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Zeke gives me one final, sad smile before deplaning. His phone rings as he does, and I hear that it’s Jericho.
“I’m on my way,” he says, and I watch him rush to the SUV through a small window. He doesn’t wait until we take off but speeds off and I wonder what Jericho said to him.
“We’ll be on our way in a few minutes. Just settle in and relax,” the Captain says over the intercom. “We’ll be flying to Boston to pick up the fuel we’ll need then we’ll head to Amsterdam. Should be landing by mid-morning.”
For some reason I panic about not having a passport. I have no idea why. They’d send me back, I’m sure. I shake my head, not sure why I even think about that.
I take my phone out, my hands sweaty as I watch intently out the window. Girard isn’t going to make it. They’re closing the doors and the engines have started. The captain announces we’re cleared for take-off and instructs the flight attendant to take her seat and I scroll to my calls and hit redial, my heart racing because we can’t take off. We can’t. But the call just goes to voice mail.
The plane starts moving and we slowly make our way toward the runway.
Shit.
I disconnect and dial again. Again, voicemail.
The plane turns and I lose sight of the main gate. I’ve just about given up hope when, just as we get to the start of the runway, I see a huge, black SUV speed past my window toward the front of the plane. Tires screech and the plane makes a sharp turn I guess to avoid the SUV, then comes to a sudden stop, jerking me forward. I grip the armrests hard.
“What the fuck?” Dex is unbuckling his belt.
“Sir, please remain seated,” the flight attendant says.
He ignores her, walking to another window to get a better look. He reaches under his jacket to the gun I’ve seen holstered there. Movement in my periphery has me turning my head and I watch three men stalk right up to where the door is. The first officer steps out of the cockpit looking paler than he did before we took off and unlatches the door.
“What the fuck is going on?” Dex demands just as those three men board, guns drawn, all aiming at Dex as soon as they see he’s armed.
I watch, dumbfounded, as a fourth man enters the jet.
It’s him.
Antoine Girard.
I recognize him. Of course I would. It’s his arm, how the jacket is pinned where his hand should be and tucked into a pocket. He’s wearing a similar hat to when I’d seen him in my house that night three years ago. It’s pulled down low. My throat goes dry, my heart racing, mind whirling, wondering if I’ve done the right thing. If he’ll hold up his end of the bargain. He could kill us all and take what he wants. He knows I have it on me.
He looks around, gaze slowly scanning everything and everyone before landing on me.
I realize I’m still strapped in when he steps toward me.
“Ms. Blue Thorne.”
I search his eyes, try to read him. I don’t remember his face from that night at my house. I barely saw it and what happened after overshadowed all else. He’s not ugly, Antoine Girard, but he is hardened. It’s in the set of his jaw, in the coolness in his hazel eyes. Can I blame him? His life was stolen from him. And maybe the woman he loved, too.
“Where is it?” he asks.
I clear my throat, fumble with the belt and finally unbuckle. I stand. It’s days like these I wish I were taller. “I have it.”
He holds out his hand.
“How do I know you won’t just take it and shoot us?”
“You don’t.”
I glance at Dex, who is glaring at me, his hands in the air, his gun now in the hands of one of Girard’s men.
Girard steps closer, bends down to whisper, although I’m not sure why. To intimidate me? I’m already intimidated. And besides, his whisper is loud. “You called me, remember?”
“Fucking hell,” Dex mutters.
Girard nods to the soldier pointing a gun at Dex.
