Hot for His Hostage (13 page)

“Not a valid excuse, Chestain. Their biceps needed seats of their own—and there were
at least four of them. One even looked like your type.”

The comment was an unintentional stab. She gazed out the window at the last wisps
of last night’s fog, relating completely to their sad fight against the sun. “I didn’t
know I had a type.”

“Oh yeah, you do. I can’t believe you didn’t see him. Hulking. Brooding. Dark baseball
cap. Darker scowl. Couldn’t make out the rest of his face. He was clearly hiding it.
I wonder if he’s on the run or something. Wouldn’t that be sexy?”

A laugh escaped despite the lead weights taking the place of her lungs. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I think he did look up a little when we passed, but only at you. Hmmm, Zo. You could
be the Bonnie to his Clyde.”

So much for the humor. “No, I couldn’t.”

“I’ll bet on-the-run sex is way hot.”

She pulled out her new Ann Mayburn paperback. Time for distraction by the only Doms
who made sense to care about. Fictional ones. “Not interested, Brynn.”

Her friend broke out in song. Of course. “I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride—because
I’m wannnted, dead or aliiive…”

“
Not interested
, Brynn.”

Especially because, no matter how hard she tried, Shane was unshakable from her senses.
She practically felt his eyes still riveted to her, smelled his rich forest scent
on the air, and trembled from the potency of his presence.

Which was ridiculous. And more pitiful than her sob-fest from last night.

She had to get a damn grip. Return to reality. Now. Last night was a fantasy come
true, but like a sexy stage illusion, it was over. The colored lights were off, the
makeup stripped free. She had to be grateful for even receiving a good-bye from Burnett.
The man clearly didn’t want
threads
from last night, let alone strings.

In short, her life was no different this morning than it had been twenty-four hours
ago.

The logic didn’t fortify her battle against weeping all over again.

Which meant this was going to be the flight from hell.

How the hell had he booked himself a first-class seat to Satan’s front door?

Best not to dwell on the answer to that for long.

As the plane started backing from the gate, Shay allowed himself just one sliver of
relief. Zoe hadn’t glanced his way once at the gate or during boarding. Too preoccupied
with keeping Brynn upright, the woman had gotten no inkling he was on board. He planned
on keeping it that way.

Cameron would give them the go-ahead to act nearly the moment the aircraft made acceptable
altitude. The second they received his green light, they’d all pull on their black
ski masks—could Cameron get any more cliché about this shit?—and they’d blow open
the cockpit door with one of Ross’s nifty cold fusion mini-bombs. Once that happened,
Ross, Nori, and Kaziro would move in, putting magic ninja squeezes on the pilots so
Nori could change the jet’s course as soon as possible. Meanwhile, he and Bash would
join Cameron in controlling the crowd.

Including Zoe and her troupe.

His get-out-of-stress-free card expired. When he breathed back in, his stomach twisted
again. His jaw clamped so hard, his ears burned. He kneaded both armrests with white
knuckles.

Bash, seated next to him, didn’t miss a single sign. “Flying get you nervous, man?”
he drawled. “So how’d that work out for you on all those airborne missions?”

“Fuck you.”

Damn. He wished he had the freedom to be nicer. In other circumstances, Bash and he
would likely be great friends. The guy was smart.
Really
smart. Vigilant. Funny. A keen observer of every person he met. That was the problem.
If Shay started even a casual friendship with the guy, Bash’s suspicion would instantly
click in. There was no bromance in terrorism and piracy.  

Bash’s chuckle, coming from the middle of a chest that likely accompanied the word
“barrel” in Webster’s, wasn’t a surprise. The guy’s freak quotient needled way to
the left of normal. “Relax, cupcake. We’ll be on the ground before you know it, arrived
at target. Then the only thing we have to worry about are a couple of hundred hostages—though
I think we may have gotten lucky in that department. Heard there are a dozen Vegas
showgirls on board. You know what that means, don’t you?”

It took all of Shay’s talent at subterfuge to fake a glance that looked lascivious.
“Lots of tickets for complimentary buffets?”

The guy humored him with a snort before growling, “Flexibility, man. Bitches who can
bend their body any way we command. If we find some rope at Stock’s little ‘desert
resort,’ we’ll have our own personal Barbies to play with. Sweet, yeah?”

Shay forced down deep breaths. It wouldn’t do him—or Zoe—any good if he lost composure
now. Times like these, the art of fantasy was a damn good thing. Just thinking of
landing his fist in the middle of Bash’s face went a long way toward coaxing out another
smile—and abolishing his visions of ever hanging out with the guy as buddies. “What
makes you think Cam’s going to allow that?”

