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17
LIFT OFF
The windows at the back of the limo are tinted. Which is a good thing, because the less people to witness my meltdown reaching critical mass, the better.
For the last hour, I’ve been repeating three mantras under my breath:
One million dollars.
Save my life.
Keep the secret.
Each time a silent fourth reverberates at the back of my head.
Deliver yourself to Quinn Blackwood.
His threat wasn’t idle. Not when he could buy a new set of catering staff once an hour every day for a year and barely feel a pinch in his wallet. But he was determined to make me see how serious he was. The chopsticks barely delivered the piece of tempura to my hungry lips when he added, “And I’ll start with Sully Manning.”
I give in to a hysteria-tinged chortle as the limo crawls through traffic. We left Hell’s Kitchen at the stroke of seven. Besides a courteous greeting, the driver curtailed any attempt at conversation by putting up the partition in the limo, thereby sealing me in my moving luxury padded cell. I lasted fifteen minutes before I texted Fionnella to find out where the driver was taking me. She’s not answering.
The first inkling of where I’m headed comes when I spot the signs for an airport. But it’s not JFK or Newark. We’re headed toward Teterboro Airport.
I’ve heard a few clients from The Villa refer to it so I know it is a private airport.
The hairs on my nape prickle to attention.
Airport means security.
Security means a name popping up and getting flagged on a database. Fear, hot and acrid, floods my insides. I claw for the abandoned phone and stiffen my shaking fingers long enough to call Fionnella.
This time, she answers. “Everything okay?”
“No! We’re headed for the airport. I can’t fly. I…I forgot my ID back at the loft.”
“Don’t worry, it’s been taken care of.”
My gut ices over. “What does that mean? You took my ID from the loft?” I’ve only used it once since I arrived in New York and that was to prove to Sully that I was over 18. We both knew it was as fake as the Elly Smith name printed on it, but he let it go. No way will it withstand a TSA check. I’ll be in handcuffs before the scanner is done beeping.
“No, Lucky. Breaking and entering isn’t my forte. What I mean is you’re not leaving the country, so you’re good.”
“But…won’t my name appear on some manifest of some sort?”
“What name?” she counters.
I fall silent.
“Exactly,” she murmurs.
“Are…are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
The knot in my stomach dissipates a little. I remind myself that a lot of time and work has gone into getting me here. That my choices are abysmally limited. I can’t trust anyone. But backing out is not an option right now.
“Okay. Can you at least tell me where I’m going?”
“That is not part of my brief. If the boss wants you to know, he’ll tell you himself.”