Echo, p.19
Echo, page 19
Arms crossed, Conlon grinned. “Do I get to guess? November was sparse on the details.”
I glanced toward the airport entrance. “You got your laptop?”
Conlon’s expression sobered. “Always. What’s up?”
I handed him my cell. “Once we’re airborne, watch the video. I have less than twenty-four hours to find the person in that footage and bring him in.”
Conlon took my cell. “Not that you’ll usually hear me say this, but wouldn’t November be a better choice for this?”
“I don’t trust him, and I’m not asking you to only find him.”
Conlon picked up on where I was taking this. “You want me to bring him in.”
“Yeah.”
“Dead or alive?”
“Alive.” He’d be useless to me dead.
“Right. Not really my specialty.”
I knew what Vance “Victor” Conlon was. Him and Whiskey were the same brand of fuck-you-up. Pretty boys who blended in anywhere and smiled right before they took you out. Which was exactly why I needed him to do this. No one would see him coming. “You in or out?”
“Will I need backup?”
“No.”
He chuckled. “That means yes.” He dropped the smile and the bullshit carefree attitude. “Okay, I’m intrigued. I’m in, but on one condition. No, two.”
Fuck me. “What?”
“I bring in Whiskey and Delta.”
My jaw clenched, and I started to protest. “Hell n—”
The prick held a hand up. “We both know when you say I don’t need backup, that doesn’t actually mean I won’t need backup. It means the situation is FUBAR, probably something you’d shoot your way out of if you weren’t busy playing knight in shining armor. But since I prefer not to get shot, I have discretion on bringing them in.”
Scanning the apron, taking two seconds to rein it in because he wasn’t a hundred percent wrong, I conceded. “Fine. You can bring them in, but only if necessary. Second condition?”
“You don’t shoot me if I accidentally kill whoever your mystery player is.”
I leveled him with a look.
“Right.” He drew the word out on an exhale, then inhaled. “Okay. Alive it is. Anything else I need to know?”
I gave him the bottom line. “You say a word about this to anyone, you don’t properly cover your tracks, you don’t find this fucker, we’ll both be dead.”
“Got it. Another day at the office.” Still holding my cell, he pocketed it and tipped his chin toward the SUV. “You going to tell me who she is?”
“No.” I glanced at a Principessa sitting in a Hummer. “Time to move. Cover.”
“Copy that.”
Opening the passenger door, I stood back only enough for her to get out.
Her gaze darted between me and Conlon before she lowered her head and stepped down.
Fighting the urge to put her in front of me or take her arm, I nodded toward the Gulfstream. “This way.”
“Where are we going?” she quietly asked.
“I’ll tell you later. We need to move.”
She hesitated, then walked toward the plane.
I followed, and Conlon fell in on our six, but she stopped at the airstairs.
“Problem?” I scanned the apron again.
“No.”
Her tone telling me nothing, I glanced back at the airport entrance.
Conlon, the fucker, grinned.
I fought for patience. “Get on the plane.”
She stepped to the side. “No, thank you.”
I glared. She stared, expression blank.
Too damn blank.
“Motherfucker,” I muttered. “I know that look.”
“I am not making a look.”
Her feet didn’t shift, and she didn’t bite her lip, but her tells were the same brand of fear I remembered. “Out with it, woman.”
She looked away from me. “I do not have anything to get out. I do not prefer to get on an airplane.”
Eyeing her, I read between the lines. “Get on a plane, or get on one with me?”
When she brought her gaze back to mine, I saw it. She wasn’t afraid of the damn plane. She was afraid of me.
“Is there a difference?” she asked, like she didn’t know the level of danger she was in.
“Yeah, a big fucking difference.” I’d spent seven years being a SEAL, and she had two other Tier One operators here. She had more trained protection within a ten-foot radius than she’d had over the past nine years combined. “You’re target practice, standing out here on the apron. Walk up the airstairs, or get a lift. Your choice, but make it quick.” Fuck intimate, I was officially out of patience.
