CHAPTER 22
Callum
I paid triple the standard charter rate to ensure the flight manifest remained blank and the departure from Teterboro Airport happened before dawn. The money came from one of the ghost accounts Gemma set up. It feels strangely poetic to use the syndicate’s stolen funds to finance our disappearance.
I sit in one of the wide, cream-colored leather seats near the back of the cabin.
The engines hum with a deep, steady vibration as the jet climbs to cruising altitude, banking north over the Atlantic.
I look across the aisle.
Gemma is asleep on the long, velvet-upholstered divan.
She is wearing a soft, oversized gray sweater and a pair of clean sweatpants Ben bought from an all-night pharmacy before we left New Jersey.
The heavy tactical jacket and the blood-stained cashmere are gone, incinerated in a steel drum behind Dr. Aris’s clinic along with the encrypted drive.
The physical evidence of the last three days has been destroyed.
But the psychological evidence is still sitting right in front of me.
She is curled onto her uninjured side, her knees pulled up slightly, her face buried in a plush white pillow. The dark circles under her eyes look like bruises against her pale skin. The antibiotics and the heavy painkillers Aris prescribed knocked her out before the plane even left the tarmac.
I watch the slow, even rise and fall of her shoulders.
I have spent eight years training my brain to constantly scan for threats. My eyes automatically check the emergency exits, the reinforced cockpit door, the blind spots in the cabin. My hand rests instinctively near the waistband of my trousers, where the Glock is usually holstered.
But I am not wearing the holster. The weapon is locked in a secure case in the cargo hold, a necessary concession to bypass private aviation security.
I am unarmed. I am thirty thousand feet in the air.
There is absolutely nothing to fight.
The realization doesn't bring relief. It brings a cold, heavy sense of disorientation. The adrenaline that has been fueling my nervous system since the breach at the glass house is finally gone, leaving behind a massive, echoing void.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
"I was thanking you for coming back."
Her voice from the clinic plays on a loop in my head. She didn't thank me for the money. She didn't thank me for killing Elias Vance. She thanked me for not abandoning her.
I drop my hands, looking at her sleeping face again.
I am a man who solves problems by eliminating them.
I know how to navigate violence. I know how to dismantle a criminal empire.
But I have absolutely no idea how to navigate the quiet, domestic reality of an ordinary morning.
I don't know how to be a partner. I don't know how to exist in a world where the primary objective is simply to live.
A soft rustle of fabric pulls me out of my head.
Gemma shifts on the divan, letting out a small, pained groan as she accidentally rolls onto her left side. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and heavy with the narcotics.
She blinks at the cream-colored ceiling of the jet, then slowly turns her head to look at me.
"Where are we?" she asks, her voice thick and raspy.
"Over the Atlantic," I say, keeping my voice low so I don't startle her. "We crossed into Canadian airspace twenty minutes ago."
She processes the information slowly, her brow furrowing. "Ben?"
"He stayed in New York. He has the routing numbers for his cut of the funds. He is going to lay low for a few months until the syndicate completely collapses, then he’ll move to Europe."
"Good." She lets out a long exhale, her eyes drifting shut again. "He deserves a vacation. He got hit in the head with a van."
"He got hit in the head with a steering wheel," I correct mildly.
"Same difference." She opens her eyes, looking around the luxurious cabin. She takes in the polished wood veneer, the crystal glasses in the galley, and the wide leather seats. "This is a very nice plane. It doesn't smell like fertilizer or blood."
"I thought you would appreciate the upgrade."
She shifts again, carefully pushing herself up into a sitting position. She winces, her hand automatically pressing against the thick bandage hidden beneath the gray sweater.
I am out of my seat before I even register the decision to move.
I cross the aisle, sitting on the edge of the divan next to her. I don't ask if she needs help. I reach out, sliding my arm behind her back to support her weight as she sits up.
"I’m okay," she murmurs, though she leans heavily against my arm. "The pills are working. I just feel like I’m wrapped in cotton."
"That is the point of the medication," I tell her, adjusting a pillow behind her back so she can lean against the bulkhead. "You need to heal."
I pull my arm back, preparing to return to my seat on the other side of the aisle.
Gemma reaches out, her fingers wrapping loosely around my wrist.
"Don't go back over there," she says.
I look down at her hand. Her grip is weak, her fingers pale and delicate against the dark sleeve of my henley. She isn't asking me to stay because she is afraid of an attack. She is asking me to stay because she wants me near her.
I sit back down on the divan, leaving exactly six inches of space between us.
She doesn't close the gap. She just lets her hand slide down from my wrist, her fingers lacing loosely through mine. She rests our joined hands on the cushion between us.
"Where exactly are we going?" she asks, looking out the small, oval window at the endless expanse of blue sky. "You said somewhere cold."
