Brett Battles - The Destroyed

737? 727?

She wasn’t sure. Identifying planes wasn’t one of her specialties. What she did know was that military flights were devoid of any extra comforts. The best she could hope for at this point was not getting stuck traveling over the Atlantic with a troop of soldiers. That had happened to her once, and she’d been the recipient of a nonstop barrage of bad pickup lines.

The airport was surprisingly low-key. There wasn’t even a fence around the outside, and the only building of any size was a single hangar barely large enough to house more than a handful of small private planes. There was no tower, no terminal. Just a metal roof-covered concrete slab that was home to a few picnic tables. Truly a private airfield, albeit one with a runway large enough for a full-sized passenger jet.

Mila parked the car where she’d been instructed, grabbed her shoulder bag, and headed for the plane. Before she could get even halfway there, she was met by three military-looking men in civilian clothes.

“May I help you, ma’am?” one of the men said.

“I’m Mila Voss. I believe I’m expected.”

“ID?”

She pulled out her passport. She was traveling as herself on this trip, her client having told her this was a straight pickup and drop-off with no need to go covert.

The talker examined her ID, took a hard look at her face, then nodded and handed the booklet back.

“We were beginning to wonder if you were going to make it.”

“Farther out here than I was led to believe,” she said with a shrug.

“Hobart will show you aboard.”

Hobart, the youngest-looking of the three, motioned toward the plane and said, “This way, ma’am.”

They climbed the stairs and went inside. Mila had been expecting to see at least some of the seats filled. Given her late arrival, she had assumed she was last. But the plane was empty.

She looked at Hobart. “This flight’s not just for me, is it?”

“No, ma’am. The others will be here in just a few minutes, and we’ll be airborne shortly after that.”

She felt strangely relieved by that. If the plane had been for her alone, she would have really begun to worry about what was in the box she was carrying.

“You’re welcome to any seat in the first ten rows,” Hobart said. “And if you don’t mind, please use the facilities at the front of the plane during the flight.”

“No problem,” she said. “Thank you.”

She selected a seat next to the window in the seventh row. After strapping on her seat belt, she leaned over and raised the armrests that bracketed the middle seat. Once they were in the air, she could stretch out and get some sleep.

From her bag she pulled out the book she’d been reading- Goddess for Hire by Sonia Singh. She’d plowed through several pages when she finally heard more people coming up the metal staircase. She looked up, curious to see who her fellow passengers were. The first two who entered were large men dressed in dark suits. Military, perhaps, or law enforcement. Behind them came a third, similarly dressed man, only he was walking backward as he held on to the end of a metal pole that stuck out the door.

When the other end of the pole appeared, Mila couldn’t help but gasp. It was attached to a ring that was latched around a person’s neck. Though a black bag was over the person’s head, she could tell from the body it was a man. His hands were cuffed behind his back, while an additional restraint was wrapped around his chest, holding his arms to his side. His steps were short, almost a shuffle. She took this to mean his ankles and legs were also secured. Behind the prisoner came two more men in suits-one who looked to be in his late fifties, and the other younger but with the definite air of authority.

As the parade turned down the center aisle, Mila subconsciously slunk lower in her seat and pressed against the curved wall of the plane, wanting to stay as far from the prisoner as possible. But if he was as violent as the extreme measures seemed to suggest, he certainly wasn’t putting up any resistance.

When the prisoner drew abreast of her seat, she heard a noise coming from under his hood. Not his voice, but stuttering, gulping breaths as if he’d never been so scared in his life. Even more surprising were the clothes the man was wearing-jeans with a casual, cream-colored shirt, not a prison jumpsuit or something similar. Then she noticed the man’s fingers. They were manicured.

Who the hell was he? And where were they taking him?

Must be an extradition, she decided-a non-American prisoner being transported to Europe to answer for past crimes. She tried to remember if she’d heard about any upcoming prisoner transfers, but nothing came to mind.

It doesn’t matter, she thought. It’s not important. You don’t need to care.

That was right. She was just here to do her job and deliver the box to a woman she’d meet the next morning in a cafe in Lisbon.

Whoever he is, I don’t care.

As the prisoner passed, the young, authoritative-looking man approached her row and stared at her, as if surprised by her presence. She tried to nod a greeting, but her head barely moved. The man leaned over to his older partner and whispered something. The other man glanced at Mila, and whispered back as they walked by.

ROME, ITALY

Orlando reactivated her phone the moment the plane touched down. As soon as it synced with the network, a message appeared telling her she had two voice mails. She played the first.

“Orlando, it’s Peter. If he’s in any condition to talk, I need him to call me right away. Can you help?”

She frowned. Peter was the one who started all this by asking Nate to find Quinn.

So you want to talk to Quinn? Tough luck, asshole.

She frowned at herself. All right, she admitted, maybe he didn’t start it, but he definitely re started it, so helping him out was going to be low on her To Do list.

The next message was from Nate five hours earlier. “He’s out of surgery. Still unconscious, but the doctor says he’s going to be okay. Some muscle damage, but that’s about the worst of it.”

She closed her eyes. Muscle damage. Thank God.

She waited until she was off the plane and was walking toward immigration control to call Nate back.

“Got your message. Any update?”

“Last I checked he was still sleeping,” Nate said.

She stopped in the middle of the walkway. “You’re not at the hospital? Where the hell are you?”

“I told you. We were going to find Mila, remember?”

She dipped her head for a second. “Right, sorry,” she said. “Look, I’m here.”

“Here where?”

“Rome.”

“Rome?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

“I hadn’t thought about it one way or the other. I’ve been a bit busy.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Can you meet me at the hospital?”

“It’s more a doctor’s office than a hospital, but, yeah, I can head there right now.”

“I need the address.”

He gave it to her.

“I still have to go through passport control, but I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Need to take off?” Daeng asked.

Nate nodded as he shoved his cell back in his pocket. “Do you mind staying here and keeping an eye on things?”

Daeng shrugged. “Someone has to.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Go make sure Quinn’s doing all right. I’ll call you if anything happens here.”

Nate nodded his thanks, then made his way back to where their car was parked.

Forty-five minutes later, he knocked on the door of Dr. Pelligrini’s clinic. The woman who answered wasn’t the doctor’s wife.