“Wait a damn minute,” I say, putting up my hand. “Nobody’s fucking on this plane with me on it.” I grab Pearl and then my gun and shove past them toward the exit. “I’m surrounded by crazy people.”
Niklas meets me in the rental car not even a full minute later; he jumps in the driver’s seat, starts the engine. Before he puts the car in gear, he looks over at me. I think he’s going to say something about our argument, about me being the biggest bitch on the planet—I want him to—but the hope fizzles out of me when he says instead, “I’m going to make this clear—if Olivia Bram isn’t there, we can’t wait for her, and we can’t stay here another night; I know you want to save her but—”
“But you’re right,” I cut in. “When they find Francesca, it won’t be long before they find us. I know we have to get out of here, and soon—we probably shouldn’t even be going for her now. Do you think he’s a mob boss or something; Vincent Moretti?”
Niklas puts the car in drive and we speed away.
“Whatever or whoever he is,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road, “he’s going to be pissed, and he’s going to be looking for all three of us. There were cameras in every room of that mansion—I’m sure I’m on camera…killing Francesca, among other things.”
And our DNA: on the wine glasses; Nora’s fingerprints on the wall where Niklas whipped her; my hair all over the floor. It was all unavoidable really; if things had gone as planned and we pulled off kidnapping Francesca we still would’ve been hunted down to a degree, but if there’s a Papa Bear out there more terrifying than Francesca, that changes things a lot. The only thing that gives me comfort is that no matter what traces of our identities we had to leave behind, we’re all still very hard to find, having no real lives outside of Victor’s Order, no paper trails, not much of anything. But all it takes is one break, one tiny thing, and we could end up as dead and forgotten as the people we’re commissioned to kill.
Wait…what did Niklas mean by ‘among other things’?
I’m not even going to ask.
My vision blurs into the colors on the GPS screen.
Fredrik
Atlantic Ocean – 3:15 a.m.
I think Dorian Flynn knew something wasn’t right the second he got the call, when Victor told him to meet us on an old fishing boat named Valerie Lou. But the guy came anyway, and I have to respect him for that. The three of us have been coasting over the water, moving farther out to sea for an hour now, but I feel the boat slowing, hear the engines shifting as our driver—Mack works for Victor, too—finally brings us to a stop in the desolate Atlantic. The boat stinks of fish, but I’m used to it living on the coast; and it’s filthy, with rusted hooks and dry rotted nets and…well, it’s a shithole of a boat and I’m going to need a shower after this.
For a few minutes all I can hear is the water gently slapping the side of Valerie Lou as she bobs on the surface. No one speaks. No one clears a throat. No one moves so not even the shifting of fabric interrupts the sound of the water. But in spite of the almost perfect silence, the thoughts going through all of our minds—mostly Dorian’s, I’m sure—are loud enough to be felt.
Then Dorian leans over and takes off his boot, just one boot, which I find odd.
“Can’t say I didn’t expect this,” he says.
He stands up.
“I’m not gonna try talking you out of it,” he goes on, looking only at Victor. He smiles, and a sort of peace passes over his eyes under the moonlight. “A part of me wanted to; but the truth is that I was always afraid to do it myself, so you’re doing me a favor.”
Victor nods respectfully.
“Will you at least—?”
“I will make sure Tessa gets the safety deposit key,” Victor says.
“Thanks.”
More silence.