"Reykjavik," I say. "Iceland."
She turns her head to look at me, a faint, genuine smile touching her lips. "Iceland. Do they even have internet in Iceland?"
"They have excellent broadband infrastructure," I reply dryly. "And they have very strict banking privacy laws. It is the ideal place to access the ghost accounts without triggering an international flag."
"Practical." She rests her head against the bulkhead. "Are we going to live in a bunker there, too?"
"No." I look at our joined hands. "I purchased a house on the coast, near Vík. It has large windows. It has natural light. It is completely isolated, but it is not a fortress."
She is quiet for a long time. The hum of the jet engines fills the silence.
"Callum," she says softly.
"Yes."
"What happens if we get bored?"
I look up at her. Her dark eyes are serious, searching my face for an honest answer. She isn't asking about entertainment. She is asking what happens to two people who were forged in adrenaline and violence when the war is finally over.
"I don't know," I admit. It is the most terrifying thing I have ever said out loud. "I have never been bored."
She lets out a soft, breathy laugh. "Me neither. I’ve spent the last five years waiting for Marcus Thorne to catch me, and you’ve spent the last eight years shooting people. We are going to be terrible at normal."
"Probably."
"We might drive each other crazy."
"It is a statistical probability."
She turns her hand over, her thumb tracing the scarred knuckle of my index finger. The touch is light, but it sends a sharp, electric jolt straight up my arm.
"I think I’m okay with that," she whispers.
I look at her mouth. I look at the soft, bruised curve of her jaw.
I don't close the six inches of space between us. I don't pull her into my lap or kiss her with the desperate, violent energy I used in the motel room. There is no ticking clock. There are no mercenaries waiting outside the door.
I simply turn my hand, my fingers wrapping firmly around hers, and I hold on.
We land in Reykjavik six hours later.
The air outside the private terminal is freezing, a sharp, biting wind blowing off the North Atlantic. The sky is a pale, icy blue, entirely devoid of clouds.
A black Range Rover is waiting for us on the tarmac, the engine idling.
I guide Gemma down the metal stairs of the jet, keeping my arm securely around her waist to brace her against the wind. She shivers, pulling the oversized gray sweater tighter around her neck.
"You promised me a better coat," she reminds me, her teeth chattering slightly as we reach the car.
"I will buy you ten coats," I say, opening the passenger door for her.
She climbs in, wincing slightly as she settles into the heated leather seat. I shut the door, walk around the front of the SUV, and get behind the wheel.
The drive from Reykjavik to Vík takes two and a half hours.
The landscape is stark, brutal, and incredibly beautiful. Massive glaciers, black sand beaches, and jagged volcanic rock formations pass by the windows. There are no trees to hide behind. There are no crowded city streets. It is a place where you cannot hide.
Gemma stays awake for the entire drive, staring out the window in silent fascination.
We finally turn off the main highway, navigating down a long, winding dirt road that leads toward the coast.
The house sits on a high cliff overlooking the black sand beach and the churning, dark gray ocean. It is a modern structure, built of dark wood and massive panes of glass. It looks completely exposed to the elements, entirely vulnerable to the wind and the sea.
I park the Range Rover in the gravel driveway and kill the engine.
I look at the house.
For the first time in my life, I don't look for the tactical blind spots. I don't calculate the breach points. I just look at the windows, and I imagine her sitting in front of them, drinking coffee with sugar, writing code that doesn't involve stealing billions of dollars.
"It’s beautiful," Gemma whispers, staring at the house.
"Come on," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt.
We walk up to the front door. I unlock it, pushing it open to reveal a wide, open-concept living space flooded with natural light. The floors are heated stone. A massive stone fireplace dominates the center of the room.
Gemma walks slowly into the living room, her boots clicking softly against the stone. She stops in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the violent, crashing waves of the North Atlantic.
I close the front door, locking the deadbolt.
I walk up behind her.
I don't hesitate this time. I wrap my arms around her from behind, being careful of her left side, and pull her back against my chest. I rest my chin on the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and the clean, cold air of the ocean.
She leans her weight back into me, her hands coming up to rest over my arms where they cross her stomach.
"So," she says softly, looking out at the water. "This is it. We’re ghosts."
"We are retired," I correct her.
"Retired," she repeats, testing the word. "I like the sound of that. Do retired people still eat frozen pizza?"
"Only if they want to suffer."
She laughs, the sound bright and clear in the quiet house. It doesn't end in a wince. It doesn't sound like a defense mechanism. It sounds like genuine, unfiltered joy.
I close my eyes, holding her tighter.
The war is over. The monsters are dead.
And for the first time in my life, I am exactly where I am supposed to be.