Overture - Skye Warren Page 0,17
They’re eager to get down on the ground so they can beat the groom-to-be. Either that or they’re hungry. Probably both.
Josh glances back at me, a question in his eyes. We’ve been through enough close calls that he can feel the unease inside me without me having to say a word. He can feel it even before I do.
Why the fuck am I uneasy?
Everything I do at home, the training and the security, it’s about precaution—not actual danger. That’s for South America and the Middle East. That’s for the fucking jungle that is Washington DC. In the hill country of Texas? This is my land. I shouldn’t be worried about a damn thing.
I give Josh a terse nod. Whatever it is, it can wait.
He offers a salute, lacking his usual ironic twist.
When it comes to the command structure, we don’t fuck around, not even on a bachelor party. He jumps, his movements as casual as stepping off a porch. The wind carries him sideways, so it looks like he’s floating. In the next moment a deepening fog swallows him whole. My stomach clenches into knots, but it has nothing to do with the men who just jumped out of the helicopter.
“Your turn,” comes a voice in my ear. The pilot.
“Sorry, Jeff. Looks like you’re our designated driver.”
“We’re all driving once we get to the cars,” he reminds me, his voice unnaturally clear as the wind buffets around me, pulling me toward the door even as it tries to shove me deeper into the belly of the chopper. “And I’d rather be behind the controls than jumping out.”
I glance at my phone again, sliding the little circle on the video replay back. There’s the white truck again. I can make out his silhouette, but only barely. It’s brighter in the air than it was on land. Dusk already fell. I narrow my eyes at the video, watching as the truck pulls forward.
There. A movement, breaking the flat line of the seat beside him.
As if someone had been crouched low to hide from the cameras, bobbing up a second too early. Who the fuck is in the truck with him? I’m afraid I already know. My gut was legendary in the navy. It’s not about a magical sixth sense. It’s a culmination of all my tactical knowledge and hands-on experience. A million different data points coalesced into a single decision—safety or danger. Life or death.
“Hell,” I say.
“What’s wrong?”
“Take me back to the compound,” I say, biting out the words. Except they’re already gone. Even at 150 knots it’s going to take twenty minutes. They already have a head start, and there’s only one place they would go, especially without telling me. Into the city.
To practice that safe sex you told her about, my mind says helpfully.
Jesus.
“Sir?” comes Jeff’s voice. He wouldn’t normally question an order, but this isn’t exactly a mission. If I stay quiet another two seconds, he’s going to turn the chopper around no matter what.
“Belay that,” I say, my voice harsher than I intend. “Keep going.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, which is basically the same as asking what the fuck I’m thinking.
I honestly have no idea. Why the fuck is she going into the city right now? The answer is simple: to put the safe sex talk into action.
Which means she could be hooking up with some frat boy right now.
All I can see is red when I think of some asshole in a club thinking Samantha’s an easy target. It would be easy to blame Laney for being a bad influence or Cody for helping her sneak out, but Samantha’s a smart girl. She knows how dangerous the world can be. There’s a fucking reason she isn’t allowed to drive around without an escort. But I haven’t told her every single reason. That’s on me.
Yeah, I’ll take this jump, but I have no intention of tracking down a dollar bill.
“Tell the boys not to wait up for me,” I say. That’s the last thing I get out before I step off the helicopter floor. The wind holds me tight in its grasp, sucking the air out of my lungs. I’m twisted and turned, and I let my body drift through it.
Adrenaline surges through my veins, but I save it, save it, save it. That’s for later, when I find Samantha somewhere in the city. And whatever fucker thinks he can put his hands on her.
SAMANTHA
Bass reverberates through rusted metal and torn leather. The truck pulls to a slow stop