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“Nothing, that didn’t need to be done for your safety,” I respond as I carefully get up, purposefully walking behind her seat. When I see her move to mess with her seatbelt so she can get up too, I take the syringe that I fished out of the seat. Then, Iremove the plastic cap off that protected the needle, and it drops to the floor, unheeded. Quickly, I release the syringe’s contents into the back of Angie’s arm.
“Ow! What was that?”
“What?” I ask, playing innocent. She careens her head back, trying to turn and see me, but I walk around to the side, depositing the syringe in my suit pocket as I do. “Is something wrong, Angie?”
“I…What did you do to me?”
“Nothing, love. I promise everything is fine. I’m taking you home.”
“You are?” she asks, sounding confused. I can tell the drug is already working.
“I am. You look tired. Why don’t you sleep. When you wake up, you’ll be all warm and snug in bed.”
“I should call, Victor,” she says, reaching out for her phone. I grab it before she can.
“I’ll call him. Don’t worry. I’ll explain things.”
“If you’re sure,” she says but the word ‘sure’ draws out extremely long as if it will never end. “I am really tired all of the sudden.” Her eyelids start to flutter, then carefully close. I lean down and kiss her forehead.
“It’s all going to be okay, Angie.”
“It is?” she responds, her lips barely moving enough to let the words out.
I bring my lips against her ear. “It is. I’m going to take care of you now, love. I promise.”
She doesn’t respond. She’s finally succumbed. I hate that it had to be this way, but unfortunately, I miscalculated. I gave her too much time while I made things safe for her. Angie’s developed an attachment to this Victor—one that will have to end. She just needs some time alone with me. All we will have to do is reconnect. I’ll remind her of the feelings she once harboredfor me. Once I get her home where she’s safe, we’ll have all the time together we need.
I look down at her phone and drop it on the floor of the plane. Bringing my foot up, I slam it down on the phone. I hit the intercom button to the cockpit. “How long until we stop for refuel?”
“We’re stopping in Tuscaloosa. Should be there in a few minutes,” Lyle answers.
I nod. The flight to Seattle makes fuel borderline. So, we will stop to top-up the tank. Plus, I wanted to make sure to cover our tracks. I had my men change our flight plans after they filed. It took some monkeying, and even managed to glitch the computer systems for air traffic control for a bit—but it worked. If anyone tried to track down our jet, it would show we flew to Alabama and then down to Mexico. That should keep them occupied for a while. By the time they figure anything out, Angie will be beyond reach. With luck, the two of us will have grown close enough she won’t fight our future. If she does? Well, there are contingency plans in motion. I just hope they aren’t necessary.
“Good. Make sure the staff has the villa completely prepared,” I instruct, and then end the connection. I’ll toss Angie’s phone out at the airfield, so they can begin tracking the wrong flight. The best way to hide is to make sure your opponent gets lost in a maze of false information. I pick it up when it starts ringing. Through the shattered screen I can see a broken mish-mosh image of Victorio. It makes me laugh.
Too late fucker.
He probably received Sloan’s text that she’s home complaining with a migraine and went to bed safe and sound. He’ll assume that’s why she’s not responding to him. That will give me a day, maybe two if I’m lucky since he’s in Phoenix. It’s all finally coming together. I have Angie and I’m not letting hergo. Pretty soon, Victorio Conroy will be nothing but a bad dream and firmly planted in Angie’s past.
Exactly where he belongs.
victorio
. . .
“Thanks for talking with us Ms. Illas.”
“Please call me Mildred,” she says, raising her feeble hand and waving her long, crooked fingers that are bound to be misshapen by arthritis. Ms. Illas, is a short but stout woman, with long, curly, silver hair. She’s in a power wheelchair and is currently sitting with a huge white cat in her lap, petting it while talking to me. Her house is small and that’s made worse by stacks of magazines and mail-order catalogs lying on the floor in large piles. There’s an old television that was made before the invention of flat screens. It’s sitting on a feeble, particle board television stand, and there is a blue sofa with pink toss pillows. The walls are dark paneled, filled with family photos and a large Farmer’s Almanac calendar that shows the different moon phases.
EZ and I are sitting on the sofa and I’m almost positive that both of us are trying to ignore the stench of a used litter box, because besides the big white cat in her lap, there are at least ten more—that I’ve seen—running around. Currently a large coal black one is sitting at EZ’s feet, studying him.
“Mildred, my fiancée Angelina used to live next door here several years ago. Someone broke in her home and attacked her?—”
“Oh, I remember Angie. Such a sweet girl. I’m glad to see she’s found herself a good man. You are a good man, aren’t you, son?”
EZ laughs and I quietly elbow him.
“I love her. I’d do anything for her. I’m trying to find the man who attacked her so he can never touch her again.”
