Page 34 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

TALON

I'm not a praying man, but if there was ever a time to start, it would be right now, watching Alex drive like he's auditioning for Fast and Furious while explaining how easy it is to "borrow" a plane.

"You're telling me," I say, gripping the door handle as he takes another curve too fast, "that some random dude on the dark web is just lending you an aircraft? No questions asked?"

"Not random. And not lending. It's a business transaction."

"Right. Because that makes it so much better." My stomach knots with each passing mile.

"You want details or you want plausible deniability?" Alex asks, weaving between cars on the highway.

"I want to know we're not about to steal a plane that will get us shot down by the Air Force." The trees along the roadside blur into a green smear as we accelerate.

Alex snorts. "Please. Give me some credit. The plane belongs to a gentleman who owes me a favor."

"What kind of favor involves lending out a plane?

"The kind where I kept him out of a federal supermax." Alex glances at me, his expression unreadable. "He runs a legitimate charter business now.”

"That sounds..." I trail off, searching for the right word. "Illegal."

"Extremely." Alex's tone is matter-of-fact. "But it's our only play if we want to get to Martha's Vineyard undetected."

I stare out the window, watching the landscape rush by. Two hours until we're supposed to meet The Collector's people. Two hours until we're either one step closer to Luca or finding out we are walking into a trap. Possibly both.

"You think Vesper's okay?" I ask, changing the subject. Leaving her behind felt wrong, like amputating a limb, but we all knew it was necessary.

"Z and Oscar won't let anything happen to her."

"That's not what I asked."

A muscle ticks in his jaw. "No, she's not okay. She's furious, terrified, and feeling helpless. But she's safer there than with us."

The bluntness of his assessment hits like a physical blow. “You two seem...closer now."

Alex's eyes flick to me briefly before returning to the road. “Looks can be deceiving, Talon. She’s not my biggest fan right now.”

The private airfield appears ahead, a small cluster of hangars and a single runway carved into the countryside. Alex slows as we approach the security gate, rolling down his window.

“Blackwood," he tells the guard, who checks a clipboard before nodding us through with barely a glance.

"That was easy," I mutter as the gate slides open.

"Like I said, legitimate business on paper." Alex navigates toward the furthest hangar, where a sleek Cessna Citation waits on the tarmac, its door already open. A stocky man in coveralls stands beside it, arms crossed.

"That's our ride?" I ask, eyeing the jet skeptically. "Looks small."

"It'll get us there in forty minutes," Alex says, pulling up beside the hangar.

We exit the car, and I grab our duffel from the backseat, containing the weapons we definitely couldn't get through airport security. The stocky man approaches, grinning like a fucking fool.

"Thanks for working with us on such short notice, Maddox." Alex shakes his hand. "Clean like we discussed?"

“Of course.” Maddox tosses him a set of keys. "She's fueled up and ready to go. Return whenever, just let me know when you're inbound."

"Appreciate it." Alex pockets the keys, then tosses Maddox an envelope that I suspect contains more cash than most people make in a month. Maddox thumbs through the envelope, his expression unchanging as he counts the bills. He gestures toward the plane. "She's all yours.”

"You sure you know how to fly this thing?"

Alex shoots me a look that could curdle milk. “Stop asking me that."

"Just making sure," I mutter, ducking through the cabin door.

The interior is luxurious but compact with cream leather seats, polished wood accents, and a small bar area that's been stocked with top-shelf liquor.

"Nice. Your friend Maddox has good taste.

" I finger through the bottles, selecting a particularly expensive Brandy.

If we make it through this alive, this will be the first one I open.

"He caters to clients with expensive needs and deep pockets," Alex replies, stowing our bag in a compartment before sliding into the pilot's seat. "Buckle up. Pre-flight checks take about ten minutes."

I settle into the co-pilot’s seat, watching Alex move through the pre-flight checks with calm precision. Each switch flipped, each gauge scanned, carries the same quiet control he shows when hacking or handling a weapon. He is methodical, focused, and leaving no room for error.

"You really do know what you're doing," I admit, impressed despite myself.

"Told you." He doesn't look up from the instrument panel. "My father believed a man should be able to escape at a moment's notice. Piloting was non-negotiable in my education."

"Your father sounds paranoid."

"My father was a bastard who made enemies in high places," Alex corrects, his voice flat. "But he wasn't wrong about the benefits of a quick exit strategy."

