Page 91 of Lost Hope

Right.

“This makes zero sense,” Maya muttered, quiet enough that the cockpit crew couldn’t hear. “Why drag us to Italy just to bring us back to face charges in the States?”

Axel’s first words in hours were barely a whisper: “Because we’re not supposed to come back. Easier to disappear us on foreign soil.”

“Richardson and his goons are planning to make it look like we were in on the kidnapping,” Ronan added.

Maya flinched.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

She straightened her narrow shoulders as much as she could with her hands tied behind her back. “Don’t be. It’s the truth.”

We got this. He willed her to understand the unspoken reassurance he didn’t dare say aloud.

Turbulence rattled the Pilatus. Across the aisle, Axel went rigid. The former SEAL’s breathing had shifted—short, sharp inhales that had nothing to do with the plane’s movement. His eyes had that thousand-yard stare Ronan recognized from the last couple of years of their deployment. Ever since the disaster in Damascus.

“Hey.” Ronan kept his voice low, steady. “Stay with me, bro. You’re on a stupid-swanky private jet.” He watched Axel’s hands clench. “Maya’s on your left. I’m on your right. Buck Richardson’s flying, which is actually pretty funny if you think about it.”

Maya noticed it immediately, shifted to press her shoulder against Axel’s. “Ground yourself, big guy. Feel the seat. Smell the leather. Listen to Richardson being an arrogant ass up there, telling the admiral about his flight hours.”

Axel’s breath hitched. His whisper was raw: “Last time I was zip-tied on a plane?—”

“Was then. This is now.” Ronan kept his tone matter-of-fact. “And these aren’t real zip-ties. They’re our ticket out. Remember the plan. Stay with us.”

Slowly, deliberately, Axel flexed his hands. Inhaled. Exhaled. “The plan,” he repeated. “Right.” His voice steadied. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Maya murmured. “Just means you’re human.”

Ronan caught the admiral watching them, concern evident despite his careful mask of indifference. He gave the man a slight nod. All good.

The plane hit another patch of turbulence. This time, Axel didn’t flinch.

Ronan fully expected Jack and Christian and Griff and the rest of their team to beat them to Italy, once they rescued the admiral’s wife, or if they failed to locate and extract her before the planned exchange, it would be down to Ronan and Maya and Axel to handle Richarson and his crew.

Either way, the man had earned himself a fist to the face. Ronan was looking forward to it. A lot.

45

BATTLE PRAYER

The hours crawledby in a haze of carefully orchestrated movements. Every few hours, the admiral would unclip their restraints for bathroom breaks and to let them eat—always when Richardson was focused on navigation or radio checks. During one of these moments, Maya flexed her wrists, and Ronan caught himself wanting to reach for her hands, to massage away the marks from the restraints. The way she would’ve let him, before he’d pushed her away. Before he’d convinced himself that distance meant safety.

“Procedure,” the admiral would say loudly if Richardson glanced back, his tone carrying just the right note of authoritative boredom. “Can’t have them getting blood clots before they face charges.” He’d replace the restraints with efficient movements that looked strict but never hurt, somehow always managing to position himself between them and Richardson’s line of sight as they flexed their cramping muscles.

“Watch for my signals,” the admiral whispered to him while Richardson was busy with the nav system. “Three taps means wait. Two is go, whatever that means. We’ll be making this up on the fly.”

Ronan had blinked his assent. He’d fill in Maya and Axel when he was certain Richardson wouldn’t notice.

They choked down protein bars and water, Richardson watching them like a hawk, the admiral maintaining his act of cool disdain. The sun tracked across the sky outside their window, shadows lengthening as they crossed time zones.

Now, as morning approached over the Mediterranean, the cabin had settled into a tense quiet broken only by the drone of engines and Richardson’s occasional radio checks with his teams. “Approaching Italian airspace,” Richardson announced from the cockpit, his smugness carrying through the cabin. “John, would you check those coordinates again? The latest communication specified?—”

“Upper Tyrrhenian, grid sector four,” the admiral responded woodenly. “Isola del Giglio.”

Ronan’s head felt fuzzy again, his body hot, but he forced himself to focus. Knight’s shoulders were rigid as he stared straight ahead through the cockpit window. To anyone else, he probably looked like a frightened husband hoping to get his wife back. But Ronan caught the subtle tap of his finger against the armrest. Three taps.Wait.

“Coming up on the western cliffs,” Richardson announced.

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