CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Zane
As pissed and hurt as I was, I wasn’t about to let Sloane do everything on her own. She could be badly hurt or killed if I did that.
If she wasn’t already.
I had no idea when she’d left me. No idea how far behind her I was. But it was still early, the sun was just beginning to come up.
I moved at hyper speed to get dressed and grab my bags to head out. Luckily, a speedboat had just come in, bringing in more guests. That told me that the hit men most likely had arrived. A lot earlier than Smith had us believing.
The bastard.
On board, the boat took an agonizing forty minutes to get to the airport. My heart was pounding as I thought about all the things that could be happening to Sloane right now.
Yes, I was mad as hell at her for her deceit, but my anger could wait until I was sure she was all right. If I could ever fucking get there!
The questions stirred in my head, flooding my mind with doubt. Was everything between us a lie? Was she that good of an actress?
Or was I just that big of a fool?
As much as I wanted to protect her, I had to think about myself too. Setting myself up for her to lie to again and again wouldn’t be healthy for me. It would tear me apart eventually. I had a lot to think about, and so did she. And we’d do that, either together or separately.
I wondered about the plans we’d made, or rather, I made. As I looked back on it all, going over every little word we’d said in the last couple of days, I had been the one who made plans. She simply went along with them.
Could it be she never meant to follow through with any them?
I had so much to ask her. And I’d get my answers. If I had to hook that woman up to a lie detector to get to the bottom of everything, I damn well would.
If I found her, that is. Everything centered on that. And her being okay.
When I finally saw the main island, I thanked God I was almost there. I caught sight of a black jet taking off, and something told me she was in it. It wasn’t marked as far as I could see. No signs of it being FBI, but I felt it in my bones.
I shook my head to clear it. It couldn’t be her. I couldn’t have missed her by that small amount of time.
But what if I had?
What if she was gone?
Hope was fast retreating as fear took its place. Everything felt like it was spinning. My head felt light, and I leaned over, putting my head between my knees so I wouldn’t pass out.
The boat cruised into the dock. After a sharp turn that had us coming in sideways, we stopped. A hand touched my shoulder. “You okay?”
“No.” I looked up at the captain. “But it’s not your fault.” A porter came, grabbing my luggage, sensing my urgency as I was hustled to the airport.
The first thing I noticed was how electric the atmosphere was when I got inside. People were talking excitedly to one another. I looked around and saw no sign of Sloane.
Thinking the best place to start would be at the security station, I went there with my cell in hand. Pulling up one of the pictures I took of us together, I showed it to the small woman who stood behind the desk. “I’m Zane Boyd, and I’m looking for this woman.”
Her brown eyes flashed wide, but only for a second before her expression went back to normal. She gestured for me to come to the room that was behind her. “If you come this way, we might be able to help you, Mr. Boyd.”
Based on her expression and actions, I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved. I followed her as the man who carried my baggage put it down. He shook his head, backing away. “I’m not going in there.”
Weird.
With no time to ask questions, I tipped the man and picked up my bags myself, carrying them into the little office. A rotund, walrus-looking man stood up when I entered the room. The door closed behind me, and I heard it lock. My spine bristled. Now I understood why the porter hesitated.
“You are looking for Sloane Anderson?” The man gestured to the small wooden chair in front of his desk, and I tried not to show my surprise that he knew her name. I hadn’t said it, only shown the picture. “You are Zane Boyd, the man Ms. Anderson’s been staying with, no?”
“I am. Do you know where she is? I need to find her.”
Hope that I was going to find her swirled together with terror that I was too late.
Then the man smirked at me and crossed his arms over his bulging stomach. “If a woman wanted to be found, then she would be. Please leave the airport. There is nothing here for you.”
I just stared at him, anger seeping through my pores. “Can you at least tell me if she’s okay?” I placed my hands on his paper littered desk. I wasn’t leaving without some answers.
“Okay?” He rubbed his chin. “Why wouldn’t she be? That woman is more than capable of defending herself. Even more so than most men.”
My chest finally relaxed.
She was okay.
“Can you tell me what happened? I’ve been a nervous wreck since I woke up and found her gone. She and I had plans. We were going to live together. Fuck, maybe get married…” I trailed off as the man’s smirk grew into a look of outright sympathy.
“I hate to break it to you, Mr. Boyd, but you were used.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, threading his thick fingers together. “Agents must use every available resource, and I’m sure the US government appreciates not only your participation but your confidentiality as well.”
My heart cracked, then sank to the bottom of the ocean. “Did she actually say that I was only her cover?”