“Sometimes you don’t ask permission, dude. Besides, it’s not like we’ll be moving
the new ‘passengers’ on board this thing right away. They’re experimental science
freaks. Some of them are hooked up to machines and shit.”

Shay pretended to ogle the flight attendant in order to emphasize the “casual” intent
of his next question. Cameron had made no secret about his passion to get a plane
landed at the desert complex, which happened to be “conveniently” located somewhere
near Area 51, one of the government’s most intensely guarded pieces of land. The airspace
in and around the base, which hadn’t even been publically acknowledged until last
year, was still heavily restricted—as in fly-over-here-and-you’re-dead restricted.
Cam was just as cagey about his reasons behind needing to get inside with an airliner
in tow. His agitation about the mission was even worse today—ever since changing the
mission from stealing an empty plane to a craft filled with two hundred hostages.

Because he had other people to exchange for them?

People Bash referred to as “science freaks.”

Was Mom one of those freaks now
?

“Won’t Cameron need help with all that?”

Bash grunted. “Right. Like he’s going to let us touch any part of his gold pile. Those
mutants are his ticket to world domination, dude.”

“And you never asked for a cut of that pile?” He pulled the safety information card
from the pocket in front of him and grimaced at the chewed-off corner. Puppy or baby?
The pumpkin stains along the rips led him to think the latter. “You’ve been working
for Stock for a long time. You don’t think you deserve it?”

Bash answered with a vehement shake of his head. “Even if I did, just don’t want it.
For a long time, neither did Cam.”

“What do you mean?”

“Back in the day, he was a much more fun guy. We pulled off smaller fraud scams and
made a shit-ton of money, which he turned around and spent in the Hollywood scene.
He had a big-ass mansion, nice pool, stocked bar…the whole nine. Was a decent director
too. Actresses liked working with him, so that meant the tail was sweet and plentiful.
But then he hooked up with Ephraim Lor, and the fuckery got weird.
Really
weird. That Lor…he was a piece of work. He was about the crazy shit, you know? He’d
go on and on about how we’d become the face of history, and have a legacy that would
go on…” He rolled his eyes. “Christ. What a wing nut.”

Shay restrained himself from nodding in sympathy. He was intimately familiar with
the chaos Lor had caused. That “wing nut” had almost destroyed every state between
Mexico and Canada, as well as his brother’s sanity. Thank fuck Tait had survived Luna’s
death and was moving on—though the definition of that now included his relentless
search for Shay under the umbrella of the SHRCs.

He was easily able to shield his knowledge behind a searching look as he queried,
“But Lor’s not around anymore, right? Didn’t he die in that whole episode at the studio?”

“Sure, but it didn’t make any difference. I call that the beginning of the end for
Cameron.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh. When we all reconnected in Barbados after that mess, Cam was…different.”

“In what way?”

“He snapped, dude.” The guy’s lips twisted. “If I believed in whacked crap like soul-jumping
and reincarnation, I’d say part of Lor leaked out and crawled its way into Cam.”

Shay was glad for a reaction he didn’t have to feign. “You’re right. That’s whacked
crap.”

“I know; I know.”

“Cam is all about the money. Always was; always will be.”

“No argument there.” Bash reclined his seat, ignoring the huff from the guy in the
three-piece suit behind him. “It’s just
how
he looks at the money now. He used to be about cars, wine, and women. Now it’s all
about guns, alignments, and entertaining fat foreigners who are into some dangerous,
scary shit. He’s started taking insane risks. That whole episode over in Kaua'i…starting
a bidding war between Iraq and North Korea for the chance to take over that estate
as a forward-operating base…” He blew out harsh breath between his teeth. “These are
world powers, Burnett. North Korea has
nukes
. Between you and me, I was glad we got made on that one.”

Shay nodded tightly. He didn’t have to pour on the acting job much for it. “Bit too
heavy on the Johnny Danger angle for me, too.”

“Right?” His consensus spurred Bash on. “What if both those assholes were playing
Cam, and planned on eventually uniting for their cause? We wouldn’t be sitting here,
that’s for damn sure. It’d already be World War Three.”

“So what’s your take on this one?”

“I don’t have to think anything. This is my last gig, dude. I’m done with this bozo.
As soon as we get paid up, I’m gonna steal a transport of some sort then get my ass
to Vegas. Got a guy there who’s going to help me change my identity and fade behind
the neon signs.” He backhanded Shay’s chest. “You’re welcome to join me, Burnett.
This time next week, we could be balls-deep in a lot of fun, man.”

Shay returned a convincing enough chuckle. “Doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea.”

