Page 116 of Mile High Ruin

Camille nods, though she still looks shaken.

I’m unexpectedly relieved that Sloane has her.

The airfield we use this morning bears very little resemblance to the one we landed at last night. This is not a commercial private terminal with polished lounges and ground staff moving between aircraft. It’s a narrow secured strip outside Bucharest used primarily by diplomatic flights, government contractors, and a handful of private operators willing to pay for discretion.

There is one access road. Two gates. Armed guards at both.

Every vehicle is searched before it enters, including mine, because I have no interest in discovering another tracker after takeoff. Anton has already swept the aircraft twice, and my own security team performs a third check before anyone boards.

Sloane watches all of it. “You do this every time?”

“Not quite this much.”

“I was going to say it seems exhausting.”

“It is preferable to being shot.”

She looks toward the dressing beneath my shirt. “You would think that would make you follow medical advice.”

“I followed enough of it.”

“You left the hospital.”

“The doctor discharged me.”

“After I forced you to go.”

“Yes.”

“That should probably be recorded somewhere.”

I look at her. “You are becoming very pleased with yourself.”

“I saved your life twice yesterday.”

“It was very foolish of you,” I say, remembering her throwing her body on me. Why would anybody do that, if their goal was to take me out?

“You’re welcome.”

I leave the argument there because Camille is close enough to hear it and is staring between us with an expression I can’t interpret.

The aircraft is smaller than mine, chosen precisely because we are not filing the flight under any of my usual companies. There is no bedroom, no elaborate dining area, and no polished luxury designed to impress guests. The interior is functional and comfortable, arranged with twelve leather seats and enough range to take us where we need to go without refueling.

The pilot is one of mine.

The former copilot from last night is not flying. He boards after Camille and looks as though he has not slept at all.

His name is Daniel Hartmann, something I should probably have learned before last night considering he has served as relief pilot on several flights for my aviation company. He is Austrian, early forties, competent, and currently offended that I have prohibited him from entering a cockpit until the investigation is complete.

“You know I had nothing to do with Hale,” he tells Anton as he comes aboard.

“Right,” I say, not impressed by his excuses. He’s still responsible for anything that the man might have inflicted on Sloane.

Sloane, who is already helping Camille settle into a seat, looks over. “He didn’t know what Warren was doing.”

Daniel looks at her with obvious gratitude. “Thank you.”

Anton gives Sloane a look.