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“I'll call the general and tell him what happened," Grayson said. "Maybe he can call the tower at the airstrip and stall Delancey should he show up."
“Smart.”
Grayson made the call and put the phone on speaker. When he explained what happened, Rider was impressed with how well Grayson answered all of the general’s questions.
“I’ll call the airstrip,” the general said. “We’ll stop Delancey.”
“Thank you, sir.” Grayson disconnected. “Let’s hope I’m right in thinking Delancey is scared and is on the run.”
Forty-five minutes later, his cell rang again. Grayson answered and put it on speaker once more. “Yes, Liam.”
“We found her. They stopped at what we believe is a gas station about forty-minutes from Toronto.”
Rider blew out a breath. At least they were driving in the right direction. “How close are they to an airstrip for private planes?”
“Give me a second.” He came back on line a minute later. “About a half hour. Wait a second. The tracker stopped broadcasting again. Paris must be back in the car.”
“If Delancey plans to fly out of there, her tracker should come back on at least once more, assuming we’re still in range.”
“I’ll call if it does.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
While Paris was thankful they agreed to let her use the bathroom, the goon who’d walked her there had waited outside, preventing her from slipping out. The bathroom didn't have windows either, which meant there was no way to escape.
Too bad Delancey took her phone and left it on his desk, or she could have tried texting the men. At least if anyone searched his office, they’d find her cell there, which would hopefully point a finger at her father.
When she returned to the car, they put on the blindfold and the cuffs again. She complained once more that they hurt, but neither seemed to care.Assholes.
Paris would have asked how much farther, but that would only make them angrier. If they truly believed she was too afraid to do anything, they might become careless.
Needing to conserve her strength, she leaned her head back and tried to rest. Plotting ways to escape was futile until she knew what she was up against.
Delancey didn’t make any more calls or talk to his driver, which prevented her from figuring out their next move. She could only hope Rider and Grayson were tracking her movements.
Paris must have dozed, because the car stopped and then the door opened. “Come on,” the driver said.
He took off the blindfold. Whoa. She was at a seemingly empty airport with one plane on the tarmac.Fuck. The men would have no chance of finding her if they flew someplace.
When she scooted out of the car, she looked around, hoping to sense Rider and Grayson. Surely, she’d be able to tell if they were there, but no other werewolf signatures were present.
The door on the private jet opened, and a man in uniform, who she assumed was the pilot, walked down the stairs. The goon uncuffed her, which was a relief, but when he grabbed her arm and dragged her forward, it hurt worse.
“Don’t try anything,” he grunted at her.
She was no track star. If she ran, any one of the men could have shifted and taken her down in seconds. As much as she wanted to yell for Rider or Grayson, if they were watching what was going on, she didn’t want to mess up their plan.
Just hurry and save me.
When no one raced out from behind a building, Paris climbed the stairs to the plane, not that she had a choice. She had to work hard to fight off the sense of helplessness.
At least the inside was quite lavish. It only had about ten leather seats. The goon shoved her toward the back, then told her to sit down. Once seated, he cuffed her wrist to the armrest.
“Really? Are you thinking I’ll try to jump out of the plane?”
The slap across the face was not only unexpected, it stung like a bitch. But Paris didn't whimper or cry out. She was tough. She had to be, growing up without a dad.