“If I have a choice, then I prefer not to get on.”
“Get on the goddamn plane.”
“I do not want to.”
I stupidly took the bait. “Because?”
She inhaled, then dished out a side of Principessa in a rush of accented English. “Because the vein in the side of your neck gets bigger when you are angry. Your jaw clenches when you are very angry, and you spent the last half hour either holding a gun to my head or telling me you would kill me.” She clasped her hands. “I do not wish to get on a plane with you.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. Anything else you want to tell the whole goddamn world about me, woman?”
“Yes. You have too many tattoos.”
“Right.” Smiling, Conlon slapped me on the shoulder. “She has a point. About the whole gun thing. Not judging on the ink.” The fuck winked at her. “He’s a little trigger-happy. But if it makes you feel better, love, I’m armed. If he pulls his gun on you again, I’m happy to shoot him.”
I didn’t fucking speak. I drew. My aim honed, my barrel hit Conlon’s temple without me taking my eyes off her.
Conlon chuckled. “Like I said, trigger-happy.”
“Get on the fucking plane, Conlon.”
“Right.” The asshole grinned at her. “Introductions can wait, but feel free to share more stories any time you like, love.”
“Keep it up, motherfucker, and you’ll be my first bullet tonight.”
Holding his hands up, Conlon chuckled as he bypassed Sancia and went up the airstairs.
Holstering my Glock, I stared at a Principessa who was too damn beautiful for her own good. “Easy way or the hard way?”
“Would you have really shot him?”
Without hesitation. “Yes.”
“And me?”
“If I say no, will you get on the plane?”
She fucking bargained. “If you tell me the truth, I will think about it.”
“You do realize there are about three dozen sniper positions within a five-hundred-yard radius of us, right?” And those were just the ones I’d spotted with a quick glance.
She didn’t say shit. She stared.
Fuck me. “No,” I admitted.
“Ever?”
“Now you’re pushing it, Principessa.”
Watching me a beat longer, she slowly nodded, then turned and went up the airstairs.
Cursing under my breath, I scanned the apron one last time.
Then I followed her.
Sancia
I had only been on one other jet before in my life, so I did not have a large frame of reference, but this was the nicest airplane I had ever seen.
Supple cream leather, shining wood veneer, sleek design lines—if a plane could be a masterpiece in subtle elegance, this was it.
The handsome dark-haired man in the expensive suit that Erico had called Conlon was already sitting in the cockpit next to another man who was in a dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up. Wearing a headset, the other man was talking to someone I could not hear.
Both men had large muscles like Erico, and both had a dominant, dangerous air about them, but neither had the untamed, feral presence that Erico had.
I did not know if I should feel reassured by their presence or alarmed.
Mr. Conlon had said he would shoot Erico.
Erico had said he would shoot Mr. Conlon.
I just wanted to live in a world where no one shot anyone.
Closing the cabin door, Erico issued me an order. “Take a seat.”
“May I remove the vest?” It was making me feel more trapped than the beautiful plane.
Without comment and without making eye contact, he dropped his bag and the big gun on a seat, then his huge, deft hands undid the straps and he swiftly, but carefully, took the vest off me.
“Grazie,” I murmured as the rich, spicy scent of him surrounded me.
Tossing the vest on top of his bag, Erico gave me the same order as before, but this time in a quieter, rougher voice. “Sit.”
Not Erico, I reminded myself. Erik or Echo—I was not sure what I was supposed to call him in front of his… colleagues? Friends? Men who worked for him? Men he worked for? I did not know.
I did not know anything.
Not where we were going, not what Erico was planning, not what would become of me.
I was along for the ride, same as I had always been, being passed around and shuffled by men who told me what to do.
Tired and thirsty, hating how I wanted to lean into him every time I smelled him, I took the closest seat and buckled in. But the belt pulled at my coat, and I had to adjust it to hide my dress that was covered in the same tiny deep-vermillion-hued speckles that were on the back of my hand.
