Burned (Shenandoah Shadows Novella Book 1) Read online

  She mumbled a distracted hello to Wen, Mateo’s pilot, then plopped down in the white leather seat, leaned back, and closed her eyes. It had been a long and draining day. She needed a few minutes to decompress. She’d earned them.

  Her moment of Zen was interrupted by the loud rumble of her stomach. She opened her eyes and realized she hadn’t eaten since last night’s dinner.

  “Wen, do I have time to rummage around in the galley for a snack before we take off?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he responded in a muffled voice.

  She frowned. Wen was formal to a fault. He would never respond so casually to a question from anyone, let alone from his employer’s wife.

  She leaned and looked more closely at the pilot. Her heart stopped for a moment. The man going through his pre-check procedures was not Wen. He wasn’t even Chinese.

  “Excuse me, where’s Wen?”

  In all the time she’d known Mateo, he’d never flown with anyone but Wen. Her internal alarm clanged a klaxon call. Her heart ticked up a notch.

  The pilot turned and considered her. His expression remained impassive, but she noted the tightening of the skin around his eyes—an involuntary show of worry or anger or some other emotion he was trying to tamp down.

  After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Wen’s not feeling well. I’m filling in. Don’t worry, I’m very experienced.”

  Why hadn’t Mateo mentioned the substitution when he called? Then again, he had been busy berating her. It could have slipped his mind.

  Still, the alarm bell in her brain continued to sound its loud warning. She didn’t want to be airborne with a stranger until she was sure he was trustworthy, especially in light of the cryptic warning from Senator Anglin’s aide.

  “I see. I’m sure you know my name, but just to make it official, I’m Olivia Santos.” She smiled warmly and held out her hand.

  He shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  She waited, but he didn’t volunteer a name.

  “And you are?”

  “Captain Cortland.” He glanced down at his instrument panel. “I need to finish my pre-flight checklist. There’s plenty of time for you to get a snack.”

  She’d been dismissed. As she made her way to the small galley, she ran through her mental photo album of embassy staff and the small number of American expats in her social circle. She recognized Captain Cortland from somewhere, but she couldn’t place him. He could be CIA, which might mean she was being exfiltrated.

  Nobody from Langley had reached out to her about the allegedly bad information she’d provided. That was odd to the point of being disturbing. But if there really was a credible threat against her, getting her out of danger would be their first priority. Tracing the misinformation could wait. But surely someone would have told her they were pulling her out. Wouldn’t they?

  She grabbed a container of the trail mix the crew kept on board for her and a stainless steel bottle filled with chilled water, then returned to her seat to rummage through her purse. She slipped open the small hidden compartment stitched into the inside pocket and removed a delicate rose gold bracelet with a slim display built into the band.

  It looked like a stylish fitness tracker. Only this device didn’t count her steps or measure her heart rate. It enabled her to send and receive encrypted covert communications. She tapped the face and a series of numbers flashed across the covcom unit. The last communication had been from Langley, letting her know that the Western Hemisphere Desk was aware she was coming to the states to visit her grandmother and that there was no need to arrange a meetup. No new messages.

  She frowned. If Cortland was CIA, there should be a message to that effect. Her gut tightened, and she blew out a long, slow breath. It was critical not to panic. If he really was a pilot filling in for Wen, the worst thing she could do was overreact and blow her own cover and undo all the endless hours of work she’d done getting close to Mateo’s contacts. Still, she couldn’t ignore the possibility that he was employed by some third party—not Mateo, not the CIA.

  She fastened the bracelet around her wrist. She hadn’t wanted to wear the device while in the states, where it was unique enough that it might invite questions. In Mexico City, no one gave it a second glance. It was virtually invisible next to the glitz and bling of the jewelry favored by the women in Mateo’s crowd.

  She nibbled on the nuts and dried fruit and glanced toward the front of the cabin. They’d be taking off soon, and, once airborne, her options would be severely limited. She thought she could probably land a small plane if she had to incapacitate the pilot, but she’d rather not test that belief.

  The simplest course would be to call Mateo and confirm that Wen was out sick. It was beyond simple, really. A wife calling her husband. But, at the mere thought of speaking to him, a wave of nausea crashed over her, and she panted until it passed. Some distant recess of her brain informed her that wanting to puke at the thought of one’s husband wasn’t a sign of a healthy marriage. She dismissed the thought, as she always did. She had other priorities.

  Through the small oval window, she noticed Trent’s SUV was still parked on the tarmac. He leaned against the hood, his muscular arms crossed over his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles. Something about his posture and the fact that he was still there, struck her as almost unbearably sweet. And, for a heartbeat, her current situation faded as she studied him through the window.

  She caught herself and gave her head a shake.

  You’re a hot mess. Focus on Cortland, not your pathetic crush on a man you barely know.

  Trent wasn’t sure why he was still standing on the edge of the tarmac like a character in some rom-com movie, mooning over the girl who got away. His brain sent a message to his legs, instructing them to move, to walk around to the driver’s side door so he could slide behind the wheel, start the engine, and drive back to work. But his legs refused. So, he stood and stared at the plane, as if he might be able to peer inside with his nonexistent X-ray vision for one final glimpse of Olivia.

