Page 81 of Theta

"So let's think this through," I say. "Let's assume Pugli has someone monitoring a GPS tracker or something. But…" I frown. "Wait. How did he know we were at that flat?"

"The phone," Killian answers. "Enzo's so-called burner."

"Oh, right. Yeah. He mentioned he thought it was probably being tracked. Okay, so…" I consider the problem. "The phone stops. Pugli’s computer guy goes, ‘Hey boss, they've stopped.’ Pugli sends two squads to clean up—take out you and Enzo and bring me to Pugli to be…broken."

"Do not go there," Killian warns.

I shake both hands beside my head. "Nope. Go where?" I clear my throat. "So when computer boy sees the tracker heading to not-the-right-place, he tells his boss and the boss says to watch where they go. When they stop, send more goons."

Killian laughs. "I doubt Pugli calls them his goons, babe."

"It's more fun to think of him yelling, 'send more goons!'" I say, snickering. "So we stop, and they send more goons. If it was under four hours from the time our tracker stopped outside the hostel, that's more than enough time to get a squad here, or activate one that's already here."

"My guess is they're already here. If they knew they planned to bring us here for whatever reason, I can see Pugli lining up a bunch of guys to hang around in case shit goes sideways, and Pugli is definitely the kind to assume something is going to go wrong. They've all shown up in pretty nice cars, and if the ferry ride here is like six hours, so they have to have already been on Sardinia with their cars."

"So then the question becomes, 'how many more kill squads are there on Sardinia?’" I say.

He nods, points at me. "That's the better question." He halts at yet another intersection to allow an old man riding a bicycle to pass; the old man gives us a friendly, jaunty wave, which Killian returns. "It's nice here," Killian says. "I'd like to visit again when people aren't trying to kill me and make you a sex slave."

"I dunno," I mutter. “I’d probably see kill squads around every corner."

"You may have a point there." He pulls away from the intersection. "So what's our plan now, d'you think?"

"Well, our hostel hideout is blown. You never finished telling me what the plan for the ferry was, but I'm assuming that's blown too, now." I sigh, and it's more of an irritated growl than a sigh. "We can't just drive aimlessly around Sardinia, though, that's for sure. I'll get car sick."

He glances at me sidelong. "You get car sick?"

I nod. "Yeah. Short rides around town are no problem. It's long road trips that get me. Any time I'm in a car for longer than an hour, I get nauseous."

"But the giant boat in the fucking hurricane wasn’t a problem? The tiny boat in a fucking hurricane wasn't a problem?"

I shrug. "Weird, I know. It's not motion sickness. I love rollercoasters. I don't get seasick. Airplanes are no problem either, and I’ve been in everything from Cessnas to your dad's fighter planes.”

"Have you been in the Phantom?" he asks.

I grin. "Ride of my life. When he does that Immelman at full throttle? It feels like your skull is gonna get sucked down into your toes."

Some rich guys collect cars, others collect houses, and others collect supermodel girlfriends. Nicholas Harris collects fighter planes. Last time I saw his collection, it included a Spitfire, a P-51 Mustang, a BF-109, a Japanese Zero, a handful of different kinds of Russian MiGs from Korea and Vietnam, an F-4 Phantom, an F-14 Tomcat, and an F-16, to name only the ones I knew on sight. One of the main reasons the Harrises chose the island they did for their compound was the presence of a clearing large enough and flat enough to let him build his own private airfield.

How you get your hands on a fully functioning—let alone a fully armed F-14 Tomcat, I can't even begin to guess. I suppose when your best friend is one of the top 3 richest humans ever, and you yourself are almost a billionaire, the scope of what money can buy opens up a good bit.

Killian glances at me after a few minutes of silence. "So…crazy idea."

"Yeah?" I ask, eyeing him with wary suspicion.

"Draw them out."

“You're talking about ambushing the kill squad?"

He nods. "We know, or at least suspect, that they're tracking us. But we don't know how many more goons there are out there or where they are. We do know that wherever they are, their response time is at least a couple hours."

"So we find another place to lie low as if we think we've gotten away. Goons show up and we cap some bitches."

Killian snickers. "It makes me horny when you talk like a gangster."

I grit my teeth. "Killian, don't talk about being horny."

He arches an eyebrow at me. "Hey, you got to come. Those assholes showed up at literally the worst possible moment for me. I was seconds from being inside you.”