Chapter Thirty-Eight
In which the concept of trust is still apparently an alien one to Sloan.
Sloan…
Here’s the thing about being on the run for the last eighteen months. I’ve met a lot of people doing the same thing, and every one of them taught me something.
Travel, for instance. How do you get on an international flight without a passport or any ID?
You hire a private pilot with a private jet and a willingness to do anything for a giant roll of cash. And while stealing Ethan’s wallet makes me feel like the worst human on the planet, I have no other way to get enough money. It’s amazing the size of a cash advance they’re willing to give on Ethan’s black American Express card. I book a pilot within thirty minutes, which is a miracle.
I wasn’t sleeping when Ethan took the call.
I heard everything, though the only part that matters is that Gavin knows where Nate and Carmella are. Or he will soon enough if his hackers are as talented as Ethan’s. I have to get to Puerto Limón before he does.
Sliding out of bed, I changed as quietly as I could and stuffed a few things in a backpack, including one of Ethan’s guns, a Glock 42 with some extra ammo clips. There was cash in the top drawer of his dresser, over three thousand pounds but I’ll need more.
Feeling like complete shit, I slipped my husband’s wallet in the backpack and with my shoes in my hand, I tiptoed to the back stairs, disabled the alarm and flew down six flights of stairs, praying that none of the other MacTavishes… MacTavi… what the fuck is the plural of MacTavish? I prayed that none of them decided to take the stairs today.
My pilot’s nice enough to pick me up on our way to the private airstrip he uses. Georges has a very loose, Jimmy Buffet “Cheeseburger in Paradise” vibe with his dreads and tropical shirt. Even though there’s a conspicuous smell of cannabis in his truck, he doesn’t look or act high and most importantly, doesn’t ask me a lot of questions.
Pacing the landing strip while he fuels the jet, I dial Carmella on my new burner phone.
“Are you okay?” She’s practically screaming and I feel terrible.
“I’m okay, I’m sorry, I-”
“I thought he’d caught you! I thought he killed you!” It takes a lot to upset Carmella and she’s in tears. I am the worst person in the world for not contacting her sooner.
“That piece of shit Gavin never found me. But…” I fight down the surge of panic clogging my throat. “But it looks like he’s close to finding you.”
She’s silent for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I feel like such a fucking failure. If I’d never asked her to send me money, he couldn’t have tracked them. “I’m sorry. I’m about to fly into Puerto Limón, it’s a thirteen-hour flight, but from Boston, it’s only six hours or so. Go now. Check into a little hotel somewhere. I’ll call you as soon as I land.”
I can hear her slamming closet doors and rifling through hangers. “I understand. Nate is sleeping from his last chelation. But I’ll get us out of here within a couple of hours.”
“Good.” Georges is waving me over, running his pre-flight check. “Look, I have to go. I’m- Carmella, I’m so sorry. You must regret the day you got caught up in our crap-”
“Don’t,” she interrupts me, “don’t you dare say a word. I’m part of this family now and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you and Nate.”
Like a punch to the heart, I remember that Ethan said the same thing to me. Why didn’t I tell him I was leaving?
Because you still don’t trust anyone and you never will. My mean inner voice is being a huge bitch today.
“I love you both,” I sniff, “please be careful, okay?”
“It’s not the first time we’ve had to disappear,” she says, “you just look after you. Bye now.”
“Bye.”
Looking over my shoulder, I wonder if I should go back. Tell Ethan. Handle it together. Then I think of that evil fuck getting to Nate before I do and I hustle up the jet stairs.
The thirteen hours in flight are spent in endless, stomach-churning anxiety. What if Gavin gets to them first?
“You’re gonna wear a hole in my carpet runner if you don’t stop pacing, chere.” Georges is looking at me disapprovingly, working on a chicken leg in the galley kitchen.
“Shouldn’t you be flying the plane?” I snap.
“It’s on autopilot,” he says, picking up a wing next.
“The last time I was on a jet and the pilot was all, “Oh, it’s on autopilot, we crashed in the Cairngorms.”
He chuckled for a moment before his eyes widened. “What, you’re serious?”
“Yes.”
He heads back to the cockpit, taking the plate of chicken with him.
Once I’m alone, I pull out the Glock and look it over. I’ve never fired one of these before and I want to make sure I understand how it works. I wasn’t lying when I told Ethan I’d taken self-defense lessons, I just took them from a lunatic redneck in Arkansas while I was waiting for my fake passport and ID to come through.
