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“Our girl is … fucking impressive. Not only did she handle all aspects of closing—proper paperwork filing, lifted signatures, the whole gambit. But you know how she paid for the house?” He makes us wait through a silent drum roll. “Us. She funneled our moneyfrom one account to another, minus the big fat bonus she afforded the realtor.” He howls with pride. “And torched it all. Ruthless, but fucking genius.”
Gage claps with a hearty cackle. “Jesus, I fucking love that girl.”
Ty’s face twists, his mouth creased with mirth. “You finding her playing us endearing is baffling.”
“We deserve it,” Gage insists, shrugging. “I’m not a moron. Ivy is who I want by my side when I get mine.”
When I glance at the tracker, panic seizes me. He’s right. Much like hermessage, my Little Storm is on fire. Even with her in our sights, we need to be on.
“She’s got thirty minutes on us,” I announce.
They swiftly pack what we need from the apartment we’ve been holed up in, without me issuing the order, none of us sparing a glance for the members of KORT awaiting on the screen. They can fuck their trials.
We climb in Gage’s Jeep, charging after the blinking dot that is my wife.
“Fucking hell, she’s driving possessed,” Gage roars, but it’s steeped in admiration.
“Sounded possessed too,” Ty muses, chewing another goddamn hole in his lip.
He’s been tied in knots, mangled really. We all have. The last five weeks have colored our prisoners-of-war days in a pastel easiness. They weren’t. But it was all training and instinct kicking in—until we ultimately ravaged, killed, and tunneled our way out, just so the US government could inform us we’d been so successful at hunting the terrorists that when the rest of our unit blew up, they buried us too. Erased so we could become independent-contract erasers and identity miners—a secret weapon. That whole time period is murky, tinged more with exhaustion and raw determination than torture.
But these weeks away from Ivy, helplessly viewing her agony, not having her in my arms? I’ve never known a greater suffering. Neither have the three men crowded in this vehicle.
Gage struggles to close the gap, but fortunately, it’s clear where she’s headed.
“The private hangar off 76,” I offer. “She’s taking Tom’s plane.”
“Fuck,” Liam hisses from the back seat.
I dismiss his panic with a terse grunt. “No. It’s tracked. I installed it after she and Celeste took the Carvers’ plane to Vegas in the middle of the night.”
After the girls pulled that stunt on Ivy’s twenty-first birthday and skipped town without our knowledge, we installed a tracker on both Tom’s plane and the Carver family’s plane. Leaving at one in the morning had been the genius part of the girls’ plan—when everyone believed Ivy was tucked in bed at Celeste’s house. Five hours after they’d left, we realized they were gone and were able to catch up to them, but it was a harrowing night.
Tom’s jet is already preparing for takeoff when we’re still a good ten minutes out. But I tap into the registered coordinates. We have a plane in this hangar, too, for precisely this purpose—storm chasing. They staff round-the-clock, last-minute flight crews, so those in certain lines of work can flee at a moment’s notice.
“Paris,” I supply, a consoling blanket assuaging some of my fears.
We’ll find her. We’ll get to her first. Does she know she’s still being hunted? That she will be until she’s firmly in that seat? And even then. Or is she so blinded by her vengeance that she’ll be careless? The thought pulverizes both the consolation and my stomach, the gastric lining clawing its way into my throat. I choke back a heave as we exit the Jeep, locate Ivy’s Ferrari—hidden behind a service truck—and board the plane, setting off for the City of Light.
Jesus Christ, I need some goddamn light.
Antsy at the notion of enduring nine hours suspended above the ocean with no control, I rummage through my chaotic mind for next steps, wrangling some semblance of organization. This frenzied fog she’s immersed me in is foreign.
“The Order has three primary hotels their members stay in,” Ishare. “Tom and Natasha may have mentioned them to Ivy at some point. We should start there.”
“On it,” Liam calls. “I’ll pull up security feeds so we know if she enters.”
I nod, still conflicted. Still hating him. And yet maybe he’s the one who lost the most. I don’t interrupt his task to ask what I’m terrified to know. He needs to concentrate, and I need to call KORT now that we’re in flight.
Pouring myself a scotch on the rocks, I gather myself to face the arrogant bastards. After the video clicks on, their pompous, aggravated glowers staring back, I bark, “Trials are fucking over.”
“That’s our call,” the Balzano asshole chimes in, plainly affronted by my boldness.
“Not anymore,” I reply with a confident sip. “She’s fleeing. I told you from the start that my wife was my top priority and that she needed to be yours. You lost her, so—”
“Hmm.” My grandfather steeples his hands. “Seems as though she outplayed not only us, but you and your crew as well.”
True. The Little Storm blew us all to bits.
