Page 92 of Beloved Sacrifice

Chapter Sixteen

It was both awesome and awful that only five hours after the conversation on the docks they were boarding a private plane headed to Manchester-Boston Regional Airport.

Rose didn’t know much about the Masters’ Admiralty, but arranging a last-minute international flight on a private plane was a Herculean task. You needed money, power, and connections to do it. Even more so because Rose was traveling on a fake EU passport. She hadn’t thought to ask how Weston had gotten her into the country, but Marek had asked when they drove the two hours back to Weston’s house.

Wes had pulled out a small lockbox and opened it to reveal three bundles of passports. Each bundle had four passports—one each for Weston, Rose, Tabby, and Caden. For the return trip to the U.S., Weston gave her a passport with her mother’s last name, rather than Hancock. The passport she’d entered England with had the same name. It was a common enough practice among people who held two passports to enter Europe on the European one and then return to the U.S. with the American one, so she should be safe enough, as long as they didn’t realize it was a fake.

Tristan was able to drive his SUV right onto the tarmac at the private plane jet center at London City Airport.

Rose slipped out of the car then went to the trunk, taking the backpack Weston had given her, mostly so it seemed like she had some sort of luggage. No luggage was suspicious. A porter took Marek’s and Weston’s suitcases, throwing them into a little cart and driving them into the hangar to be scanned. A small table was set up at the foot of the stairs, and one by one they placed their carryon bags on the table, where a gloved attendant hand-checked each, before waving them up the steps.

A trim young man in a flight attendant’s blazer welcomed them onboard with glasses of Prosecco.

The interior of the G6 was divided into three sections—the foyer/kitchen area, where they’d entered, and two seating areas. The middle seating area had only four seats, two on each side, facing each other. There was a bulkhead that separated these seats from the back of the aircraft, where there were two couches along each side, facing in toward the center aisle.

Rose dropped into one of the rear-facing seats. Marek took the one across from her, looking strong and unflappable, his shirt hugging the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms.

Weston sat in the other forward-facing seat. Tristan didn’t look pleased by that, but took the last chair, across the aisle from Rose. The flight attendant gave them a quick briefing, they buckled up, and then the plane started taxiing.

Weston looked tense. He had yet to explain why they were willingly returning to Boston. She’d gotten Tristan out of the way so he could listen to those tapes. Curiosity was eating away at her. What could he have heard that made him so tense and grim?

The only thing she could think was that he hadn’t found anything. If the proof he hoped for wasn’t there, he wouldn’t have the leverage he needed to threaten his parents and get the Grand Master to back off.

But if he’d found nothing, she would have expected more frustration. Perhaps he would have insisted they go back to the cabin so he could consult his serial killer room for another lead.

Once they’d climbed to thirty-thousand feet and the captain announced they could unfasten their seat belts, Weston yanked at the tab and jumped to his feet.

“Rose, come on.” He held out his hand.

She froze, her nerve endings tingling. A lifetime of conditioning had her bowing her head even as she undid the seat belt.

Marek pushed to his feet, strong, solid, and sure. He stepped between her and Weston. “No, Weston. You don’t speak to her like that.”

Rose couldn’t see Weston’s face, but she heard the noise he made. A noise of pain and sadness. Her heart lurched in response, as if his pain had hurt her too. Which was ridiculous and circular.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” There was a sigh. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’m coming with you,” Marek said.

“I’m not going to hurt her.”

That spurred her from the submissive silence his command had locked her into. She pushed to her feet. “I’m right here. I don’t need you to protect me.” She put her hand on Marek’s arm. “But that’s who you are. I understand that. Sometimes…sometimes I react.” She tried to put a note of humor into her voice but it was shaky. “All the brainwashing.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll just…” Weston sighed.

Rose kept one hand on Marek and took Weston’s hand with her free one. “What do you need, Wes?”

“Ah, for fuck sake, you three.” Tristan had his arms folded and eyes closed. They were standing only a few feet from him, but he was clearly trying to pretend he wasn’t there. “The couches in the back convert into a bed. Get on with it.”

Weston met her gaze and jerked his chin in a brief nod.

Rose changed her posture, resting her elbow on Marek’s shoulder. “A bed?” she purred, watching Tristan out of the corner of her eye. “I hope you’ve got headphones, Blondie.”

Without looking, he reached into his carryon, pulled out noise-canceling headphones, and put them on.

Weston led them through the small doorway to the area with couches, then closed the small door, separating the seating areas. It wasn’t soundproof, but between the noise of the plane and Tristan’s headphones, they might not be overheard when Weston told them…

Told them whatever it was he’d heard on that tape.

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