Checking his cell phone, Erico swore, then quickly moved to one of the windows as he called up to the men in the cockpit. “Zulu, Conlon, we’ve got company. Kill the cabin lights and get us wheels up, STAT.”
The overhead lights in the cabin dimmed as Mr. Conlon glanced out his window. “I see them. Zulu’s talking to ground control, requesting clearance to taxi, but we’re fifth or sixth in the queue.”
“Motherfucker,” Erico muttered as he moved to another window. “Just get us off the apron. Tell them it’s a medical emergency.”
Mr. Conlon’s hands moved across a complicated sea of buttons and switches in front of him before he put on his own headset. “Working on it.”
“Work fucking faster.” Reaching over me, Erico depressed a button, and his scent engulfed me again as the shade to my window closed.
The anxiety I had been desperately trying to ignore came back in full force. “Who is here?”
“Vincenzo and his men.” Erico moved across the aisle and started closing all the shades.
Suddenly, it felt like I did not have enough air. “What can he do? We are already on the airplane.”
Dialing his cell phone, Erico spared me a glance. “You don’t want to know.” His gaze went back to the one shade he had left open. “Alpha, Vincenzo’s SUVs are here. I need them detained…. Three this time. No…. Holding.”
Too constricted, too hot, and too many nerves running with nowhere to go, I felt as if I were choking. Not thinking, just wanting off the plane, I undid the top two buttons of my coat.
“Cleared for taxi,” Mr. Conlon called out as the plane began to back up.
“Alpha,” Erico barked into his phone. “I need a sitrep.” Holding the phone away, he yelled up to the front. “Zulu, don’t fucking taxi past them. Get us on runway one-nineteen.”
The man called Zulu pushed up the microphone on his headset. “We’d be fifth in the queue on one-nineteen. Runway six-twenty-four only has two takeoffs ahead of us.”
“Fuck.” Erico glanced out the window. “Take the shorter queue. Time?”
“Twelve to fifteen minutes,” Zulu replied.
“Copy.” Erico held the phone back to his ear. “No, not good enough. I need fifteen minutes, Alpha…. Don’t care. Make it happen.” He hung up.
The plane turned around.
My breaths came shorter.
“Zulu, hold position,” Erico called out.
“Ground control’s cleared us to taxi,” Zulu replied. “I can’t stall more than a minute.”
“That’s all we need.” Holding his cell, resting his hand on the gun at his waist, Erico stared out the window, and for a single moment, everything suspended.
The plane stilled.
The men were silent.
The engines quietly whined.
No one moved.
Then flashes of red and blue lights came through the open shade and danced across the inside of the cabin.
“Conlon,” Erico called out.
“See it, on it.” Mr. Conlon flipped down the microphone on his headset. “Teterboro ground, Gulfstream November six zero niner four Whiskey proceeding via taxiway Alpha to runway six-twenty-four.”
The engines whined louder.
The plane moved.
The flashing lights faded.
I inhaled.
Then a six-foot-six Enforcer who was too tall to stand completely upright in the cabin took the seat next to me, and his green-and-gold eyes met mine before dropping to my chest.
Echo
Jesus fucking Christ.
Her dress was covered in blood.
Something I should’ve thought of before I’d walked her out of the Manhattan office and put her in a stolen fucking Hummer.
Goddamn it.
Dialing a number I knew by heart, irrationally pissed my brother’s blood was on her, I fought to stop myself from ripping her damn clothes off for all the wrong reasons.
Two rings and the call was answered. “Housekeeping. May I help you?”
“I need service.”
“Of course, sir. Room number?”
I rattled off my AES ID number. “Seven-seven-five-one-three.”
“Thank you. Please hold, sir.”
A couple seconds later, November picked up. “Echo, line secure, you’re a go.”
