Chapter 15
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Alistair’s inner circle doesn’t shake easily. The pop of the next champagne cork might as well be the group’s pressure valve releasing. A few wobbling laughs steady, and the guys start their own conversations to shake off the fact that we just watched a man get discarded into traffic.
My pulse won’t slow so easily.
Jake wraps me in a hug because I’m still pressed against him.
“Shit. Sorry,” I mutter, shifting sideways into Nico’s old seat. It’s still warm.
Jake’s mouth quirks. “Peg me against the wall anytime, Marky.” He pours two flutes of champagne and hands me one with a wink that’s either real or perfectly practiced. “So you’re a painter?”
“Modern art, mostly.” Lying directly to him feels worse than lying to the group. “What about you?”
“Tech founder.”
I choke.
“That surprising?”
“Sorry. Wrong pipe,” I lie, wiping my mouth. “Thought you were a model or something.”
“Say more.” He bats his lashes, then drops the bit. “No time for modeling. My co-founder and I are totally panicked about our series B.”
He gives my hand a quick squeeze, then flicks his gaze to the camera and back. That must be why he’s here.
I return the squeeze, aiming away from flirtation and towards gratitude for the truth, but it’s kind of a hard mark to hit with one small gesture.
“What’s your company do?”
“Health tech,” he says. “Using AI to spot life-threatening illnesses early. And don’t you dare go dystopian on me.
We’re not building robot nurses who will take over the world.
We launched with a model that catches pancreatic cancer earlier, and there are a thousand other diseases waiting for early detection. ”
His eyes flick to the camera and back.
“You serious? You built the tech?”
“Yeah, kind of. Me and a whole team, but coding’s the easy part. The paperwork, HIPAA, FDA pathways, convincing people to share data, getting enough traction to matter… that’s the real pain in the ass.”
I blink at him, stunned. “I had you pegged all wrong.”
“Good.” He winks again. “But for the record, I did model. Once. In college… for a horse catalog.”
A blond guy leans in from the opposite seat. He’s the one who shoved me last night, but his grin tells me he’s forgotten it.
“Twelve whole hours to mention the horse thing?” he says.
“Fuck you, Linus,” Jake mutters. “Marky thought I was a model.”
“Please tell me you didn’t,” Linus groans.
“Shirtless cowboy number five,” Jake says, pointing to himself, and I catch his infectious smile.
“So I’m in the presence of a mega superstar,” I jab.
Jake buries his face in one shoulder, pretending to blush. “Royalty.”
“You’re creating a monster,” Linus sighs.
I offer my hand. “Marcus.”
Linus places his hand in mine, wrist up like a dainty curtsy. “Linus. Pleased to meet you.”
“Linus is a ballerina,” Jake teases.
“Ballerino,” Linus corrects.
“Whatever.”
“I don’t ‘whatever’ your AI horror show,” Linus shoots back. “At least dancing doesn’t threaten civilization.”
“Your stupidity might, though. Imagine the lives that won’t be saved if everyone’s as afraid as you.”
Linus lifts his glass. “To our mutual stupidity, then.”
I clink my glass. Cheers to that.
Across from us, Brad peers over his book out the window as the limo pulls beyond the airport’s gate and straight onto the tarmac. Everyone leans forward, faces pressed to the windows like we’re on a guided tour and our next exhibit is the private jet gleaming on the runway ahead of us.
“We’re here!” Linus sings as the driver opens the door.
I take the driver’s hand and step onto the runway. Complete with sleek curves and a cockpit with windows like twin pitch-dark eyes, Alistair’s private jet is a white diamond against the dull gray sky and runway.
With no terminal or security line, there’s nothing but a red carpet leading to a staircase ascending to the open door.
Linus runs past me, dragging Jake behind him.
I walk to the driver. “Uh, you have my bag, right?”
“In the trunk. But it’s no problem, sir. I’ll load it for you.”
“Actually, I need it. Got my laptop, and I want to put my new book in there.”
“As you wish.”
We go to the trunk while the others parade up the carpet.
The driver reaches for my bag, but I take it before he can.
Between the million-dollar book that isn’t worth a tenth of that and my laptop doubling as my pathetic spy kit, my bag can’t leave my side.
I sling it on and catch up just as Brad steps onto the stairs.
“After you,” I say.
He rolls his eyes and steps up ahead of me.
Inside, the jet is chrome and crimson leather.
There’s a full bar, which at this point is no surprise.
A wall-sized screen behind it outlines our path to a remote island that’s nothing but a splotch of brown amid blue ocean.
I catch myself smiling before guilt tries to wipe it away.
I force it back. I’m here to expose Alistair, not join him.
Though looking like I’m enjoying this is all part of my cover.
Brad’s huddled toward the cockpit, whispering to Alistair, low and fast. I catch the word Nico before Alistair spots me looking and returns a thin smile that makes my arm hairs stand on end.
I nod. You fucking creep.
Jake waves me over, pointing to the lone empty seat behind his row. The seats are assigned, and Dae’s my seatmate. He sits up so I can slide into the window seat marked by an envelope sealed with red wax and the same gold initials Alistair had worn while getting hard: AB.
I pick it up to sit and nudge Dae. “Should I?”
He nods.
Tearing it open lets a notecard slide from a folded sheet adorned with calligraphy elegant enough for a wedding invite… or a contract with the devil.
It reads: Stay in role. Stay in bounds.
Charming. Beneath the not-so-subtle title are nine names. Mine’s last. Smaller words elegantly sit beside each name, and I scan them, looking for one I can decipher. I find Jake’s name before I can help myself.
JAKE: Asphyxiation. Pee. Safe word, “MYCIN.”
My pulse kicks as I steal glances down the list. I don’t even know all their names yet, and I’m holding their emergency exits in my lap. It’s intel, evidence, fucking proof he’s gift-wrapped in gold ink like Alistair can’t imagine anyone would dare use it against him.
I scan the list of boundaries beside each name to find most of equal length except for Brad, who only has one word beside his name.
brAD: Family. Safe word, “My Little Pony.”
Nico brought up Brad’s mom. That’s why he’s out.
But then, why isn’t Nico’s name on the list? And why are there only nine other seats besides Alistair’s?
The answer’s clear. The limo ride was a purge that eliminated a player who was never meant to make it to the island. I’m still in play, but my name’s on the list, without a single boundary or safe word beside it.
I flip over the card to find the solution and almost puke.
As a reporter, I’m supposed to ask the questions and chase the answers. That’s not how this works. The notecard is asking a laundry list of intimate questions, and it only takes a glance to know I’m not ready to answer any of them.
It could be a prank if I hadn’t seen what happens when someone crosses a boundary.
It could be funny if the jet engines weren’t beginning to roar.
Instead, it’s a fucked-up trap snapping shut around Alistair’s fox in the henhouse.
My eyes blur over the list of questions, each one more embarrassing than the last. Answering them is my only protection, but it also means handing Alistair the darkest corners of who I am, like chewing off my own leg just to get free.
Time to get to work.