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“There’s no time!” I snap. “All I know is we’re headed south on 294. I’ll tell you where they’re going as soon as I can. In the meantime, you need to call Bianka’s brother, Ilya. These guys had this planned down to a T, which means they’re professionals. We need help, and he’s our best bet of getting the girls back. He’ll do anything for his sister, and he’s got the men to make it happen.”
“I’m on it,” he says curtly.
The phone goes silent as Lucca hangs up, and I shove my phone back into my pocket to focus on staying close to the van. Either they haven’t noticed me following them, or they don’t give a shit. But they’re cruising down the highway at a considerable speed, weaving between cars that might otherwise slow them down.
I do the same, trying to keep enough of a distance behind us that they won’t realize I’m on their tail. Fortunately, the silver Ford Focus I hijacked is about as generic as it gets, so I won’t call any unnecessary attention to myself.
A short time later, the van turns off the highway once again, and I jerk my steering wheel, following it onto a quiet road not far outside the city. I recognize this area. It’s a nice little suburb known for its considerable collection of commercial pilot residents and other high-income families. Not much is around here except…
“Shit.”
They must be taking the girls to Brookeridge Airpark–the private airfield accessible to the neighborhood’s residents. It doesn’t take long to confirm my suspicion as the van pulls into the fenced-in expanse of concrete lined with private jet hangars.
Stopping along the road outside the chain-link fence, I park the Ford Focus and tuck the keys into the sun visor. Hopefully, someone will call the car in and get it returned to its owner. In the meantime, I slip silently out of the driver’s seat and sneak past the tollbooth at the entry into the private airfield.
The guard, a gray-haired, pot-bellied man with an impressive mustache, seems too wrapped up in the hockey game on his phone to notice I’m there. Based on his relaxed demeanor–ankles crossed and feet raised on his plywood desk–I doubt he has to deal with people trying to steal planes very often.
Fortunately, I don’t have far to go. The black fan pulls up to the third hangar on the left, jerking to a stop, and moments later, eight men of various sizes and shapes–all dressed in the formal wear and masks I saw them in as they fled the event center–empty out of the vehicle, the two burliest ones toting Ellie and Bianka along as if they weighed nothing.
The fight seems to have left Ellie, her shoulders curling in as her captor lifts her bodily over his shoulder and carries her like a sack of potatoes. Bianka, on the other hand, is relentless, kicking out forcefully with her heels as the hulking figure locks her arms to her sides in a bear hug.
Her captor pauses and says something to another man in a foreign language. The second man responds silently by grabbing Bianka’s legs and ripping her shoes from her feet, unceremoniously dropping the red-soled heels onto the concrete.
I take the opportunity to slip into the throng of men, blending in well enough since they’re all still masked and wearing tuxes like the masquerade waitstaff. It’s a bold move, but a risk I have to take if I don’t want to get left behind.
I would much rather stand my ground and fight right here and now, where I can rush the girls to safety. But I know I can’t take these guys all at once. They’re armed and clearly capable fighters based on their militant coordination.
Slipping around the two men who are distracted by removing Bianka’s shoes, I cling to the shadows until I can catch up to the tail end of the main group. Following closely behind the man in front of me, I scale the jet’s narrow staircase and come face to face with a muscular man who waves me inside.
He’s giving directions to each man as they enter. Though I can’t understand a lick of it since it’s all in the same foreign language as I heard on the tarmac, they all jump to their task without question. Then it’s my turn. I freeze for a split second, sure I’ve been caught as the man speaks directly to me, his eyes finding mine.
But his glance is momentary, and his hand points me toward the back of the plane, sending me in the right direction even if I have no clue what he told me to do. I take a quick lay of the land as I stride purposefully between the seats, noting the luxury jet’s fine white leather and cherry wood interior before I spot the door to what is most likely the small luggage compartment at the back.
Glancing behind me as I reach the door, I watch in disgust as the men bodily cart Bianka onto the plane. She’s putting up an impressive amount of resistance, her legs bending and snapping straight, jerking the smaller man holding her ankles back and forth even though her arms are locked down tight by her larger captor.
Within minutes, the men have managed to get both girls on the plane, and they seal the hatch, readying to take off. Before someone can identify me as an intruder, I slip inside the luggage closet as soon as no one’s looking.
Several crates of what appear to be quality wine already occupy the space, and I tuck myself behind them to stay out of sight should anyone open the door. The walls are thin enough that I can make out the low voices of the men outside, though I don’t know what they’re saying as they speak in a language I don’t know. It’s not Italian. That’s for sure.
Who the fuck are these people? And what do they want with Ellie and Bianka?
What I wouldn’t give for a gun, a knife, a weapon of any kind, really, that might help me stop their plan in motion. As the son of Lorenzo Marchetti, I’m perfectly capable at hand-to-hand combat and know my way around guns and blades. But I also know that even if I had a weapon on me, I would be vastly outnumbered.
I’ll have to wait for an opportunity to rescue the girls without being seen. But until then, I’m entirely unwilling to leave them out of arm’s reach. It’s agony knowing they’re out of my view for the time being. But as a string of curse words issue from Bianka’s mouth from somewhere in the main cabin, I know she’s close by. It’s a small comfort, but her voice puts my mind at ease nonetheless.
“Zlyushchiy blya suka!” one of the men growls in a low voice.
The resounding slap and sharp female cry that follows makes my blood boil, and then Bianka falls silent. My hand is on the luggage compartment door before I know what I’m doing, and I freeze, grinding my teeth as I force myself to remain hidden.
Low, resounding chuckles tell me I would have a hell of a time reaching Bianka from my hiding spot.
“Bianka,” Ellie sniffles, her voice tear-filled and weak. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she answers coldly, and relief floods through me.
Then the plane rocks into motion.
21