He exhaled a long breath that stank of cigarettes and coffee, even from this distance. “No. She didn’t say anything about you at all. We were briefed by another agent that you might be making inquiries. I was told to break the news gently.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“She told me she was FBI.” It occurred to me she could’ve even lied about that. “Was she?”
He nodded but didn’t verbally confirm. “I can see that you’re heartbroken. Take it from me, any kind of undercover agent is not easy to love. They lie for a living, Mr. Boyd.”
“Yeah, I know.” My heart was barely beating. Everything inside of me ached. She’d been so dishonest, yet… what? How could you love someone you didn’t even know? “Can you please tell me what happened at least? I have to know.”
He was already shaking his head. “I’m sorry. That’s classified information.”
I was getting angry now. “I understand, but you need to understand that I was part of the operation. I helped—”
The man chuckled and stroked his bushy mustache. “Mr. Boyd, I’m sure your, um, services were appreciated. I’m sure if they are needed again in the future, the young lady will be in contact with you.”
This was getting me nowhere.
I’d been used. Discarded. I didn’t want to make things worse by continuing to make a fool out of myself… or being hauled off to prison for beating this smug-ass man half to death.
I rose from my chair, mustering every ounce of dignity I possessed. “Thank you.”
He didn’t bother to stand. “Good day, Mr. Boyd.”
Just as I reached the door, it clicked open, saving me the embarrassment of trying to break it down.
Stalking out, I realized I had no idea what to do next.
No, that wasn’t true. I did know.
It was over.
She was gone, and I didn’t know where.
“May I be of assistance, sir?”
It was the woman from the security desk. I shook my head and went in the direction of customer service. I had a jet to catch. A life to put back together.
There were police everywhere. Crime scene tape. A body under a tarp.
I hoped it was Smith. It was a man. The size gave it away.
An hour later, I was in the air, staring down into the ocean. Taking out my phone, I scrolled through world news updates. Nothing.
Would a shooting in a small island airport even warrant a headline?
“Coffee, Mr. Boyd?”
I shook my head. “Scotch, please. Breakfast of champions.”
The attendant simply nodded. “Right away, sir.”
Completely dejected, I refreshed the screen, hoping some news report would appear. Nothing.
I drank scotch and refreshed. Nothing.
Again, when the attendant poured my second drink. Nothing.
A thought occurred to me. The airport shooting might not’ve been making world news, but it might certainly spread like wildfire with staff and crew.
“Jacob?”
The attendant turned back to me. “Yes, sir?”
“Did you or the pilots hear any rumblings about a shooting in the airport?”
His eyes grew wide. “Yes. You were very lucky to have just missed the action. From what I understand, the situation was very tense for a while.”
I refreshed my phone again. Nothing.
“I was hoping for more information, but it doesn’t seem to be making the news.”
He tapped his lips. “Did you YouTube it?”
“What?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Every person with a smartphone probably recorded the action and had it uploaded within seconds.”
I began tapping at my phone. “You’re brilliant.”
He beamed at me, then stepped closer to watch over my shoulder. “There it is. Maldives Airport Shooting.”
Sure enough, he was right.
I tapped play.
The video was jerky and the person recording it had been late to the game because three men were on the ground being handcuffed. I recognized one of them as Smith.
Damn straight.
But where was Sloane?
Frustrated, I scrolled for additional titles. “There,” Jacob said. “Maldives Airport Shooting, Part II.”
I tapped, and disappointment had me sagging in my seat. In this video, Smith and the two men in black suits were being hauled away by airport security personnel as well as some hippie-looking dude and another guy in a pink shirt.
“Freeze!”
The person recording jumped and whirled around, the video image a blur until it stabilized.
My heard squeezed. It was Sloane, and there was a man behind her, his arm around her throat. She was wearing a yellow sundress, her eyes huge in her pale face.
“Oh my,” Jacob breathed from behind me.
People were screaming, and the person recording was running, so I missed an exchange of words. Behind a column now, the person stabilized their phone, then zoomed in.
As I watched, Sloane lifted a finger, clearly trying to communicate with the female agent in front of her.
Oh no. The man was talking, something about a trade.
She raised a second, and I thought I understood. My heart was a roaring monster in my chest. “Don’t do it,” I told the phone, my anxiety ratcheting in degrees.
But she did.
When the third finger lifted, Sloane became a blur of swinging elbows and twisting body.
I jumped as the gunshots rang out. One. Two. Three.
The man collapsed against the wall, and for a moment, I could breathe again.
“No!”
It was a female voice, and suddenly, I understood. The agent was rushing to Sloane, who was looking at her in disbelief.
Red — the color of fire.
Yellow — the color of sunshine.
Together, the combination simply looked evil. Wrong.
There was so much blood.
The video stopped as the woman I loved was falling to the floor.