Page 49 of Shadow Blind

Although he couldn’t hear its demonic yowling, he knew the damn cat was on board. The duct-taped kennel had vanished when he’d dragged his captive from Hotch’s van to the jet. No doubt O’Neill had facilitated the cat’s boarding. It was exactly the kind of dick move the asshole would make. Aiden’s argument with Demi had gotten loud. Everyone knew he didn’t want the damn cat on board, didn’t want it near Demi. So, of course, O’Neill—the bastard—would gleefully lug the creature on board and hide it at the back of the plane.

He rolled his shoulders to soothe the building ache in his muscles. Once Demi calmed down, she’d realize he’d simply been worried about her. Another shoulder roll was followed by a deep breath. He shifted his frustration from Demi to the long-faced, zip-tied asshole strapped to the chair in front of him.

AKA—the bastard who’d gone after his woman. Big, BIG mistake.

Tag and Tram hadn’t interrogated the asshole back at the condo. Their priority had been getting Demi to safety. Hotch and his team, however, had been blessed with more time and lethal rage. They’d crewed with Squirrel and Lurch in the past, considered them brothers. They’d wanted answers, wanted to know who’d set up that Karaveht clusterfuck. Aiden understood their rage and their need for answers. He shared both.

The asshole across from him was showing the facial bruising and swelling of fist persuasion. Puffy, pinkish red around the eyes. The bulbous swelling, redness, and faint traces of blood from a recently broken nose. A split lip. The injuries were fresh, mere hours old. They would turn colorful and dramatic over the following days.

Hotch’s team hadn’t gotten even one answer to their many questions. Aiden still didn’t know who’d hired them, or where they’d planned on taking Demi, or who was behind the slaughter at Karaveht and the massacre of his team.

His calculating gaze shifted back to the bastard in front of him. Fists hadn’t worked, but they had other options available to them. Drugs would drag every bit of info out of them. According to Cosky, Shadow Mountain had developed the kind of kickass interrogation drugs that ripped information from unwilling minds.

The asshole wouldn’t be holding onto his secrets much longer.

He made a show of studying the dude’s clothes—the officer whites with the rinky-dink trident pinned to the lapel. The medals and ribbons on display outed him as a fake to anyone who knew what they were looking at.

“Where did you get your costume? Toys “R” Us?” He crossed his arms and stared at the bastard’s decorated chest. Some of the red on those ribbons and metals were splotches of blood.

The asshole shrugged, then laid his head back and closed his eyes.

“Good call,” Aiden taunted. “Rest up. We’ve got painful plans for you.”

“Keep dreaming,” the killer in the priest costume gloated from the row ahead. “You’ll get nothing from us.”

Aiden scoffed loudly. “Trust me, you’ll sing like a canary during mating season.”

These bastards must know who hired them. He could work his way to the bot bomb’s mastermind from there. It wouldn’t surprise him if the name they spilled was Grigory Kuznetsov. The Russian arms dealer had to be involved somehow.

O’Neill stood, carrying the cat carrier by its handle, and stepped into the aisle. Aiden ignored the movement until Demi followed him up and out. They headed toward the back of the plane.

What the hell were they up to? Curious, Aiden unclipped his seatbelt and rose to his feet.

“Try not to be an ass.” Cosky’s unsolicited advice followed Aiden down the aisle.

He shot his brother-in-law the middle finger over his shoulder. By the time he reached the pair at the back of the plane, O’Neill had set the crate down in front of the john.

“Are you sure?” Demi’s face was lined with concern. “He’s calm now, but he can be a handful. Once you cut the duct tape from the door, there will be nothing to stop him from attacking. Maybe we should wait—” She stopped talking as soon as O’Neill shook his head.

“Look.” O’Neill opened the john’s door. “There’s plenty of room for me and the crate. Once I close the door, he’ll be trapped. If I get his morning doses into him now, he’ll only be a couple of hours late, instead of a whole dose late.” He turned back to Demi and held out his hand. “His meds?” The bastard looked right at Aiden but didn’t acknowledge him.

“The dosage is on each bottle.” Demi pulled two small plastic bottles—one white and one light blue—from her pocket and pressed them into O’Neill’s hands.

It didn’t take military intelligence to piece together what was going on. O’Neill had taken over the cat’s care. Perfect. The bastard’s tanned arms would look just fine with bloody ribbons of skin hanging off them.

O’Neill lifted the kennel and shuffled forward, setting it on the toilet lid. The door shut behind him with a forceful click. Demi eased forward, her head—with its spiky aqua hair—tilted. Her forehead scrunched.

She was so damn cute. He rubbed at the ache spreading through his chest.

“You know I wouldn’t have hurt your cat, right?” And then, just in case she hadn’t connected the dots. “I was concerned, that’s all. Cat claws are full of bacteria…infection. Hell, dozens of people die from infections brought on by cat scratches every year.”

He pulled the number out of thin air and offered her a coaxing smile. She turned, nailing him with a glance he couldn’t interpret.

“Dozens, huh?” She scoffed, then turned back to the door, this time leaning in slightly.

At least she hadn’t told him to go to hell. That was progress, right? “What are you listening for?”

This time, she didn’t look at him. “Growling.”

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