Page 9 of Mile High Heist

As soon as I had a moment alone, I sent the alert to the crew.

PRINCESS: ROW 12. Seat 44H. Briefcase.

SUNSHINE: Got it. I can see him.

SUNSHINE: Hang on a hot second…

SUNSHINE: R u yanking me right now?

SUNSHINE: what a fuckin smoke show!

I slapped a hand over my mouth, muffling my laughter. Ryle was completely unfiltered.

For the next half hour, I was on luggage duty. My upper body strength was tested as I heaved bag after bag into the overheads. My phone buzzed again, but I couldn’t check it. The most important part now was not blowing my cover.

Just fourteen hours, I told myself. You’ve survived worse things.

The thought had barely crossed my mind when something hard smashed into my ribs. I gasped as pain lanced up my side. I grabbed onto the nearest seat for balance.

“Move aside, blondie.”

A short, jowly man sneered up at me, cradling his sharp overnight bag to his chest as if I had damaged it. Biting back a groan, I straightened.

Lucille’s stern voice rattled through my head. Be calm, speak slowly, smile, never argue.

“I’m sorry about that, sir,” I forced out with a tight grin.

“Hmph.” His dark eyes daggered over me, like I was a bug beneath his expensive Italian loafers. My smile, like my ribs, cracked.

“You should know better than to march us business members through economy,” he said loudly. Heads turned toward us, sensing blood. “I’ve never received this treatment on Delta.”

My face burned at the attention. “Oh, well, um—”

“It’s a bloody insult!” he sneered. The silence around us became sharper. Locked in. I practically felt Lucille’s eyes scratching down my spine.

Smile. Don’t argue.

Don’t wedge your heel into his balls.

“It’s just—you see—the protocol—” My words weren’t wording. The demon in my belly returned with a gleeful twist. Perfect timing.

My chest tightened in panic. Every eye trained on me felt accusatory. FRAUD. IMPOSTER.

I couldn’t get caught. I couldn’t fail Preacher. I couldn’t lose Molly again. I couldn’t—

Suddenly, fingers brushed lightly across my lower back. The effect was instantaneous. My chest loosened. Precious air rushed into my lungs.

The short man opened his mouth, prepared to lash me for my blunder, when his eyes flicked over my shoulder. Whatever he saw made his mouth snap shut. He paled dramatically.

Wariness crept over me. I knew of only two people who could inspire that kind of fear.

“Never mind,” the man said, quieter now, subdued. Quickly, he retreated the wrong way down the aisle.

Steeling myself, I turned around.

Madoc met my gaze evenly, looking utterly bored. I swallowed my surprise at the sight of him. He was wearing a pitch-black suit, black shirt, no tie. His ink-dark hair was combed back, a few insurgent strands brushing his temples. Unlike Jax, Madoc was sharp without looking polished. His shirt was unbuttoned at his throat, tattoos stark against his skin. He’d removed his piercings, but the absence of them was just as jarring. His green eyes were vacant as always, unnerving in their lifelessness.

“Thank you,” I managed to spit out. My gaze drifted automatically over his shoulder, where it was safe.