A thin woman with sculpted eyebrows glanced up from her computer. “Excuse me?”
“The private terminal. Where is it?”
“Do you have a reservation, sir?”
He slammed his fist down on the counter. “For fuck’s sake, where’s the goddamn private terminal?”
Her eyes widened, and her lip trembled. She pointed a shaking finger. “G-go outside those doors and to the right. It’s about a five-minute walk, then you’ll see a big sign pointing it out on the right. But they won’t let you in without a—”
He took off. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have security on his ass in a matter of seconds. His thighs burned as he ran flat out. Motorcycle boots weren’t made for running, the leather pulled and rubbed his ankles raw, but he ignored the discomfort. He’d suffered far worse for far less.
Crowds parted with shrieks and yelps as he sprinted outside. Most people probably thought he was simply late for a flight. Thankfully, as he ran outside toward the private terminal, the number of travelers thinned to a mere few.
Not too many people with enough cash to fly private.
Within ninety seconds, the sign for the private terminal came into view.
Still sprinting, he rounded the turn with a wide arch. After throwing the entrance door open, he skidded to a stop.
A small TSA checkpoint with only one agent stood between him and the private tarmac.
Fuck. How the hell was he supposed to get through—Devos appeared from the small, posh lounge next to the gate. He spoke with the agent, pointed to Scott, then spoke again. The agent nodded and waved Scott over.
“Good afternoon, sir. Mr. Devos tells me you’ll be his guest on the jet this afternoon.”
Scott’s heart hammered. He wanted to punch this guy in the face and rush outside, but he held back. “That’s correct.”
“Okay, come on through.”
That’s it?
He must have looked as confused as hell because Devos smirked.
No ticket? No boarding pass? No weapons scan? Shit, the other half lived a nice life.
He kept his face neutral so the TSA agent wouldn’t uncover exactly how frantic he was to get the fuck outside and on Lance’s plane.
Without speaking, Devos guided him outside onto the tarmac
Three planes were near the building. One single-engine prop plane and two impressive jets that must have set some rich people back quite a few million bones.
Which was Lance’s jet? Was he on it now? Was Liv on it with him?
“That one,” Devos whispered, gesturing to the farthest plane.
Scott shot a text to Tracker, Lock, and Curly, letting them know exactly where he was and which plane he’d be boarding.
“The guy is on board, not sure about the woman. Do you need help?” Devos asked.
“No.” If he were smart, Scott would wait for backup. At least wait until Tracker and Lock arrived, no one had ever mistaken him for Einstein.
Waiting wasn’t an option. Now was his best chance to slip onboard the jet unnoticed.
A few airport employees scurried around, but none paid him any attention. They all seemed far more concerned with their jobs than two passengers seemingly enjoying the sunshine as they waited to depart.
“I may need help after, depending on how this goes down.” Translate, he might need help or a distraction while the Handlers removed a dead body.
“Anything you need. I’ll push back my departure time.”
Scott held out his hand. “Thank you.”
“Any time. I mean it.” Devos shook it, then turned and walked back into the lounge.
Scott ran across the tarmac to the stairs outside the jet, scanning the area the entire sprint. Not for the first time, he wished he wasn’t wearing clunky boots, but kicking them off would be fucking stupid and eliminate the possibility of a quick escape should he need one.
He took the stairs with as much stealth as possible. As he reached the top, he frowned. Where was the flight attendant? And what the fuck was that ragged, gravelly whisper?
He stepped onto the plane.
One glance of the pasty white ass standing, legs spread over one of the plane’s seats was all it took for Scott to know he’d walked in on his worst nightmare. He didn’t need the sight of Liv’s sneakers to realize it was her. The sick feeling in his gut told him all he needed to know.
Scott had been in plenty of fucked-up situations before. His entire time in special forces trained him to deal with the most fucked conditions. None were more fucked-up than the days spent in captivity with Deke.
Until now.
Every ounce of training he’d suffered through flew out the window. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t plan or temper his actions.
He could only feel and react.
And what he felt was a flash of blinding rage so white-hot it burned through him and propelled him toward Lance.
With the roar of an enraged animal, he charged Lance. The man jumped and spun around just as Scott reached him. He grabbed the front of Lance’s pressed shirt and flung him away from Olivia with so much force that Lance hurtled into the opposite wall of the plane.