I've known Alex for years, but he rarely mentions his family. The few details I've gathered paint a picture of wealth, power, and dysfunction. The kind that breeds men like him, brilliant and broken in equal measure.

The engines whir to life, the vibration humming through the cabin as Alex communicates with the tower. His voice shifts when he speaks to air traffic control—smoother, more refined, the rough edges carefully tucked away. Another role he steps into effortlessly, like changing coats.

“Tower, this is Citation November-Six-Five-Charlie-Delta requesting clearance for takeoff to Martha's Vineyard. VFR flight, altitude four thousand."

The radio crackles with a quick response, granting us clearance. Alex guides the plane to the runway. For a guy who spends ninety percent of his time hunched over keyboards, he pilots the aircraft like it's an extension of himself.

“Ready?" he asks, not looking at me as he lines up for takeoff.

“Do I have a choice?"

His lips quirk. “Not really."

The engines roar as we accelerate down the runway, pressing me back into the leather seat. My stomach drops as the wheels leave the ground, the small plane climbing steeply into the clear blue sky. The airfield shrinks beneath us, becoming a miniature model before disappearing behind us completely.

“See? Piece of cake," Alex says, adjusting our course once we reach cruising altitude.

“Don't get cocky. We still have to land this thing," I mutter, trying to ignore the uncomfortable knowledge that we're suspended thousands of feet in the air in what amounts to a flying soda can.

“Landing's the easy part. You aim down until the plane hits the ground, right?" Alex replies.

“Not funny, asshole.”

"It's what happens after we touch down that worries me."

“Let's go over the plan again," I say, needing to hear it spoken aloud, to find any holes before we're in too deep.

Alex nods. "We land at a private airstrip on the south side of the island. A car will be waiting for us. We drive to the northern dock, arriving a half an hour early to scout the location."

"And if it's a trap?"

"Then we don't approach. We observe from a distance, identify potential hostiles, and adjust accordingly."

"And if Charles Blackwood doesn't pass their authentication?"

Alex's jaw tightens. "We have three layers of documentation—physical ID, digital footprint, and financial trail. If that's not enough, we improvise."

"Improvise," I repeat flatly. "That's your backup plan?"

"Would you prefer I lie and say I've thought of every possible contingency?" He glances at me, one eyebrow raised. "We're flying into unknown territory with minimal intel. Some variables can't be controlled."

He's right, but that doesn't make it any easier to swallow. We're risking everything on this mission, not just our lives, but our only lead to Luca. If we fail, Vesper loses her brother forever. And the thought of her face if we return empty-handed is almost worse than not returning at all.

The ocean stretches beneath us, the late afternoon sun glinting off the waves like scattered diamonds. In another life, this might be a pleasure trip—two friends flying to a luxury island getaway. Instead, we're armed to the teeth, chasing ghosts and genetic samples.

I lean back in my seat, watching clouds drift past the windows. "Does it scare you?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Being responsible for someone else's happiness?"

"Terrifies me," he admits quietly. "I'm not built for it."

"None of us are," I counter, watching the clouds drift past. "But we're doing it anyway."

A rare half-smile crosses his face. "When did you get so philosophical?"

"Probably around the time we started sharing a woman instead of fighting over her." I adjust my seat, stretching my legs as much as the confined space allows. "Life's weird like that."

The plane hits a pocket of turbulence, dipping slightly before Alex compensates. My stomach lurches uncomfortably.

"Martha's Vineyard, twelve o'clock," Alex announces, nodding toward the windshield.

The island materializes on the horizon, a smudge against the vast blue of the Atlantic. From this distance, it looks peaceful—rolling hills, pristine beaches, and dense forests. An ideal place to bury secrets in plain sight, cloaked in wealth and privilege.

“You might want to go ahead and change. Suit’s hanging in the back.”

“Did you steal that too?”

“Borrowed,” he reminds me again. “Just think, if we crash land, you’ll already be dressed for your funeral.”

“How convenient,” I mutter, unbuckling my seatbelt.

I make my way to the back of the cabin, unzipping the garment bag hanging against the wall.

The bespoke navy suit inside costs more than most people's monthly rent, simply another piece of the Charles Blackwood illusion.

I strip off my casual clothes and begin the transformation, each layer adding to the character I need to become.

"You think they'll buy it?" I call up to Alex as I button the crisp shirt.