The shitty thing was, it really didn’t. For a while, he’d at least be in the same
city as Zoe. He could look after her from afar, make sure no asswipes messed with
her…

“But why wait, right?” Bash drawled. “You catch my drift now?”

He frowned. “Uhhh, not exactly.”

“The
dancers
, Burnett. You saw them come on board, yeah?”

If he was referring to every step Zoe had taken down the aisle, then yes. “Sort of.
I was running down the plan in my head, and—”

“Shit.” The guy extended the vowel, turning the word into two syllables. “You’re a
real moron sometimes. Those bitches are soooo sweet.”

Shay held up both hands. “I believe you; I believe you.”

“Didn’t you say you knew a bit about rope suspension bondage?”

He tried to hide his wince, betraying the regret he felt for shooting off his mouth
during that conversation he’d used to “bond” with Bash. “I don’t remember. Honestly,
it was a long time ago.” He didn’t need to pretend that one, either. It had been almost
a year since he’d last had the privilege of tying a willing subbie up. So yeah, a
long fucking time ago.

“You
did
, man,” Bash interjected. “So help a guy out. It’s my last mission before going off
grid, right? Let’s string up a couple of these beauties. My dick is dirty, and soap
on a rope sounds really damn awesome right now.”

Shay gritted a smile while grinding his fist into the palm of his opposite hand. But
turning his hands into a furious mortar-and-pestle was preferable to the alternative:
smashing in Bash’s jaw before ordering him to stay the fuck away from Zoe and her
friends.

Cameron put a decisive end to his dilemma—though at the same time, stirred a new one.
The man unbuckled and stood, dipping nods to everyone on the team, signaling them
to be ready. Shay’s gut wrenched harder as he watched everyone straightening, watching,
readying. Wyst eyed the air marshal, whom he’d ID’ed by hacking the FAMS rosters a
few hours ago, with a wicked glint in his eyes and a fist wrapped in spiked foil—not
that the bruiser needed the shit. Ross would go first toward the cockpit, with Nori
and Kaziro on his heels, while Shay and Bash pulled wingman duty for Stock.  

That was the plan. Easy. Elegant. Evil.

And there was still time to stop it. Still time for
him
to stop it.

But at what cost?

Bash had just confirmed Stock’s gelatin of a mental state. The man had become a demon
about accomplishing this mission, and the lives he’d take to accomplish it. If Shay
shattered his own cover and called Cam out, it would just feed the man’s hunger for
history book glory. All too clearly, he could see Stock ordering Nori to power the
plane into a nosedive. And Nori, a kamikaze born eighty years too late, would be his
willing bitch. They’d all be dinner for the Mojave Desert coyotes inside an hour.

Shay grimaced as bile seared his throat. For the first time in his life, he wished
he was more of a praying man, though closing his eyes wasn’t an option either. Despite
that, he sent a mental broadcast to whatever higher power was in the mood to listen,
asking them to expedite the encrypted message he’d sent to Colton from his phone after
leaving Zoe’s room. The move had been a huge fucking risk, one he hadn’t chosen earlier
for purely selfish reasons. If joining Cameron in hijacking a flight got him closer
to Mom, he reconciled that as the price to be paid for the cause.

But learning Zoe would be on that flight?

It shouldn’t have changed a fucking thing. But it did.

It changed everything.

Somehow, in the space of less than three hours,
she’d
changed everything.

Dammit.

The anger ricocheted through his head, along with bullets of nausea and dread, as
he realized this was really going to happen. He had no choice. Switching out the black
hat for white at this point wouldn’t just be futile, but stupid. Black kept him on
Stock’s inside track, which meant he still had a fighting chance to rescue Mom and
get out of this alive.

Just as importantly, he had a chance to keep Zoe alive.

Holy fuck. If anything happened to her during this damn stunt…

“Gentlemen.” The flight attendant’s snippy tone zeroed his senses in on the moment.
She directed the charge at Ross, Nori, and Kaziro as they moved into the aisle. “You
must stay seated. The captain hasn’t indicated it’s safe to—”

Kaz rendered her unconscious with an expert blow to the side of her neck. As she crumpled,
he caught her then effortlessly dragged her to the galley. When he came back, he pulled
his ski mask down in time to confront the air marshal, a guy in bad-fitting khakis
who charged forward with a hard growl. Kaz, who took his ninja calling as seriously
as Nori did the kamikaze, dropped the officer with a series of efficient punches and
kicks. Wyst cursed, his fun taken away.

Just as a woman screamed. Joined in an instant by Mr. Three-Piece Suit. Then half
the other passengers.