Page 22 of Mile High Heist

Row ten.

The back of my neck prickled. Approaching a lion with my back turned probably wasn’t the smartest idea. Subtly, I bent down to open the utensil compartment, shooting a glance behind me.

Peter was mid-conversation with a woman sitting directly across the aisle. She was clearly enraptured with him, her laptop screen gone dark. I couldn’t see the briefcase.

Rising, I shot Julie what I hoped was a commiserating smile as we shuffled down the remaining two rows.

Don’t screw this up.

I swore I felt Madoc’s gaze from his seat on the other side of the cabin. I knew he had eyes on the mark. Would he step in if things got dicey? Would he use that stupid broken pen to save me? Or would he sit back and enjoy the show?

Anything was possible with him. He was an infuriating enigma who made no secret of his dislike for me.

Snippets of the conversation reached me as I crossed the final distance.

“…two types of people, the ones who starve and the ones who feed on watching…”

Jesus.

The worst part was Peter’s smile. It was blindingly charming, contradicting the creep factor. The woman was nodding along, like it all made perfect sense. A simple nudge and she’d wander willingly into the oven.

I came to a stop between them and plastered on a thousand-watt smile. “Anything to drink?”

The woman ordered a chai tea. She was older than me, around Molly’s age. In fact, she kind of reminded me of my sister. Molly had also been on the fast track to becoming a lawyer. She had a fellowship at Columbia and everything. Then a man like Peter Vincilli had come along and ruined her.

Anger stirred in my chest. I swallowed it down.

Peter was watching me.

Those unsettling, icy blue eyes were mapping every inch of my face, his smile never wavering. Him and Madoc would make a hell of an unstoppable duo. Both were equally unnerving.

“Nothing for me,” Peter said.

I nodded and smiled.

“But,” he added before I could initiate plan fake protocol, “maybe you can take this from me? I wouldn’t want it to slip off and hurt someone.”

He extended the briefcase toward me.

I blinked. Carefully, I reached out toward it, trying not to seem too eager.

He was giving me the briefcase.

He was giving me the briefcase, and I hadn’t even asked for it.

It had to be a test. Or, like, a weird trap. Nothing was ever this simple, especially from psychopaths like him.

As soon as my fingers brushed the briefcase, he pulled it back. I grabbed at empty air.

“Emily,” he mused, reading my name tag. “Funny. You don’t look like an Emily.”

Oh god, what did that mean?

Was he calling me out?

He held my eyes, unblinking, as if trying to hypnotize me. I suspected it was working. I had the overwhelming urge to drop and scurry to the nearest exit.

“Who do I look like?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.