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“What’ve you got?”
“How far is your place from Asheville?”
“Depends on where.” My place, as Hammer put it, consisted of a little over a thousand acres that sat between Gatlinburg and Clingmans Dome on the Tennessee-North Carolina border.
“Biltmore area.”
“Two hours tops,” I told him.
“There’s a fancy new medical complex with a world-renowned stroke-rehab center. Want me to set something up?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll get your final flight leg rerouted too.”
“Thanks, Hammer.”
“I’d say you’re welcome, but I’m doing this for Siren.”
“Copy that.” I ended the call, knowing he wasn’t.
* * *
Once in the air, it took nine hours to fly from London to Chicago. From there, it would take another two hours to get to the airport in Asheville. After consulting with the nurse, I agreed to let the doctor fly back directly from Chicago since, so far, all he’d done was tell her to do things she already did without his prompting. I sent Jagger and Vex along with him to ensure he got his money and understood what would happen if he spoke a word about his trip to the States and back.
Every time I checked, Siren was asleep, which was the best thing for her. “You can take a break,” I told the nurse, who looked up from the book she was reading. “There are seats in the main cabin or the other stateroom. Whichever you prefer.”
She stood, checked the monitors, and walked out, closing the door behind her. I sat in the chair previously occupied by the doctor, whose presence did nothing more than assuage my fear that if something happened to Siren while we were in flight, I would be to blame.
I studied her frail form, wishing I could go back and put myself between her and the bullet I’d been sure killed her.
Had I done so, had it struck me instead, and had I lived, I never would’ve heard the end of it from her. She w
ould’ve lambasted me for thinking she needed my protection rather than going after Konstantine von Habsburg.
She didn’t remember, and maybe never would, but I had let him go to save her, without knowing if it would be possible, just that I had to try.
“Smoke?” Her eyes opened, and she looked around the stateroom.
“We’re in Chicago, still on the plane. The second leg of our flight should be underway soon.”
“Where are we going?”
I told her about the stroke-rehab center in Asheville and how I hoped we’d be able to work it out to stay at my ranch.
“Have I been there before?” she asked.
I shook my head. “The mission kept us in Europe for the last few months.”
“Tell me about it.”
“The ranch or the mission?”
She shrugged. “Both?”
Given I would avoid talking to her about the op during which she was shot, I started with the ranch.
“It sits a mile high on Walter Mountain and has one of the best views there is of the Smoky Mountains.”
