Page 89 of Ruined By a Devil

“Everything is locked down,” Cain joins us, nodding to Malachi. “The flight plan is filed and we have a direct window out.”

Before Malachi can answer, a man in a crisp blue uniform walks quickly across the tarmac from the terminal. I recognize him to be the airport manager, a man whose background Malachi personally scrubbed and verified two nights ago.

“Mr. Kavanagh,” the manager says, stopping a few feet away, his expression tight and apologetic.

Malachi’s hand immediately shifts from my wrist to the grip of his gun. “What is it?”

“We have a minor issue,” the manager says, holding up a clipboard. “Pre-flight checks on the starboard engine flagged a pressure drop in the hydraulic line. It’s not structural, but the pilot refuses to clear the tarmac until the valve is inspected.”

Malachi narrows his eyes at the man, his shoulders tense and his body ready to attack anyone who would dare to do something funny. “How long will it take?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes,” the manager says, glancing toward the plane. “We can move Mrs. Kavanagh inside the private VIP lounge while your men secure the hangar. It’s climate-controlled, completely private.”

Malachi doesn’t even try hiding his suspicion as he speaks. “I’ll check the engine myself.”

“Of course,” the manager nods, stepping aside and gesturing toward the aircraft. “It’s hangar three, I have the maintenance logs right here.”

“Stay here,” Malachi looks down at me, the tension in his jaw absolute.

“I’m coming with you,” I say.

“No.” He shakes his head, his voice dropping into that unyielding tone that leaves no room for an argument. He looks at Cain and adds, “Take her inside the lounge and make sure to keep the detail tight.”

Cain nods. “Got it.”

Malachi lets go of my hand, turning on his heel to follow the manager toward the aircraft and I turn to follow Cain toward the side entrance of the terminal building.

Four of the six guards spread out around us, their hands loose near their holsters, scanning the tarmac. The other two stay stationed near the base of the plane where Malachi is currently talking to the mechanic.

The private VIP lounge is down a short, carpeted hallway. It turns out to be a quiet room with leather couches and tinted windows overlooking the runway. I immediately walk over to the window, peering through the glass as I look for Malachi. From here I have a clear view of the tail of the plane, and I can see Malachi standing beneath the wing, talking with the manager, his shoulders looking tense.

Suddenly, Cain’s burner phone buzzes loudly in his pocket, and I freeze, expecting the worst news. He pulls it out, glancing at the screen with a frown on his face.

“Talk to me... Yeah? Where?” He turns away from me, walking a few steps toward the entrance. “Hold the perimeter, I’m coming out.”

“What happened?” I ask.

Cain lowers the phone and looks back at me. “There’s a vehicle parked too close to the outer gate. It has unregistered plates.” He then turns to the other two guards. “You two, come with me to check it out.”

The two men step forward, falling in line behind Cain as he heads back toward the main lobby. “Stay outside the door,” Cain orders to the remaining four guards stationed in the hallway.

The wooden door of the lounge shut behind them, leaving me alone with the four men and the annoying muffled sound that the air conditioner is making.

I turn back to the window to look at Malachi, who is still under the wing of the plane. I watch him reach out, grabbing the manager by the collar of his uniform, lifting him slightly off his feet as he says something. A cold shiver runs down my spine, all of my instincts starting to scream at the sight in front of me.

Something is wrong.

I don’t wait for proof that my gut feeling is right and I take a step toward the door, with the intention to go out there, to pull Malachi away from the plane. But before I can make it anywhere, the door to the lounge opens and I see a man in a clean airport security uniform stands in the threshold of the door. He isn’t one of Malachi’s men, and he isn’t one of the four guards assigned to keep me safe.

“Mrs. Kavanagh.” His cap is pulled low over his forehead, casting his eyes in shadow as he speaks.

“Who are you?”

“There’s been another change,” the security officer says, stepping into the room. His eyes remain fixed at the floor, avoiding to make eye contact with me. “Mr. Kavanagh issued an immediate reroute. The main tarmac has been flagged by federal transport inspectors and he wants you moved through the service corridor to the secondary hangar immediately.”

“No,” I say, taking a step back toward the window. “Malachi didn’t say anything about a service corridor. If he changed the plan, he would come here and tell me himself.”

“Ma’am, we don’t have time to argue,” The officer insists, taking another step forward, his hand dropping to his utility belt. “The perimeter is being swarmed. Mr. Kavanagh gave explicit orders to get you out of this building right now.”