the back of the plane.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he glares down at me. “You should have stayed in your seat, Dutch. I had it handled. There was no need to put yourself in danger.”
Clenching my teeth, I give him my bestoh-no-you-didn’t-just-say-thatglare. “I can handle myself, Ryan,” I growl back. “I’m not some wilting flower that needs a big strong man to take care of me. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Fuck you. No, seriously, Ryan. Fuck. You. And do you honestly think I’d kill Andrea if no one else could fly the plane? The Duke has her license.” Turning my back to him, I open the hatch and drop my ass to the floor. Ryan stares at me as if I’ve just slapped his momma. Refusing to backtrack, I add, “Don’t underestimate me, Ryan. Ever.” And with that, I drop down into the hold, kicking bags aside as I look for mine.
Coming up the hatch at the back of the plane with toiletries and a fresh set of clothes, I ignore everyone as I stomp into the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind me, stopping myself from slamming it at the last second.
I have to admire my control sometimes. Snickering at that, I crack my neck, then strip off the blood-stained clothes, stuffing them into the wastepaper basket. The best thing about a private jet? The bathroom comes with a shower included. No more arriving at your destination a sweaty mess.
The hot water beats down on me as I stand under it, letting it carry away my anger along with the blood. I probably shouldn’t have snapped at Ryan like that; he was just worried about me, even if it did come across just a tiny bit patronizing. Thing is though? I’m not used to having people do that. I know my uncle cares deeply about me—I’m all he has left of my mother, after all—but he mostly lets me do my own thing. He checks in just about every week but isn’t overpowering or nosy.
But now? People care. Over the past few months, first Susannah, then Tessa and The Duke. Even Rebecca and I have spent some time together when Trey lets her out of his sight. It makes me feel itchy.
The day Uncle Harris took me out of that cage, like I had predicted, I was a different person. Angry. Easily provoked. Not willing to put up with shit from anyone. I know I’m prickly and annoying and have a problem with authority. The FBI pretty much beat that last part out of me, metaphorically speaking, but it’s still there, just tempered. It’s hard for me to trust, and I don’t often let anyone over the Mount Everest-sized wall that surrounds my heart.
So to suddenly have people that care, that pledge themselves to help me? It gives me a funny feeling. Maybe it’s gas.
I shampoo and condition my hair, turning my thoughts to my father.He must have been nearby, I think as I wash the suds from my hair. To have managed to get Andrea on this plane, he had to have overheard us talking outside the warehouse. Fuck! He was so close—I could have ended him. He must be desperate to get a hold of me, and that makes me wonder why. Is it just revenge he wants? For leaving with Uncle Harris that day? For joining the FBI and trying to take him down? For the warehouse?
