Chapter 7
We find two leather armchairs in the SilverKris Lounge, an area only first and business class Singapore Airlines fliers can access. I’ve never given much thought to what it’s like behind the lounge club doors at airports, but I guess if I had, I would’ve expected a little more. The brown carpet and seating shows wear and tear, and the free food buffet isn’t as enticing as the food options out in the general area.
But it’s safer in here. From our chosen seats, I can see everyone who comes and goes. And we’ll see on the screen when it’s time for us to board.
A hum of differing languages surrounds us. Some I recognize thanks to military training, and two I’d need closer proximity to confirm.
Sloane slumps in the chair beside me, her gaze on the floor. I pull out my phone and log on to the VPN. I kick out a leg and lean forward, stretching the quad. I depend on my cardio workouts to lessen the aches and pains, and I’m off schedule and stiff everywhere.
“You want to grab a magazine or something to read?” She doesn’t have a phone or any electronic device. She looks dazed, most likely because she’s processing everything that has happened in the last hour.
The identification we’re using is our real identification, which means now that we’ve passed through customs, depending on how powerful the people who want her are, they’ve either already been notified of our airport location or will be shortly. Still, it’s highly unlikely they would come for us in the airport.
“I’ll watch the news.” There’s a television on a far wall. The news isn’t in English, but there are English subtitles running below.
“Suit yourself.”
“There’s a tropical disturbance brewing.” The reporter points at an unformed tropical depression that may or may not grow into something, and they aren’t yet projecting a path if it forms.
Jack Sullivan
Touch base before you board.
He sent the message to me within the Arrow company board. He could’ve texted. But he didn’t. He chose the security of a firewall.
Me
In airport lounge. Boarding shortly.
Jack Sullivan
At LAX, you’ll transfer to a private plane. When you arrive in Grand Cayman, look for a man holding a sign that reads Trafalgar party. He has everything you’ll need and will take you to a secure location.
Me
Sloane wants to return to her apartment.
Jack Sullivan
Expected as much. You’ll need your bags before going. And you can’t stay there. If they aren’t watching her apartment now, it won’t be long before they will be. Get in. Search. Get out. And don’t leave her alone. She may look for something she doesn’t want to share with us.
He doesn’t trust her.
Sloane appears to be intent on the news, which shows a man dressed in red with a sword spinning through the air. The English subtitle reads World Combat Games. Sloane appears to be intent on the screen, but she’s too close for this text conversation if she can’t be trusted.
Me
I’ll check in when we connect in LA
* * *
The full moon lights the parking lot as Sloane digs around in the dirt near the steps to her place, searching for a buried apartment key.
Thanks to the time change and almost thirty-five hours of nonstop travel, the moon and the pervasive silence are the only clues to the time of day. My internal clock is useless. If it had been my call, after we shuffled through the door of a small villa, we would’ve crashed, ensuring we adapted to our new time zone, and planned this apartment intrusion for the next night.
But Sloane’s wide awake. And she’s like a dog with a bone. I recognize determination, so I didn’t waste effort attempting to dissuade her.
True to Jack’s word, luggage awaited us. We have clothes for our stay here, plus a full arsenal of handguns, ammunition, and a secure phone for Sloane, which she promptly turned off.
I offered to find what she needed, letting her stay behind where she would be safe and could rest.
Unsurprisingly, she didn’t bite.
And after spending almost two days with this woman, I’ve noticed she eats little. Crackers and two plain bagels in thirty-five hours. All she drank on the plane was Coca-Cola. She refused any water. Full on grimaced when a bottle of water was offered.
She’s not taking care of herself, and she’s borderline obsessed with her work. On the way here in the car, I asked, aiming to emphasize this isn’t a game, “Is whatever you’re working on worth risking your life?”
All she said was, “Every choice bears a cost.”
And I can’t get that answer out of my head because it’s a guilty person’s defense. Did she remember more on the flight home? Tomorrow, when she’s in the shower or something, I’ll need to log a call to Jack. He needs to read me in on whatever the fuck he knows.
