Page 83 of The Wolves Come at Night
They filled him in, and he agreed, it sounded like they had a pattern. “Get yourselves some DNA from the bodies and the suspect and it’s a done deal.”
After a few more minutes of chatter and coordination, hugs were given all around, and the guys happily trooped from the condo, off to their respective jobs and leads to follow. When the door closed behind Lincoln, and they were alone, Taylor glanced at her watch, swallowed back the emotions, and told Baldwin what she was about to do. Most of it. She tried not to see the abject horror on his face.
“Absolutely not. You can’t go off with her. She’s an assassin, Taylor. Unpredictable at best, dangerous as hell. No. You can’t.”
“I can. And I am. Trust me. I know who she is, and what she’s capable of. But she is not going to hurt me. We have a deal.”
“You can’t make a deal with the devil, Taylor. He always has an ulterior motive.”
He ran his hands vigorously through his hair, a gesture that caused something inside her stomach to pull.
“This devil is a she. And I think I understand her.”
He looked utterly miserable. She wrapped her arms around his waist. She was tall, but he was taller, and she looked up at him, trying to make sure he understood. “I need you to trust me.”
“I do, Taylor. But—”
“Seriously.” She pulled back, focused on his sea-green eyes, trying like hell to see past the pain and confusion. “I’m doing this for a very good reason. I need to find Carson Conway. She is a tool in a bigger struggle, and that pisses me off. But it’s more. Angelie…well, she claims she needs my help, which I hardly believe is true. But if I’m going to work for Macallan, this is a chance for me to see how things are done. Saving Carson is my goal here, but I can answer some lingering questions for myself, too.”
“There’s more you aren’t telling me.”
She hated when he did that. Like he could see right through her, into the core where she kept things hidden. She supposed that’s what loving someone was about, letting them past the shell and into your heart, and she loved Baldwin very, very much. It still unnerved her when he peered inside.
“Please don’t ask. I need to do this. You’ll understand why when I find Carson.”
He kissed her lightly, not commenting on her bruises, the split lip, just brushed his lips against hers once, twice, and stepped out of the embrace, crossing his arms on his broad chest. “I trust you implicitly, Taylor. Just promise me you’ll be careful. It would kill me if something happened to you.”
Forty-Three
It about killed Taylor to leave Baldwin, but she had made this decision, and she was going through with this plan. As promised, the car was at the corner at noon on the dot, and a pristine white Gulfstream V with a long black stripe was waiting at John C. Tune Airport. Taylor mounted the steps, expecting Angelie to be inside, but found the plane empty except for the pilots. One man and one woman, both wearing uniforms.
“Captain Jackson, I presume. You all set?” the woman asked, her voice redolent of the Deep South. “We’re all gassed up and ready to rock.”
Taylor handed over her bag. “Just Taylor. Am I flying alone?”
“That’s what the manifest says. Deadheading a single.”
“All right. Where, exactly, are we headed?”
“Connecticut. Be there in an hour. Have a seat, buckle up. Drinks are in the fridge toward the back, so’s the head.”
The female pilot smiled and took her place on the left side of the cockpit.
Taylor grabbed a Diet Coke and a bag of almonds. The seats were warm and the leather luxurious, and she happily settled in. The flight was short, but after her snack, she managed to doze, her long legs thrown onto the seat opposite hers.
They landed gently in New Haven, taxied for a few minutes, then stopped. The male pilot opened the door, and Taylor stood up.
“Stretch your legs if you want, but don’t go far. We’re off again as soon as we’re gassed up.”
Taylor was surprised by that. She stuck her head out into the crisp northern air only to see Angelie striding toward the plane, followed by Santiago Diaz-Rooney. Neither carried a bag. The assassin waved her back inside, ran up the steps, and spoke French to the female pilot—“Allons-y.” The pilot nodded and took her seat, the engines revving.
Diaz-Rooney entered, sized up Taylor—looking up, as many did; she was six feet tall in stocking feet, and the Lamas gave her two more inches. “Diaz, if you don’t remember,” he said, sticking out a hand.
“Jackson,” she replied, taking it briefly. “I do. Might have filled me in a little when we last met, though.”
His eyes were colder than she recalled. “Don’t criticize. You just got read in.”
“Now, now, Santi. Play nice,” Angelie crooned, taking the seat opposite Taylor. Both Taylor and Santiago rolled their eyes. Santiago retrieved a bottle of water and took the bench couch.
