Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Jade
The bags are already loaded into the trunk of the lead SUV. When Malachi and I walk out the front door, the crisp morning air hits my skin, but I barely feel it. Four vehicles are waiting, ready, in the driveway, their engines humming low.
Malachi walks around the vehicle, his eyes scanning the tree line, the roofline, the open stretch of the road.
“Nothing should be left to chance.”
He said those words to Zeke over the phone last night and I hate to admit it, but the more time I get to spend with my husband, the more I can understand exactly what he means by that.
“There was a last-minute route change,” he says as he opens my door. “We’re taking the old logging trail behind the ridge instead of the highway.”
“Of course there is.”
I slide into the passenger seat, the leather cold against my legs. He leans in, his hand resting on the frame of the door, his eyes locking onto mine. Even though he doesn't say anything about the distance we’re about to put between us, the look in his eyes says everything.
The convoy moves out in a tight, synchronized formation with two vehicles in front, our SUV in the middle, and a tail car tracking our blind spots. We remain silent during the entire ride and forty-five minutes later, the private airstrip comes into view.
It’s an isolated airfield tucked behind a row of rusted hangars.
The perimeter is fenced with razor wire, and a single chain-link gate blocks the entrance.
Our lead car pulls up to the gate, a guard stepping out.
I watch from the car as he exchanges words with the man in the booth, and the gate swings open, allowing us to roll onto the tarmac.
The twin-engine charter plane sits waiting on the strip, its propeller spinning slow, kicking up a sharp gust of wind that smells of hot asphalt and jet fuel.
Cain is already standing near the airstair, his heavy frame wrapped in a dark coat, while his hand rests casually near his sidearm.
Six men stand behind him, each one of them guys Malachi trusts with his life.
Our SUV stops a few feet from the plane.
“Let me,” Malachi doesn’t let me move. He opens my door himself, his hand instantly wrapping around my elbow to anchor me.
When he steps outside with me, his eyes continue sweeping the hangars, the open field, the perimeter fence. He checks every face, every shadow, every window on the small terminal building before he lets me take a single step toward the stairs.
“Stay close no matter what,” he murmurs, his thumb pressing hard into my wrist and my soul hurts when I remember that soon I won’t be able to feel his skin on mine anymore.
The luggage handlers finish loading the bags into the plane. “You trust all of them?” I ask Malachi as we both watch the men do their job.
“I don’t even trust my own shadow when it comes to your security, Jade,” he responds. “But this is the best we can do.”
“Everything is locked down,” Cain joins us, nodding to Malachi. “The flight plan is filed and we have a direct window out.”
Before Malachi can answer, a man in a crisp blue uniform walks quickly across the tarmac from the terminal. I recognize him to be the airport manager, a man whose background Malachi personally scrubbed and verified two nights ago.
“Mr. Kavanagh,” the manager says, stopping a few feet away, his expression tight and apologetic.
Malachi’s hand immediately shifts from my wrist to the grip of his gun. “What is it?”
“We have a minor issue,” the manager says, holding up a clipboard. “Pre-flight checks on the starboard engine flagged a pressure drop in the hydraulic line. It’s not structural, but the pilot refuses to clear the tarmac until the valve is inspected.”
Malachi narrows his eyes at the man, his shoulders tense and his body ready to attack anyone who would dare to do something funny. “How long will it take?”
“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes,” the manager says, glancing toward the plane. “We can move Mrs. Kavanagh inside the private VIP lounge while your men secure the hangar. It’s climate-controlled, completely private.”
Malachi doesn’t even try hiding his suspicion as he speaks. “I’ll check the engine myself.”
“Of course,” the manager nods, stepping aside and gesturing toward the aircraft. “It’s hangar three, I have the maintenance logs right here.”
“Stay here,” Malachi looks down at me, the tension in his jaw absolute.
“I’m coming with you,” I say.
“No.” He shakes his head, his voice dropping into that unyielding tone that leaves no room for an argument. He looks at Cain and adds, “Take her inside the lounge and make sure to keep the detail tight.”
Cain nods. “Got it.”
Malachi lets go of my hand, turning on his heel to follow the manager toward the aircraft and I turn to follow Cain toward the side entrance of the terminal building.
Four of the six guards spread out around us, their hands loose near their holsters, scanning the tarmac. The other two stay stationed near the base of the plane where Malachi is currently talking to the mechanic.
The private VIP lounge is down a short, carpeted hallway.
It turns out to be a quiet room with leather couches and tinted windows overlooking the runway.
I immediately walk over to the window, peering through the glass as I look for Malachi.
From here I have a clear view of the tail of the plane, and I can see Malachi standing beneath the wing, talking with the manager, his shoulders looking tense.
Suddenly, Cain’s burner phone buzzes loudly in his pocket, and I freeze, expecting the worst news. He pulls it out, glancing at the screen with a frown on his face.
“Talk to me... Yeah? Where?” He turns away from me, walking a few steps toward the entrance. “Hold the perimeter, I’m coming out.”
“What happened?” I ask.
Cain lowers the phone and looks back at me. “There’s a vehicle parked too close to the outer gate. It has unregistered plates.” He then turns to the other two guards. “You two, come with me to check it out.”
The two men step forward, falling in line behind Cain as he heads back toward the main lobby. “Stay outside the door,” Cain orders to the remaining four guards stationed in the hallway.
The wooden door of the lounge shut behind them, leaving me alone with the four men and the annoying muffled sound that the air conditioner is making.
I turn back to the window to look at Malachi, who is still under the wing of the plane.
I watch him reach out, grabbing the manager by the collar of his uniform, lifting him slightly off his feet as he says something.
