Turbulent Intrigue (Billionaire Aviators 4)

PROLOGUE

The house was in utter disarray, with the doors hanging on their hinges, the floors scattered with blood and soot, the walls torn to pieces, priceless paintings broken, vases shattered.

Nestor walked through the rubbish, his face blank, the men around him uneasily looking around as they carried weapons in their tense fingers. Slowly, the group advanced, walking through the hallways, practically hear

ing the cries for help.

It was over. The fight was over, but the blood splatter told the story of a vicious battle. War had been waged, and someone would pay the price. They moved to the kitchen, where the walls had been blown apart, where it was impossible to tell the blood from the ash.

Nestor stopped. His men were silent. Maybe it was seconds, and maybe time didn’t matter. But finally he looked up, his eyes filled with hatred, his body trembling.

“Find out who is responsible for this,” he said, his voice cold. “They will pay.”

Those were the last words spoken in this broken house. Revenge would come swift and with purpose. People would die.

CHAPTER ONE

ONE DAY EARLIER

His adrenaline pumping, Ace Armstrong watched as the final pieces went into place in the huge house he was using as a front to draw in the heavy players in this drug cartel. There was one person he was after in particular—Anton Pavlov. He was the worst of the worst in this twisted family, having killed hundreds of people with his own hands and thousands of others through his command.

But he couldn’t just go after Anton. He had to take down the entire gang. If he didn’t, there would be loose ends—there would be too many people seeking revenge. When this was over, Ace wanted it to be absolutely over. He wanted to be able to go home without putting his family in danger.

When he had walked away from those he loved so many years before, at the reading of his father’s will, when the old man had listed the provisions to earning their inheritances, he’d been angry. Over time, that anger had faded, but then he’d stumbled into a man who had recruited him for the CIA. He’d thought he’d found the right path in life. It had been the right thing for him for many years.

Now he was so hard from the outside in that he wasn’t sure his family would want him back. But the recent tragedies that had plagued his brothers had sent a yearning through him that made it impossible for him to stay away any longer. The sooner this case closed, the quicker he would be able to go home and make sure his loved ones were still okay.

“We’ve finished setting up, Mr. Smithers,” the caterer said, breaking Ace out of his reverie. He’d gone by the name Steve Smithers since this operation began. He didn’t hesitate at all when the man spoke to him.

“Very good, Emanuel. Thank you for the hard work,” Ace told him.

The man turned and walked away. Ace moved through the house. Everything was in perfect order. The lights, decorations, and food were good enough to host the president of the United States. That’s what it had taken to lead Anton, and his colleague Nixon, to Ace.

Hidden cameras covered every inch of the place, and Ace had three concealed weapons on him. The waitstaff were all undercover CIA agents who had orders to protect the operation at all costs. They wanted this documented, and they wanted to make sure no stone went unturned.

It was almost showtime. He was more than ready. One more quick walk-through, and then he went and changed. In the blink of an eye, people began moving through the large mansion.

The party was going off without a hitch, and Ace felt like a monkey in a suit in the custom-made tux that fit him to perfection. He had to dress the part of a successful member of the drug cartel. A lot of money passed between people in this business, and anyone who got in the way of that money trading hands would be eliminated. It was simply that cut-and-dried.

“He’s moving toward you.”

The slight nod of Ace’s head wouldn’t be noticed by any of the goons wandering this ridiculously spacious mansion. The heads-up was delivered to him through a nearly invisible earpiece by one of the men watching the cameras. The man prepped Ace so he was ready when Anton stepped up to him a couple of seconds later.

“You outdid yourself for this party,” Anton told him.

“Only the best for you. You told me this deal was big, so we want to make our guests comfortable,” Ace easily replied.

“You are my most trusted asset in this organization,” Anton told him. “Not an easy task in only four years.”

“I appreciate your trust in me,” Ace said, though the words practically choked him.

“Your body language is expressing rage. Better be careful,” the man in his headpiece said.

Ace forced himself to relax. It was almost time for this to go down. He certainly didn’t want to give himself away at the last minute. At least he didn’t have to try to smile. His reputation for being a coldhearted bastard was a useful tool.

“I want to thank you, Steve. You’ve been invaluable to me and have helped us make a lot of money,” Anton told him.

Though that was exactly what Ace had been trying to do—trying to ensure the trust of Anton. It still made him sick, how easily he’d been able to infiltrate the gang. He played the bad guy too well. Maybe that was truly who he was.

People who met him learned quickly not to cross him in any way. It had taken him time to cultivate the image of a stone-cold asshole. He took pride in passing that test—even if it was for the sake of the bad guys and to ensure his position to take them down. He feared, though, that it had changed him into the villain he’d been trying so hard to portray.

For eight years, Ace had worked for the CIA as an undercover agent with limited contact with the outside world. For the past four years, he’d been on one case, had been working on closing that case, ensnaring a world-renowned drug cartel who knew very well how to cover their tracks, how to keep in the shadows. He’d been their chief pilot, his past flying lessons coming in quite handy.

It had taken years for him to earn the trust of the top family members, but that was exactly what he’d done. And now it was almost over. He’d managed to make his entire family hate him—to keep them safe. But he wanted to go home, wanted to see if there was any way he could let go of this fake life he’d created and possibly have a different future than the one he’d lived since walking away from his family home.

There was a commotion by the door, and both Anton and Ace turned to see three large men walking into the room behind a small, older man wearing an original Westmancott suit that Ace knew was valued at over seventy thousand dollars. Money wasn’t something Ace had ever needed to worry about, growing up the way he had, but still, the thought of wearing something that ridiculous made him scoff at the drug dealer.

This was definitely a world where prestige and envy meant everything. No true emotion could ever be felt in a world of deceit and greed. Ace might have grown up with money, but he’d also had incredible parents. He could even admit he’d long ago forgiven his father for his meddling ways at the end of his life. While Ace might not have agreed with his father’s intrusive wishes, he could now let that go and move on, remembering his father for the many good years he’d given Ace and his brothers.