45. Battle Prayer
45
BATTLE PRAYER
The hours crawled by in a haze of carefully orchestrated movements. Every few hours, the admiral would unclip their restraints for bathroom breaks and to let them eat—always when Richardson was focused on navigation or radio checks. During one of these moments, Maya flexed her wrists, and Ronan caught himself wanting to reach for her hands, to massage away the marks from the restraints. The way she would’ve let him, before he’d pushed her away. Before he’d convinced himself that distance meant safety.
“Procedure,” the admiral would say loudly if Richardson glanced back, his tone carrying just the right note of authoritative boredom. “Can’t have them getting blood clots before they face charges.” He’d replace the restraints with efficient movements that looked strict but never hurt, somehow always managing to position himself between them and Richardson’s line of sight as they flexed their cramping muscles.
“Watch for my signals,” the admiral whispered to him while Richardson was busy with the nav system. “Three taps means wait. Two is go, whatever that means. We’ll be making this up on the fly.”
Ronan had blinked his assent. He’d fill in Maya and Axel when he was certain Richardson wouldn’t notice.
They choked down protein bars and water, Richardson watching them like a hawk, the admiral maintaining his act of cool disdain. The sun tracked across the sky outside their window, shadows lengthening as they crossed time zones.
Now, as morning approached over the Mediterranean, the cabin had settled into a tense quiet broken only by the drone of engines and Richardson’s occasional radio checks with his teams. “Approaching Italian airspace,” Richardson announced from the cockpit, his smugness carrying through the cabin. “John, would you check those coordinates again? The latest communication specified?—”
“Upper Tyrrhenian, grid sector four,” the admiral responded woodenly. “Isola del Giglio.”
Ronan’s head felt fuzzy again, his body hot, but he forced himself to focus. Knight’s shoulders were rigid as he stared straight ahead through the cockpit window. To anyone else, he probably looked like a frightened husband hoping to get his wife back. But Ronan caught the subtle tap of his finger against the armrest. Three taps. Wait .
“Coming up on the western cliffs,” Richardson announced.
Maya shifted beside Ronan. Playing her part perfectly—the angry detective, caught and helpless. “This is insane,” she muttered, voice pitched to carry. “You can’t seriously be trusting kidnappers?—”
“Special Agent.” Richardson’s voice held exactly the right amount of stern compassion. “I understand your position, but right now, a woman’s life is at stake. Sometimes we have to work outside normal channels. If it’s possible to rescue my friend’s wife without handing you over, we’ll do it. You have my word.”
Sure. Ronan just bet. Thankfully, their waiting reinforcements would make sure it didn’t come to that.
The plane banked, and through the window, Ronan caught his first glimpse of the Italian coast. Somewhere down there, Minerva Knight was being held, Richardson’s Sentinel Security operatives waiting to take them all out. Richardson probably planned to frame him and the others for the murders, too. What a shame the three of them would die trying to escape.
But Ronan’s bet was on Knight Tactical, and the rest of his own crew. Priority one would be scouring the coast for Mrs. Knight, but a close second would be helping the four of them take Richardson down. Which they couldn’t do until the woman was safe.
Richardson’s voice carried back again, all professional concern: “Five minutes to the exchange point. John, I suggest you prepare yourself. This could get ... complicated.”
With any luck, way more than Richardson knew.
The setting sun over the Tyrrhenian Sea painted the water blood red. The plane descended in a smooth arc toward a small private airstrip carved into the cliffs.
Richardson was still talking, his words meant for multiple audiences now. “Standard procedure would be to notify Italian authorities,” he said, voice carrying clearly through the cabin. “But as the kidnappers pointed out, Mrs. Knight’s safety has to be our priority. Sometimes ...” He paused for effect. “Sometimes we have to trust each other.”
The admiral’s hand moved to adjust a dial. Three taps again.
Yeah. He figured. They’d know when things got rolling.
Through the deepening twilight, Ronan caught movement on the ground. Vehicles. People. Richardson’s team getting into position, no doubt.
Maya’s shoulder pressed against his. Offering support, and seeking it, even after everything. Even after he’d hurt her with his walls and his fear and his stubborn insistence that he knew best. He pressed back, throat tight. The best he could do under the circumstances. Besides, it would be better if she was edgy, as a real hostage would be. Though the tremor in her breathing wasn’t entirely an act, and that was on him too.
Her cross caught the last rays of sunlight through the window, and he found himself reaching again for that tenuous connection he’d formed with her God. Not with words this time, just raw need and promise: Let me make this right. Let me be brave enough to tear down these walls I built. Let me deserve her faith in me .
“Final approach,” Richardson announced. “John, keep an eye on those three. Let me handle the landing.” His tone was perfect—professional concern masking steel. “Wouldn’t want anything to go wrong at this stage.”
Despite Richardson’s ham hands with the controls, the plane touched down with barely a bump.
The plane taxied to a stop. Through the window, Ronan caught his first glimpse of their destination. His fever-muddled brain took a moment to process what he was seeing.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Axel muttered.
Rising above the private airstrip, terraced into the cliffs like a wedding cake made of marble and glass, sprawled the Costa Bella Resort. Even in the gathering dusk, Ronan could make out the crowds of tourists on multiple levels of infinity pools and outdoor restaurants. Hundreds of civilians, all potential collateral damage.
“This complicates things.” Maya’s whisper carried carefully controlled tension.
Richardson’s voice drifted back from the cockpit, smooth as aged whiskey: “You’re going to stand out like sore thumbs in that tactical gear, but that can’t be helped. My people have a plan.” He glared at them. “And you’ll follow it. To the letter, if you want Minerva Knight to survive the hour.”
Ronan caught the admiral’s subtle signal—three taps against the controls. Wait .
But watching the swarms of tourists moving through the resort’s outdoor spaces, he wondered if they’d waited too long. One wrong move here, and innocent people would pay the price.
“Actually,” Axel’s voice was pitched for their ears only, “this might work in our favor. Hard to make people disappear with this many witnesses.”
“Only if he cares about collateral damage.” Maya’s shoulder pressed against Ronan’s, steadying him as another wave of fever hit. “Which, given what we know about his operations, I can’t imagine he does.”
The resort glittered against the darkening sky like a false promise. Beautiful. Exposed. Dangerous. They had one shot at this. One chance to play it exactly right. And now they had to do it in front of an audience.