Page 132 of Falling for the Enemy

“That was a nice event last night, sir.” He took his shot, and the ball landed softly a hundred and sixty yards out.

“Thank you. Beautiful strike.” It earned no more than a flicker of his attention. “I was glad I had the chance to make a few introductions for you.”

“I appreciate it.”

Warren ambled up beside him, ruddy and unbothered, dropping his ball into place. “You’ve got your father’s swing. All shoulders, no wrist.”

Soren laughed, unruffled by the barb, expecting a few jabs from a man as competitive as Aldrich.

Warren drove his ball down the course, coming just a few feet short of where he’d landed his.

They walked the fairway toward the green, caddies trailing with the bags. “I lost track of you towards the end of the night,” Warren said, crouching behind his ball to read the slope. He took his time.

“I’m sure you had other guests that deserved your attention.”

“You know,” Warren said, still crouched, sighting down his line, “I’ve been thinking about your Warsaw numbers all morning. My people ran them twice.”

Soren stilled at the fringe. “And?”

“They’re aggressive all right.” He stroked the putt, and the ball curled across the green then died two inches shy of the cup. He grunted, half pleased, ambling toward the next tee without finishing his thought.

Soren tapped in and followed. Four holes down, fourteen to go.

Warren’s drive split the fairway. “Nice shot.”

Soren stepped up to putt. The ball arced and rolled exactly where he hoped.

“Magnus in the flesh,” Warren chided, clapping Soren’s shoulder.

The Magnus comparisons were grating on him, so he didn’t acknowledge it this time. “You were saying about the numbers…”

“Ah, yes.”

Soren’s phone shuddered against his thigh. Withdrawing the device, he quickly glanced at the screen as they walked. Captain Coyle’s name flashed as the phone continued to silently vibrate in his palm.

“I was saying, they’re aggressive. Not that I’m intimidated by aggression. I value it. That kind of assertion tells me you’re serious.”

Why the hell was his pilot calling? Soren angled away from Warren as if speaking to his caddie, and thumbed the phone to his ear. “Coyle?”

“Sorry to disturb you first thing in the morning, Mr. Hawthorne, but I wanted to give you a heads up. We’ve got a mechanical issue on the G280. The second engine’s throwing a fault the mechanics can’t clear. They won’t let us in the air until it’s identified and resolved.”

“What are you saying?” It was still early. They had plenty of time to fix whatever issue this was.

“Normally, I wouldn’t be concerned, but it showed up last night, and I’ve had guys trying to figure it out for hours.”

A cold dread settled in Soren’s chest. Sometimes, planes were grounded for technical issues. It wasn’t always a broken part or a quick fix. Especially if they couldn’t find the problem.

No jet meant no forty-five-minute hop back to Maine. No hop meant he’d have to find a commercial flight or drive. “Shit.”

He did the math twice. The drive from Newport ran four and a half hours on a clear day with no traffic. That put him back in Hideaway around half past two at the earliest.

“We have a call in to a specialist,” Coyle informed him.

“How long before he looks at it?” Soren asked, keeping his voice down as Warren took his shot.

“He said he can get here within the hour. I can call you back the second I know more.”

Running out of time, Soren grabbed his driver and glanced back at the hole. Warren waved a hand, brows raised, expectantly waiting for him to take his shot.