  How did that woman manage to get under your skin in such a short time? You’re a disaster.

  The voice inside his head sounded an awful lot like Jake’s. And it sounded like it was amused.

  The image of Olivia’s flushed face, her mouth open with laughter and exhilaration after she’d executed the bootleg turn, flashed before his eyes.

  He shook his head. He couldn’t stand around all day like a lovesick puppy. He jutted his chin toward the plane and called to the flagger who was standing nearby. “Do you know what time they’re taking off for Mexico City?”

  The man scrunched up his forehead. “You mean Cuba?”

  “What?”

  “The pilot filed a flight plan with a destination in Guantanamo Bay. Some private airstrip called Strawberry Fields. Somebody likes the Beatles, I guess.”

  Trent’s heart hammered in his chest. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  What had Olivia gotten mixed up in? Strawberry Fields was a private CIA prison, hidden in the shadows of Gitmo. He couldn’t think of very many good reasons for her husband’s plane to be going to Cuba rather than Mexico City, and he could think of only very bad reasons for it to be landing at Strawberry Fields.

  His brain whited out, all thought faded, and he pushed off from the hood and sprinted toward the plane. Behind him, the flagger shouted for him to stop. He pumped his legs faster, as the pilot began to retract the airstairs. He grabbed the bottom stair with his left hand, clambered up the remaining stairs, and burst into the cabin.

  “Trent!”

  Olivia’s cry of surprise caught the pilot’s attention. He turned away from the controls and gaped at Trent.

  “Grab your stuff,” Trent ordered.

  The pilot reached under his jacket.

  Trent had no interest in engaging in a gun battle in close quarters. He turned hard to his right, then rotated his core with a burst of force and plowed his elbow into the ma
n’s exposed throat.

  Olivia shouted, but he didn’t turn. He tensed and waited for the pilot’s head to bounce off the glass and rebound toward him. As it did, he timed a solid punch to connect with the man’s temple for maximum impact. The pilot slumped forward, unconscious.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Olivia demanded.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed her arm and kicked at the stairs. They began to unfold, and he didn’t wait for them to hit the ground. He slid down the stairs like they were a ramp, with Olivia tucked under his arm like a football—a flailing, kicking football. He jumped the last five feet and landed in a crouch. Then he was off and running across the tarmac, pulling her behind him as she struggled to break loose of his grasp.

  Men streamed from the small building at the edge of the blacktop, shouting and waving their arms. He didn’t see any drawn weapons, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He hit the remote start button, and the SUV’s engine sprang to life. He yanked open the passenger door and hauled Olivia inside, then ran around to the driver’s side.

  He was peeling out of the lot before his butt was fully in the seat.

  “What is wrong with you?” she shrieked, wrenching on the door handle.

  He hit the locks and engaged the front passenger side’s child-lock feature as the SUV careened around the corner and out of the lot. The vehicle lifted as the tires on the right side went airborne for a second.

  “Put your seatbelt on,” he gritted.

  She glared at him but jammed the shoulder harness into the clip. “There. Now, explain yourself.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve gotten into, but that plane wasn’t heading to Mexico City.”

  She’s scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Where else would it be going?”

  He checked his review mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed, then let his eyes slide over to the passenger seat. “A private airstrip at Strawberry Fields, in Cuba,” he answered, clocking her reaction.

  She stiffened and went completely still but said nothing.

  “I take it you know what that is,” he said softly.

  After a moment, she exhaled and dragged a hand through her hair. “Strawberry Fields is a secret CIA prison. A black site.” Her voice was dull, but steady.

  “Can you think of any reason why your husband’s pilot would take you there?”

  She twisted in the seat to lock eyes with him. “Actually, that wasn’t my husband’s pilot. I’ve never seen him before.”

  “And you were going to sit there and let him take you wherever he wanted?”

  Her eyes flashed. “No, Trent. I didn’t know our destination, but I did have a feeling something was off. I was working out a plan in a reasoned, logical, calm manner. But before I could enact it, some Neanderthal stormed the plane and punched out the pilot then grabbed me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  To his surprise, she burst into laughter. He was glad to hear it for a moment, but then the giggles turned high-pitched, then hysterical. A moment later, she was sobbing.

  “Ah, crap, Olivia, tell me what’s going on.”

  She sniffled and took a deep breath, struggling to get her emotions under control before she said, “I don’t know what’s going on, and I probably never will because my cover’s blown.”

  The words landed in his brain, but it took him a moment to process them. “Your cover’s blown?” He echoed.

  He’d had a suspicion, especially after she’d demonstrated that reverse bootleg move. But, still, a frisson of surprise crackled through him.

  “I’m a NOC. Or at least I was. I don’t know what I am now.”

  Holy cow. A CIA NOC?

  Operating under nonofficial cover was outrageously dangerous. It left operatives exposed and vulnerable if things went south.

