Chapter 13
Armando
I was shaking with anger as I climbed into bed fully clothed and pulled the covers over my head.
I couldn’t quite decide how much of it was directed at Salvatore, and how much was aimed at the fucking assholes who’d plucked us out of our lives and thought they could force us to do whatever they wanted.
It tied my stomach in knots. But even though I hated feeling like this, I wanted to hold on to that anger. The alternative was to feel scared and helpless, and that was so much worse.
I needed to be strong and figure out what the hell I was going to do.
Not that there was anything I could do right now, obviously.
I was on a jet, thousands of feet in the air.
I’d have to let these people take me to that studio Cavendish had mentioned.
Salvatore said it would take a few weeks to complete the forgery, which meant I’d have some time to come up with a plan.
I had to decide between trying to escape, or believing them when they said they’d turn us loose at the end.
A cold tendril of fear snaked down my spine, but I pushed it aside and focused on the anger. I wrapped it around myself like armor. It was that or cry, and if I started crying I was afraid I might totally break down.
Surprisingly, I actually fell asleep at some point. An annoyingly perky flight attendant woke me to let me know we’d be landing in fifteen minutes, and that I’d need to be in a seat with a seatbelt on when that happened.
I sat up and pushed my hair out of my eyes as I asked, “Landing where?”
“At a private air strip.”
“In what country?”
He flashed me a bright smile. “I’m sorry sir, I’m not at liberty to discuss that. May I bring you a cup of coffee, or a glass of orange juice?”
I got out of bed and told him, “You know you work for a bunch of lowlife kidnappers, right? You should really reconsider your career choices.” His smile never faltered.
I went into the small bathroom, which was stocked with grooming supplies.
After I used the toilet, I took a few moments to brush my teeth and comb my hair.
Then I stuck the comb and toothbrush in the back pocket of my jeans.
Even though my overnight bag had made it onto the plane, I had no idea if they’d actually give it to me once we landed.
When I stepped out of the bedroom, Salvatore glanced at me before lowering his gaze with a guilty expression. He looked tired and rumpled. I wasn’t ready to deal with him, so I returned to the seat at the back of the main cabin.
Minutes later, I gritted my teeth through another landing. All I could see outside the window were trees. I had no idea where I was, but Cavendish had said this was an eleven-hour flight, which might put me somewhere in Europe.
Being outside the US without a passport was scary as hell. How would I get home if and when I escaped, or if they actually let me go? That was a problem for later, though.
Pretty soon, a staircase was wheeled over, and the flight crew opened the door. An armed man dressed in black exited first. Salvatore grabbed both of our bags, and I followed him off the plane with another armed man on my heels.
I held up a hand to shield my eyes from the bright sunlight and looked around. All I saw was the runway and a small hangar, surrounded by a spindly forest. There were probably people who could identify this location by knowing what types of trees they were, but I wasn’t one of them.
A moment later, two Land Rovers pulled up, and two more thugs got out and joined the collection. So did a well-groomed man in a three-piece suit, who reminded me of Cavendish. Apparently that Ashcroft asshole had one of these guys in every country.
He strode over to us and smiled as he said, with a refined British accent, “Welcome, gentlemen. I’m Mr. Fitzpatrick,” as if we were his guests and not his prisoners. He gestured toward the SUVs and continued, “If you’ll come this way—”
“No.” I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.
“It wasn’t a request, sir.”
“Neither is this. I need to make a phone call. I’m a business owner, with a staff and customers who depend on me.
I need to tell them I’m going to be out for a few weeks.
I also need to be told whenever my staff or my son send me a text, and I need to be allowed to reply.
You don’t have to worry about me giving away my location, because I have no fucking idea where I am.
But those are my requirements. If they’re met, you’ll have my full cooperation.
And believe me, this’ll go much better for everyone involved if I cooperate. ”
Fitzpatrick stared at me for a moment or two. Then he shrugged and said, “I don’t see why not.” He turned to the men who’d flown with us and asked, “Who has this gentleman’s phone?”
One of the thugs stepped forward and handed him my phone and Salvatore’s. I started to reach for mine, but Fitzpatrick said, “You can dictate, and I’ll type a text message for you. But first, let’s see if your phone will actually work here. What’s your password?”