I should sleep, right? So I’m fresh and focused when we get there? I can’t sleep. Putting the gun away, I start pacing the aisle again. I’ll buy Georges a new carpet runner.
“Welcome to Puerto Limón. Please unfasten your seatbelt and return your trays to their upright position.”
Startling awake, I see Georges grinning at me. He looks fresh as a daisy, which means the autopilot did most of the heavy lifting, but we’re here.
“How much for you to wait for me?”
He looks offended. “I’m no Uber driver!”
“I know, Georges, but I can double your fee for a return flight. I’ll have a couple of friends with me.”
“Are you moving drugs?” he asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I thought you were just some bored rich white girl who wanted an adventure.”
That makes me laugh. “No, you can check my backpack and the closest thing you’ll find are some cherry-flavored cough drops. No, two people I’m talking about… just friends.”
He blows some chicken-scented breath at me while he thinks about it. “Three hours. I get itchy, I can’t stay any longer than that.”
“Thank you, I’ll buy you a new shirt,” I say in relief, “a nice one. Silk.”
“What’s wrong with the one I have?” He looks genuinely wounded.
“Nothing, nothing,” I wave my hands appeasingly. “Okay, I’ll get going. Thank you.”
I need to walk a couple of miles to get to the outskirts of the city, and then there’s a car waiting for me at a rental place by the real airport. This airstrip has a small hanger and a fueling station, but I doubt it’s being used for anything legitimate.
It’s around 3am in Edinburgh, but it’s 9pm here. The sun’s just thinking about setting and I still have enough light to skirt the giant potholes in the road. Pulling out my burner phone, I call Carmella.
“Hey, I’m here. Are you two okay?”
“Thank god,” she sighs. “Yes, we’re okay. We’re staying in a cottage at the end of one of the big tourist resorts. Believe me, no one notices us here. They’re all too busy getting drunk and trying to get laid.”
“Yeah, that sounds right.” I stumble over a loose rock and right myself. “I’ve got us a flight out of here but we need to be at the airfield within three hours. Give me the address, it shouldn’t take me more than half an hour. Is Nate doing okay with all the changes?”
“He’s not thrilled, I didn’t want to tell him you were coming until I knew for certain.”
I walk faster. “I’m almost there. I’ll be there soon. Tell him I love him, okay?”
“I will.” She hesitates and adds, “Please be careful, you’re a target, too.”
Putting my hand in the backpack, I feel the reassuring weight of the Glock. “I’ll be fine. Just be ready to go.”
After twenty minutes of running, I’ve twisted my ankle, it’s pitch black and I can only pray I’m heading in the right direction. There are more signs of civilization, more little houses, and a gas station or two. The third one I see boasts gas AND rental cars, according to the luridly glowing sign.
As promised, there’s a car there. A Mini Cooper two-seater. The image of strapping Nate to the bike rack on the bumper makes me giggle a little hysterically, but the keys are under the mat and it takes me a couple of minutes to figure everything out. I’m just grateful everyone drives on the right side of the road here.
The memory of nearly getting clipped by those cars when I ran from Ethan in Glasgow makes my heart hurt. If I’d stayed, if I’d given him a chance, would we have rescued Nate and Carmella sooner? He must hate me right now. Running off after our early morning talk, where he shared something painful with me, I finally told someone the truth about what happened to Nate and me. Then, I just ran off.
He might decide I’m just not worth it. And I wouldn’t blame him.
I pull into the wildly opulent Vista Panorámica Resort less than an hour after I left Georges. “This is good,” I murmur, driving past fountains and enormous, colorful gardens, looking for their cabana number. “I talk Nate down, put them in the car and we’re out of here.” My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. It didn’t hit me until now that I don’t know where I’m taking them. Back to Scotland? Will Ethan even want to see me? The thought of never seeing him again is physically painful.
Cabana 22 finally comes into view and I slam the Mini Cooper’s little door, racing up the seashell path. When I knock, I realize the door is ajar. They knew I was coming and probably left it open while they packed. But that’s still dangerous.
“I’m here! And you should never leave the door unlocked.” Turning the corner into the great room, I see Nate and Carmella sitting together on the couch. “Sweetie, you look so grown up!” His color is good again, his unruly black hair sticking out in spikes and his eyes, violet-blue like mine are wide.
And terrified.
“It took you fucking long enough.” Gavin is seated grandly across from them, and standing behind him is motherfucking Tony. Holding a gun.
The front door slams shut behind me and two more men push me into the room.
“Sit down, sweetheart,” Gavin’s grin is like a shark’s, blank and horrible. “Let’s talk.”