“I really was going to tell you everything this afternoon.”
“Why today?”
“I wanted to come clean before we had dinner with your family. I didn’t want to lie to them.”
“But lying to me was okay?”
“No, it wasn’t. I should have been honest with you from the start. I never thought my past would blow back on you though, because I really didn’t think they could find me.” He didn’t reply, so after a pause I said, “The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you, Arie.”
“But here we are.”
With that, he went into the bedroom and shut the door, leaving me alone with my guilt.
13
Armando
I was shaking with anger as I climbed into bed fully clothed and pulled the covers over my head. I couldn’t quite decide how much of it was directed at Salvatore, and how much was aimed at the fucking assholes who’d plucked us out of our lives and thought they could force us to do whatever they wanted.
It tied my stomach in knots. But even though I hated feeling like this, I wanted to hold on to that anger. The alternative was to feel scared and helpless, and that was so much worse.
I needed to be strong and figure out what the hell I was going to do. Not that there was anything I could do right now, obviously. I was on a jet, thousands of feet in the air. I’d have to let these people take me to that studio Cavendish had mentioned. Salvatore said it would take a few weeks to complete the forgery, which meant I’d have some time to come up with a plan. I had to decide between trying to escape, or believing them when they said they’d turn us loose at the end.
A cold tendril of fear snaked down my spine, but I pushed it aside and focused on the anger. I wrapped it around myself like armor. It was that or cry, and if I started crying I was afraid I might totally break down.
Surprisingly, I actually fell asleep at some point. An annoyingly perky flight attendant woke me to let me know we’d be landing in fifteen minutes, and that I’d need to be in a seat with a seatbelt on when that happened.
I sat up and pushed my hair out of my eyes as I asked, “Landing where?”
“At a private air strip.”
“In what country?”
He flashed me a bright smile. “I’m sorry sir, I’m not at liberty to discuss that. May I bring you a cup of coffee, or a glass of orange juice?”
I got out of bed and told him, “You know you work for a bunch of lowlife kidnappers, right? You should really reconsider your career choices.” His smile never faltered.
I went into the small bathroom, which was stocked with grooming supplies. After I used the toilet, I took a few moments to brush my teeth and comb my hair. Then I stuck the comb and toothbrush in the back pocket of my jeans. Even though my overnight bag had made it onto the plane, I had no idea if they’d actually give it to me once we landed.
When I stepped out of the bedroom, Salvatore glanced at me before lowering his gaze with a guilty expression. He looked tired and rumpled. I wasn’t ready to deal with him, so I returned to the seat at the back of the main cabin.
Minutes later, I gritted my teeth through another landing. All I could see outside the window were trees. I had no idea where I was, but Cavendish had said this was an eleven-hour flight, which might put me somewhere in Europe.
Being outside the US without a passport was scary as hell. How would I get home if and when I escaped, or if they actually let me go? That was a problem for later, though.
Pretty soon, a staircase was wheeled over, and the flight crew opened the door. An armed man dressed in black exited first. Salvatore grabbed both of our bags, and I followed him off the plane with another armed man on my heels.
I held up a hand to shield my eyes from the bright sunlight and looked around. All I saw was the runway and a small hangar, surrounded by a spindly forest. There were probably people who could identify this location by knowing what types of trees they were, but I wasn’t one of them.
A moment later, two Land Rovers pulled up, and two more thugs got out and joined the collection. So did a well-groomed man in a three-piece suit, who reminded me of Cavendish. Apparently that Ashcroft asshole had one of these guys in every country.
He strode over to us and smiled as he said, with a refined British accent, “Welcome, gentlemen. I’m Mr. Fitzpatrick,” as if we were his guests and not his prisoners. He gestured toward the SUVs and continued, “If you’ll come this way?—”
“No.” I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.
“It wasn’t a request, sir.”
“Neither is this. I need to make a phone call. I’m a business owner, with a staff and customers who depend on me. I need to tell them I’m going to be out for a few weeks. I also need to be told whenever my staff or my son send me a text, and I need to be allowed to reply. You don’t have to worry about me giving away my location, because I have no fucking idea where I am. But those are my requirements. If they’re met, you’ll have my full cooperation. And believe me, this’ll go much better for everyone involved if I cooperate.”