After I recited the digits, he scrolled through a few menus and changed some settings.
“International roaming is probably going to cost you a fortune, but you’re all set.
To whom would you like to send a message?
” I gave him Javier’s name, and he found it in my contacts and said, “Alright. Go ahead.”
I’d been thinking about what to say that wouldn’t panic my friend and employee, so I told him Salvatore had had a family emergency, and I’d traveled out of the country to be with him.
I asked him to please run things for me, and to feel free to shorten the diner’s hours and hire an assistant if he needed one.
I also told him I’d be gone about a month, and that I was somewhere with poor cellphone coverage, but I’d check in when I could.
Before he hit send, Fitzpatrick edited Javier’s phone number to include a plus sign and a one ahead of the area code. Then he asked me, “Anything else?”
“That’s it for now.” I wondered what time it was in San Diego, and if I was waking my friend in the middle of the night.
A few seconds later, the phone buzzed with an incoming text, and the man unlocked it by typing in some numbers.
Apparently he’d changed my password to one only he knew.
“Your employee sent a reply. It says, and I quote, ‘Sure thing, Manny, take all the time you need. Cami and I will hold down the fort while you’re gone.’ It sounds like your place of business is in good hands. ”
“Please reply with ‘thanks, Javi,’ and thank you for letting me message him.”
“You’re welcome.” Fitzpatrick sent the message before holding up the other phone and asking Salvatore, “Is there anyone who’d notice your absence?”
He muttered, “Only one person, but he’s standing right there and not speaking to me.”
Fitzpatrick pocketed both phones and tried again, gesturing toward the waiting vehicles as he said, “Now, if we can proceed—”
Salvatore was the one to interrupt this time. “There is something I need from you though, as a show of good faith.”
A frown line appeared between Fitzpatrick’s brows, but he kept his tone cordial as he asked, “And what would that be, Mr. di Pietro?”
“I want to speak to my uncle, Flavio Bianchi. If he’s alive, I’ll know I can trust you people to let us go once I finish the painting,” Salvatore said. “But if you killed him, then you’ll need to convince me that we’re not going to suffer the same fate.”
“Just to be clear, I won’t allow you to continue making demands in exchange for your cooperation.
But this is easy enough, and if it puts you at ease, I’m willing to oblige.
” Fitzpatrick pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a text before saying, “The wheels are in motion. It may take a few hours since he tends to be slippery, but we’ve been monitoring Bianchi, and I’ve asked a colleague to go and collect him. ”
Salvatore said, “Thank you,” and started walking toward the waiting SUVs. I hurried after him, trying to stay close. It wasn’t that I was feeling warm and fuzzy toward him, but the rest of the men around me were terrifying. I suddenly understood that old proverb—better the devil you know.
The two of us and Fitzpatrick climbed into the back seat of one of the Land Rovers, and two thugs took the front seats. As we left the airport, Salvatore asked Fitzpatrick, “Where are we?”
“Does it matter?”
“We’re obviously somewhere in the UK.” I wondered how he knew that. “I’m just curious as to which part.”
“I’ve been instructed not to divulge that information.”
“Why?”
Fitzpatrick shrugged. “I can only assume my employer doesn’t want you returning here after your release and starting trouble.”
I stared out the window as we bounced down a rutted country road. There wasn’t much to see, aside from a lot of trees, occasional fields, and one small flock of sheep. At one point, we crossed a wider street with smooth pavement, and then we were back on the bumpy road.
After fifteen minutes or so, our driver turned off onto a private driveway. He stopped at an intercom in front of a tall, wrought iron gate and gave his name when someone answered. A minute later, a man wearing a shoulder holster appeared and opened the gate, and we drove through.
Up ahead was a beautiful mansion. It looked old and very elegant, and its facade was made out of some kind of pale, yellowish stone.
I assumed we’d be locked in the basement or something.
But when we got inside, Fitzpatrick led us down a long hallway and said, “You’ll have full access to the east wing and the grounds.
The west wing is off-limits, because that’s where Mr. Ashcroft stays when he’s here.
Meals will be provided for you and served in the dining room.
Please let the staff know if you have any special dietary requirements. ”