A cold shiver runs down my spine, all of my instincts starting to scream at the sight in front of me.
Something is wrong.
I don’t wait for proof that my gut feeling is right and I take a step toward the door, with the intention to go out there, to pull Malachi away from the plane.
But before I can make it anywhere, the door to the lounge opens and I see a man in a clean airport security uniform stands in the threshold of the door.
He isn’t one of Malachi’s men, and he isn’t one of the four guards assigned to keep me safe.
“Mrs. Kavanagh.” His cap is pulled low over his forehead, casting his eyes in shadow as he speaks.
“Who are you?”
“There’s been another change,” the security officer says, stepping into the room.
His eyes remain fixed at the floor, avoiding to make eye contact with me.
“Mr. Kavanagh issued an immediate reroute. The main tarmac has been flagged by federal transport inspectors and he wants you moved through the service corridor to the secondary hangar immediately.”
“No,” I say, taking a step back toward the window. “Malachi didn’t say anything about a service corridor. If he changed the plan, he would come here and tell me himself.”
“Ma’am, we don’t have time to argue,” The officer insists, taking another step forward, his hand dropping to his utility belt. “The perimeter is being swarmed. Mr. Kavanagh gave explicit orders to get you out of this building right now.”
“Get out,” I snap, my voice rising as I reach into my bag for my phone. “I’m calling him.”
Before my fingers can pull out the phone, heavy boots slam against the carpet behind me and the two guards who were supposed to be standing outside the lounge door step inside.
“What are you doing?” I demand, doing my best to hide my trembling hands. “Where are the other two guards?”
Neither of them answers.
Before I can scream for Cain, before I can run toward the window, the larger of the two guards lunges forward, a heavy hand clamping over my mouth, cutting off my breath and choking back the sound I desperately try to make.
The second guard is behind me in a flash, wrenching my arms back with force, pinning my wrists behind my spine so hard my shoulders pop.
My phone slips from my fingers, making a noise as it hits the carpet.
I kick back with the heel of my boot, connecting hard with his shin, but the guard doesn’t even flinch. He just tightens his grip, dragging me backward off my feet.
“Quiet,” a harsh voice hisses in my ear.
Panic surges through my veins, completely blinding.
The airport security officer steps forward, casually picking up my dropped phone and slipping it into his pocket.
He opens a heavy, unmarked side door I hadn't noticed in the corner of the room, leading out into the gray, concrete labyrinth of the service corridor.
It was all a setup.
They hauled me into this room just long enough to isolate me from Cain, from the loyal men, and from Malachi.
Right now, somewhere out on the tarmac, Malachi is still standing under the wing of a phantom plane, arguing with a dead man, completely unaware that the ground has just opened up beneath us and swallowed me whole.
When the gray walls of the service corridor gives way to the blinding glare of the outer tarmac, and the low, heavy drone of an idling engine makes my brain hurt, I notice a black van waiting beside a rusted side-gate.
The guard holding my left arm shoves me forward, aiming for the open side door of the vehicle, but I drop my entire body weight straight down, pulling my shoulder hard against the awkward angle of the guard's grip, not allowing them to throw me inside.
The sudden, unexpected dead weight wrenches his wrist, causing his fingers to slip off my arm.
The second his grip loosens, I spin and drive my elbow backward into his ribs with everything I have. The guard lets out a sharp, surprised grunt, stumbling sideways, the exact counter-maneuver Malachi drilled into me.
Before the second man can react, I drop low, sweeping my hand straight to his belt. My fingers wrap around the cold, textured grip of the heavy hunting knife he carries in a leather sheath. I yank it free, the snap tearing open with a sharp pop, and slash upward before he can block me.
The steel blade slices deep across his forearm causing the blood to instantly drench his sleeve, looking disgusting on the gray fabric. The man curses, clutching his arm, his grip on me shattering completely.
Freedom is just within reach and I turn toward the open gate full of hope.
That’s when a shadow appears in front of me and a heavy hand slams into my collarbone with insane force, knocking the breath straight out of my lungs and sending me crashing backward onto the hard asphalt.
I look up only to face my worst nightmare.
Nolan Devlin.
He is standing over me, the familiar psychotic look in his eyes. I notice that he isn't wearing a suit today, which I assume makes it harder for people to recognize him. No one would look at the guy wearing a simple gray shirt and jeans when they look for the head of the Devlin family.
“Struggling doesn’t suit a princess like you, Jade.” He looks down at me like I’m an insect he stepped on by accident.
“Fuck you, Nolan,” I reply, trying to scramble back but he moves with terrifying speed, reminding me of the bad guys in horror movies who somehow always survive and always get the protagonist.
My heart sinks at the realization that I’m one of those protagonists and the monster has just gotten me.
He kicks my wrist away from the knife, pins my chest to the ground with his knee, and yanks my arms behind my back with a sickening jolt.
The sudden pain brings tears to my eyes, but I refuse to let him think he’s defeated me.
“Pick her up,” Nolan orders to one of the guards.
Two guards immediately obey and haul me upright by my arms. My feet barely touch the ground as they drag me across the open tarmac toward a white private jet with its twin turbines so loud I’m worried they might permanently deafen me.
The airstair is already down and the cabin door open and waiting.
Nolan walks beside us, his posture tense and his eyes scanning every movement around us.
“By the time your golden-boy husband realizes you’re missing,” Nolan speaks, leaning in close as the wind whips our hair, “we’ll be halfway across the Atlantic. He can tear down every warehouse I own, but he’ll never find you.”
I desperately continue my attempts to get out of their grips, refusing to surrender as long as I’m breathing. “You can go to hell!”
Nolan’s grin vanishes completely. “Drag her if you have to.”