“Don’t return the Hummer. It has trace evidence. I need it swept ASAP for blood, DNA, prints, the works.”
“Copy. Putting the order in now. I also got the request from Alpha for a new ID for her. Does she need anything from her purse or the contents that were left here?”
Didn’t know, didn’t care. “No, destroy it all. Timeframe on the ID?”
“A few hours. Where should I have it couriered to?”
Nice fucking try. “I’ll be in touch.” Hanging up, I stood and gave her an order. “Come on.”
She glanced nervously out the window, then at the cockpit. “We are about to take off.”
“Yeah, and you’re wearing a fucking Jackson Pollock.”
She looked down at herself.
“Good,” I said dryly. “You get the reference. Let’s go.”
She hesitantly unbuckled her seat belt. “Where?”
“You’re getting out of those clothes.” And I was going to destroy the evidence because that’s what I did.
I protected this woman.
Despite the shit I’d said to her, no matter how pissed I got, no matter who she’d fucked or what she’d done, I’d protect her.
Always.
I stayed away for nine goddamn years so I could protect her.
That shit hadn’t been for myself. I was never under the illusion that when all was said and done, I’d walk away unscathed. The second I’d executed my first hit, I’d made peace with the fact that I was going to hell. No God forgave that shit, and I was past caring.
But for some reason, I gave a damn about her fate, so here we were, on a ghost flight to hell. Then, if MacElheran came through, and if Conlon did his hacker shit, we’d be on an equally untraceable seaplane where I’d either fly her off the grid until I fixed this shit or accidentally crash the Cessna and kill us both.
Whatever the outcome, I wasn’t delusional. This was the Cosa Nostra, and each of our lives had been cast before we were born.
There were only two ways out of this.
Death or alliance.
Hoping for the latter, but planning for the former, I opened an overhead storage compartment in the aft cabin where Alpha’s woman had taken to stocking the Gulfstreams with some women’s clothing.
“Pick something,” I ordered before tipping my chin at the head. “Dump the clothes you’re wearing into the trash in the bathroom. Shower’s stocked with soap if you want to use it. Towels are in the cabinet to the right of the sink.” I turned to head back to my seat.
“Erik?”
Adding another word to the list of ones I hated to hear coming from her lips, I looked over my shoulder.
Pulling her jacket tighter around herself, she glanced around the cabin. “Is….” She cleared her throat, then looked back at me, except this time, her expression was locked. “Is this the plane?”
“What?”
“Your plane,” she amended.
Now I got it. “No. The past is in the past.” Where it needed to stay.
“Mr. Trefor’s?”
“Why?” Where the fuck was she going with this?
Inhaling, she squared her shoulders, straightened her spine and clasped her hands. “I do not have any money.”
A fresh level of anger hit, and I fucking stood there.
A Principessa with Vincenzo blood married to a Mantovani. This woman had one foot in two of the three Cosa Nostra famiglias. Female or not, she should’ve had fucking money.
My jaw ticked. “Ademaro didn’t give you an account?”
Her cheeks flamed, actually fucking flamed, like they did when she was three days shy of eighteen. “He gave me a credit card and some cash, but both are back on the desk in Mr. Trefor’s office.”
Her fucking purse. The only belonging she’d had, and I’d told November to destroy it all.
Jesus.
Her hands twisted. “I did not ask for more. I did not have the need, and I did not want… that money.”
That money.
Already going to hell, hating myself more every second I spent with her, I turned and lowered my voice. “Enlighten me, Principessa.” Like a tool, I purposely used her title. “Which ‘that money’ are you referring to? Your family’s money or mine? Because you don’t get any less made with one or the other.”
Her back went so fucking stiff, she looked like she was going to snap. “My father was not made.”
“Sure,” I snorted. “And neither was I.”
“Papà was not Cosa Nostra,” she argued.
“Right. Because the Vincenzo Don would’ve just handed over his only daughter to Santoro all those years ago without making your father swear omertà.”