By the time we landed, Interpol had an update on the two tangos the local police back in Kuala Lumpur picked up. They hadn’t actually broken any laws, but they managed to extract some useful intel. One, they’d been hired by the Wagner Group to retrieve Sloane. They weren’t there to go after Sage, but they were aware of her. Turns out somewhere out there was a reward offered for Sloane with a much higher sum paid if she was alive. Our tech team finally found the post. Kairi back at HQ had been saying all along it had to exist. Now they’re trying to track who posted it, but that might be damn near impossible.
“Got it!” Sloane triumphantly holds up a grimy Schlage key.
“You didn’t trust a neighbor with it?”
There are twelve apartment units in this two-story apartment complex. She’s been digging below a window of one of the ground units. Lights are off in all the units, there’s been no curtain movement, but knowing someone could be inside watching us doesn’t give me the warm and fuzzies.
She opens the door, and I lift my SIG from its holster. With one last scan of the parking lot, I push past her. She steps inside, and I position her at the door.
Per her description, it’s a simple one bedroom. The front door opens into an open living area with a den and kitchen. There’s a musty smell in the apartment, as one would expect from a unit that hasn’t been lived in for over a month. But other than a stuffy smell derived from closed windows, it’s immaculate. Nothing appears out of place.
The kitchen counters are bare other than a wood block holding a dozen knives. There are no canisters on the counter. No dish towel hanging from a knob. No photos anywhere in the den. The coffee table in front of the small, slightly worn sofa is bare, as are the two side tables that hold only lamps.
In the far corner, there’s an odd-looking wooden sculpture. Stacked wood blocks covered in splintered divots and bright color spots in the center of the splintered wood.
Hanging blinds with a thin layer of dust cover the two rectangular windows on one wall of the den. They’re folded closed, but moonlight streams through the cracks. Sloane stands against the entrance door, waiting for me to give the all-clear.
There are two white closed doors on the back wall in front of an area where a kitchen table would normally be located, and one stool beneath a kitchen counter.
As a military guy, I’m used to seeing barely decorated apartments. It’s common for young single soldiers. Can’t say it’s what I was expecting from Sloane.
When Sloane drew out a diagram of her apartment, she explained the door on the left opens into a storage closet. The door on the right opens into her bedroom suite.
Behind the left door, there’s a broom, dustpan, and a shelving unit with dry food, paper towels, toilet paper, and a large bag of generic dry cat food.
Behind the right door, there’s a neatly made bed that would pass inspection on base. On her nightstand, there’s a framed photo of Sloane, Sage, and Sam. Sage is a child in the photo, so I’m guessing the photo is an old one. There’s a white desk pushed against one wall. A charger is plugged into the wall below the right side of the desk, but it connects to nothing.
I push the bathroom door open. Movement has me slamming the door against the wall and aiming at the shower.
A long centipede scurries across the tile and disappears down the drain.
Bathroom’s clear.
I reenter the bedroom and bend to double-check the one-foot space beneath the bed frame. Clear. The closet doors are sliding mirrors.
In the moonlight, my reflection catches my attention. I look like a regular guy with a handgun checking his house after hearing a sound.
Using the end of my SIG, I rifle through the hanging clothes in her closet after scanning the floorboards for feet. The shelves above the hanging clothes hold a series of cardboard boxes. Neat lines of shoes fill every inch of floor space. Heels, flip-flops, two pairs of running shoes. All arranged in order from dark to light color, as are her hanging clothes.
Sloane Watson leads an organized life. Or someone came in and cleaned after she left.
I quietly step into the den and signal to Sloane with a thumbs up, telling her it’s okay, and then I place my index finger over my lips to remind her we are to be quiet. I don’t have a sweeper with me. Before we entered, I warned her that the place could be bugged and someone could be listening. Even if it’s delayed, meaning someone checks the recording periodically, anything we say, we should assume someone might hear. In our case, if we can come in and leave no evidence that we’ve been here, the better.
She barely glances around the den as she brushes past me and pulls a chair from her desk over to the closet. She’s a tall woman, so my curiosity rises when she stands on the chair and reaches up to the highest shelf.
