Page 24 of Mile High Heist

“I think he should be committed.”

“That’s not a no.”

“He’s a psychopath,” I said, refusing to glance at my reflection. At the lying liar. “I looked it up. He fits the bill.”

“Wouldn’t stop me,” Ryle said with a shrug. “The psychopath thing is just a sweetener. Like, obsessive devotion. Who doesn’t want that?”

“Me.”

“Girl. Please.”

I blushed and crossed my arms. “Just open the case, smart ass.”

“Right on it.” With a final click, the lid cracked open. We both froze, holding our breath. When nothing exploded or slithered out, Ryle cautiously lifted the lid all the way.

“Damn,” he said.

My shoulders deflated. “Damn,” I agreed sullenly.

The briefcase was empty. A decoy.

Which meant he’d hidden the prototype somewhere else.

And I needed to get a lot closer to him to find it.

Goodie.

8

JAX

“And so my first husband could never perform after nine pm...”

I grimaced and waved down the bartender for the third time in twenty minutes. Flying first class was supposed to be relaxing, but I was wound so tight, you’d think I’d smuggled a rod of cocaine up my ass.

We were barely three hours in. I’d set myself up on a padded stool at the bar, my hand itching near my pocket. The briefcase had been empty, just as we’d suspected. There was no question the fucker had the prototype on him in some capacity. Short of an actual ass-smuggling situation (which I wasn’t ruling out), we were stuck.

And that meant Olivia was still in the game.

I’d come to drown my anger when Martha followed me from her private suite. She had a full queen-sized bed, which she made a point of telling me. Then she’d set up shop beside me and ordered a martini.

At least the liquor was good.

Better than my usual watering hole, with their cheap beer and paint-stripping vodka. Noah, my alias, was probably the kind of uptight prick who enjoyed olives in his drink. He probably liked the little fucking napkins.

“I bet you don’t have that problem,” Martha rambled on, all but swinging on her stool. “Young, virile man such as yourself.”

The bartender gave me an amused look as he topped up my drink. I’d been forced to move onto soda and lime, virgin, because my patience was already razor thin.

Killing this woman with a barstool would probably throw a wrench in the plan.

Fun to imagine, though.

My phone buzzed, and I answered it automatically, cutting off Martha mid-rant.

“What?”

“Easy, lad. Just checking in.”