  “And you don’t know why your plane was headed for Gitmo?”

  “I don’t have the foggiest idea.”

  A shadow passed over her face. It was fleeting, but it was there.

  “That’s not true. You have an inkling, at least.”

  “I have a theory, but ….” She trailed off, frowning.

  “You can’t share it with me because it’s top secret-confidential?”

  “Right.”

  “Listen, I have the highest level of clearance from more agencies than I can count.”

  She nodded. “I’m sure you do. But I still can’t talk to you about this. Not until I know exactly what’s involved.”

  He didn’t like it, but he understood.

  “Okay, so what do we do now?”

  A hint of a smile painted her lips. “What? You mean you didn’t have a fully formed plan when you stormed the plane like a commando?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m a man of action. Act first, figure out the details later.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Should we go to Langley?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not sure. Five minutes ago, I would have said absolutely. But if that plane really was destined for a black site, I may be royally screwed.”

  She was right. The CIA protected its own. Until it didn’t. And a secret prison wasn’t the sort of place they’d send a member of the family.

  Before he could respond, the car’s communication system lit up.

  “Great,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Are you going to take the call?”

  “There’s a part of me that wishes I didn’t have to, but that would be suicide.”

  “Career suicide, you mean.”

  “Well, that, too,” he said, jamming his thumb on the button to pick up the call. “What’s up, Jake?”

  “What’s up? What’s up? Did you climb aboard a private jet and kidnap Olivia Santos?”

  He flicked his eyes toward Olivia. “That’s not how I’d characterize what happened.”

  “Really? Because that’s how the FBI is characterizing it.”

  “The FBI?” he parroted.

  “Yes. I just received a call letting me know that you two are the subject of a manhunt.”

  “That was quick.” It was. In fact, he was equal parts dismayed and impressed by their organized speed.

  “The FBI,” Olivia mused.

  “Ms. Santos, is that you?” Jake’s voice oozed urgency.

  She leaned forward and directed her voice toward the speaker. “Yes.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Mr. Mann didn’t kidnap me. He was trying to help me.”

  “Help you,” Jake echoed. “Help you do what?”

  “Um … I’m not sure. I guess you’d call it a rescue situation.”

  “One of the two of you needs to tell me what the devil is going on. Now.”

  Trent recognized that tone. It was Jake’s take-no-prisoners voice.

  He cleared his throat. “Like she said, Jake, we’re not entirely sure. And the fact that the FBI’s involved just adds to my confusion. If anything, you should have gotten a call from Langley.”

  A long silence followed. Then, “Langley, as in the Agency?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  He shot Olivia a look. Her blue eyes pleaded, and she shook her head.

  “Eventually, yes. But not yet. Give us a couple hours to get our arms around this situation and—”

  “You’re kidding, right? You need to get back here. Bring her with you. We can work this out, but, Trent, I’m telling you, you need to return to the facility. The FBI and, now apparently, the CIA will be out in force looking for you. Come back here. Now.”

  “I get what you’re asking—“

  “I’m not asking anything. I’m telling you.”

  Jake didn’t wait to hear Trent’s response. He ended the call.

  The car fell silent.

  After a minute, Olivia spoke in a small voice. “Are you taking me back to Potomac?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “No.”

  His failure to s
ave Carla when she needed help pressed down on him like a weight. This was his chance to fix the balance. He hadn’t been able to help his partner and his lover. But maybe he could help this woman.

  Even as the words left his mouth, he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “Okay, where to, then?”

  “Are you serious?” Her voice quavered, and he recognized a fragile note of hope.

  “So help me, I am. But we’re gonna have to have some ground rules.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

  “Don’t worry. They’re fair.”

  “Let’s hear them.”

  “You need to tell me what you were doing in Mexico City and share whatever theory you have. If I’m gonna risk my life for you, I need to know that much.”

  She caught her lower lip with her top teeth, then nodded. “You’re right. That’s only fair. But, in exchange, you’ve got to tell me who you are and what your background is. That way I’ll know what you’re capable of, and we’ll both have a better sense of our options.”

  “It’s a deal. But before we do anything else, we need to get rid of this SUV.”

  “What? We’re not going to get very far without wheels.”

  “We may not get very far with these wheels anyway. Jake can track it. And if he wanted to, he could shut it down from the office. The last thing we need is to be disabled on the side of the road when the government goons come for you.”

  “Would he do that?”

  Trent didn’t think so, but he didn’t want to find out he was wrong the hard way. “Not worth risking it.”

  She paled then nodded. “So we ditch it. I can hotwire a car.”

  He grinned at the image. “Yeah, so can I. I have a different plan.”

  “Care to share it?”

  “We’re driving back to Potomac’s campus. Or the general area, at least.”

  “What? I thought we just agreed that we’re not going back.”

  “We’re not, not really. Jake will be able to see on the GPS that we’re headed back. That’ll reassure him and buy us some breathing room. But we’re not going to go to the office. When we get close to the facility, we’ll ditch the car where Jake can find it easily.”

  “And then?”