Page 115 of Mile High Ruin

Camille is coming with us, and so is the copilot from the flight.

Neither of them is pleased about it.

I had Anton arrange transport for all three because until we know exactly when the tracker was placed in Sloane’s bag and who had access to the aircraft before departure, I’m not allowing anyone connected to that flight to disappear into an airport terminal and become impossible to monitor. Camille had access to crew areas, the copilot had access to flight information, and Sloane carried the device itself, which means all three remain part of the investigation whether they appreciate the distinction between protection and detention or not.

Sloane appreciates it least.

“Where are we flying?”

She asks the question in the back of the car while we are still several minutes from the airfield, sitting beside me with her recovered phone in one hand and a small paper cup of coffee in the other.

“You will know when we arrive.”

She gives me a long look. “You realize repeating that answer doesn’t make it less annoying.”

“It remains accurate.”

“You could tell me the country.”

“No.”

“The general direction?”

“No.”

“A continent?”

“We are remaining in Europe.”

She turns toward the window. “How generous.”

I almost smile.

What continues to surprise me is that she is not frightened.

She should be. She knows enough now to understand that the men around her are not merely private security, that the attack last night was directed at me, and that whoever planted the tracker used her belongings to make it possible. She has also spent the morning discovering that I’m perfectly willing to control where she goes until I have answers.

Yet fear is not what I see when she looks at me.

Annoyance, certainly. Curiosity. Suspicion. Occasionally enough desire to become inconvenient. But very little fear.

Camille is different. We meet her at the airfield just after sunrise, and the change in her is obvious the moment she climbs out of the vehicle that brought her.

She still looks immaculate because years in private aviation have apparently trained her to survive disaster without allowing her blouse to crease, but there are shadows beneath her eyes and a tension around her mouth that was not there yesterday. She checks the perimeter twice before walking toward us, and when a security vehicle moves suddenly near the hangar, she flinches.

Sloane notices immediately. She leaves my side without saying anything and goes to her.

Camille takes both of Sloane’s hands. “Oh, thank God.”

“I’m okay.”

“I heard what happened with Warren after they moved me away from the aircraft, and then the shooting started, and I couldn’t get back to you.”

“You were supposed to stay down.”

“I know, but⁠—”

“You’re okay. I’m okay. That’s enough for now.”