10. Vadim #3
I glance toward the front. Hale sits restrained and silent beneath Anton’s occasional supervision. The copilot remains locked in the cockpit, and the aircraft has returned to the smooth, steady flight we were supposedly never going to lose.
“Any update from Marseille?”
Iosef nods. “The men we identified last week were tied to Petrov.”
That confirms what I suspected. Viktor Petrov has spent the better part of four months attempting to arrange my death because I shot his younger brother in Warsaw on his head.
“The attack in Prague was theirs?” I ask.
“Almost certainly,” Iosef says. “The vehicle used belonged to a company connected to one of Petrov’s cousins.”
“And the man outside my apartment?”
“Also Petrov.”
Marek leans back. “Eventually one of them will get lucky.”
“No.”
“You sound very confident.”
“I have met Viktor.”
“That is not the same as being bulletproof.”
“He is emotional.”
“So are you lately.” His gaze flicks toward the bedroom.
I ignore him. “The woman has nothing to do with this.”
“No,” Iosef says, surprising me.
Marek looks at him.
Iosef shrugs. “She was assaulted. Vadim reacted.”
“Reacted,” Marek repeats. “He nearly turned the pilot’s skull into the galley wall.”
“I would have done the same,” Iosef says.
I find myself unexpectedly grateful that at least one person in this cabin understands my reaction without turning it into evidence of insanity.
I pick up the revised agreement. “We land in a few hours. I want Petrov’s movements for the last seventy-two hours before we reach the hotel.”
Work gives me the distraction I wanted. For the next two hours, we discuss Petrov, the compromised shipping route, and the security arrangements awaiting us on the ground. By the time the cabin lights brighten for landing, my attention has almost returned to normal.
Almost.
The bedroom door opens, and every conversation stops.
Sloane steps into the cabin.
She looks considerably better. Her hair has been redone into the same neat knot she wore earlier, though a few strands remain loose near her temples, and she has apparently repaired her makeup enough to disguise most of the exhaustion in her face.
The mark on her cheek is still visible.
My mood darkens immediately.
She sees all of us looking at her. “What?”
Marek lifts his glass. “Nothing.”
Her eyes narrow. “You are all very strange.”
“An accurate assessment,” Iosef says.
She looks at him, and to my annoyance, she smiles. Then she sees me, and something softer passes through her expression.
Not embarrassment this time. Something I cannot identify.
“Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“The room.”
I nod.
She hesitates as if there’s something else she intends to say, then apparently decides against it and returns to the galley.
I watch her go.
Marek makes a sound.
I turn my head, and he immediately looks away.
The landing itself is uneventful. The copilot handles the descent smoothly, Hale remains restrained until the aircraft is parked, and security on the ground is informed discreetly that the captain is not to be allowed near another Chernovar aircraft.
What happens to him afterward will be decided later.
Preferably by me.
The door opens. Cold evening air moves through the cabin. Our ground vehicles are already waiting beyond the aircraft, black SUVs arranged near the edge of the private tarmac.
Anton and Marek disembark first.
Iosef follows.
I remain behind longer than necessary.
Sloane is standing near the door beside Camille, thanking the ground staff as they begin unloading supplies. When she notices me, she straightens. “Mr. Chernovar.”
“Sloane.”
Her mouth twitches.
“I suppose this is goodbye.”
She sucks in a small breath. “This assignment is finished.”
“I noticed.”
“I meant—” She stops and adjusts the strap of her bag. “I don’t know if the company will send me again after everything that happened.”
“They will.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You sound very certain.”
“I own the company.”
She exhales a soft laugh. “Right. I keep forgetting that whenever it becomes inconvenient.”
“You will be assigned to this aircraft again.”
It is not a request.
She notices. “Is that another order?”
“Yes.”
She should argue. Instead, she looks down for a moment, and when she raises her eyes again, there’s something genuinely sad in them. “Then I guess I’ll see you again.”
“You will.”
I step onto the tarmac.
Sloane follows a moment later, remaining near the bottom of the stairs while Camille speaks to one of the ground crew.
I should walk toward the vehicles.
I don’t. I look back.
Sloane stands beneath the lights with her coat pulled around herself, dark hair moving slightly in the wind, and something inside me feels wrong at the sight of her standing apart from me. The sensation is unfamiliar enough that I almost resent her for causing it.
Then a crack splits the night.
For half a second, nobody moves.
A second crack follows, and the window of the nearest SUV explodes.
Anton shouts. Men scatter. Sloane’s eyes widen.
I turn toward the far edge of the tarmac as another shot tears through the air.
We’re under attack.