A sliding glass door opens onto a balcony. The view out the window is of palm trees, shrubbery, and a street. Vertical blinds hang over the sliding glass doors, but they’re set to open. I twist them closed.
She’s wearing a black cotton tank top, black Lycra leggings, and a pair of light blue running shoes we picked up in the Los Angeles airport. The leggings leave nothing to the imagination. She’s got long, lean legs and a firm, tight ass. Her shoulder muscles flex as they strain with the weight of the box she’s pulled off the top shelf.
I tap her from behind, setting my leg against the chair for balance to prevent the chair from tipping over. The weight of the box lies heavy on my arms.
Wordlessly, I place the box on the mattress. She returns the chair to the desk and lifts the box. Her slender arms strain with the weight. She jerks her head, indicating she’s ready to leave.
I return the vertical blinds to their half-opened position on the off chance someone has been monitoring the place. She’s already near the front door, but I scan the room one last time. I would’ve expected her to grab clothes, cosmetics from the bathroom, something. Natalie sure as hell would’ve been repossessing her cosmetics. Given my sister often places cosmetics on her gift list, I know what those little bottles and tubes cost.
But not this girl. All she wants is whatever is in that one box she kept on the top shelf.
“Clothes?” I mouth.
Her eyes widen, and she places the box in my arms. She kneels on the ground and drags out a suitcase and a black duffel from beneath the bed. She opens the suitcase and throws clothes inside. Given the state of her apartment, I would’ve expected more care with packing, but perhaps nerves are feeding her desire to get out quickly.
It’s the drawer in the nightstand beside her bed that gets my attention. Lube. Vibrators. Three—no, four get tossed in. I don’t bother to look away because she’s showing no signs of embarrassment. Well, then.
With her suitcase packed and closed, we exit the apartment.
I reposition my handgun in my waistband in case we come across someone in the parking lot, place a finger against my lips, open the door, scan the area, and push it wider for her to pass through. As she steps past me, she lifts the box, insisting on carrying it plus the handle of her wheeled suitcase. I hoist her duffel.
She doesn’t wait for me as I lock the door.
“Wait for me,” I hiss.
She sets the box down on the dirt in the flower bed and shakes her hands like the box hurt her fingers.
Headlights approach, and I leap to her side.
Reggae music wafts through the night air, growing louder as a Jeep slows to a stop in a nearby spot. Thanks to the headlights, I can’t see the vehicle’s occupants.
My hand rests on the butt of my gun holstered at my waist. With one eye on the vehicle, I scan the area, and determine it’s best if I shove Sloane behind me if they aren’t friendlies.
The headlights flick off, and laughter replaces the reggae. It’s a group of people partying, returning from bars.
A woman with long blonde hair looks our way. I push Sloane up against the building wall, using my back as a shield. If someone comes by asking about Sloane, like our own guys have done over the past month, I don’t want anyone recognizing her.
Her eyes are wide. Scared. Lips close to her ear, I whisper, “Play along.”
“Hey, you okay?” A feminine voice calls out.
I dip my head, aiming to cover Sloane’s lips. Warmth covers my shoulders, and fingers dip into the nape of my neck. Thank god, she’s playing along.
Her tongue slips between my lips. And fuck if that brief touch doesn’t go straight to my dick. She tugs my hair, and my mouth opens. Her tongue tells me she’s into this kiss, and fuck me, the girl can kiss. She tastes like mint with a hint of sweetness. There’s no hesitation. She alternates between nipping my lips and kissing me so hard it’s a fucking challenge to keep an ear out for the folks behind us. Her body rocks against my hips as she mewls.
“Get a room, you two.” A low chuckle follows, and I hear a slap and a squeal as the guy corrals his female companion away, presumably to his apartment.
Their steps grow distant, and Sloane’s fingers tap against my cheek. I lift my head, my breaths rapid and deep. Christ. That went from zero to sixty at lightning speed.
“I think they’re gone.”
She’s right. I push off the wall and grimace when I straighten. My dick presses uncomfortably against my zipper, a reaction I need to settle pronto.
“Get in the car.”