Page 99 of The Wolves Come at Night
The voice of a friend. The voice of a trusted companion.
“Do you agree, Avery? I’ll take off the gag if you promise to behave.”
She nodded, and the gag came loose.
“Alan? What are you doing? Get me out of here.”
“Soon enough,” he said, and the horror of his nonchalance gripped her spine.
“I don’t understand, Alan. What is happening?”
Three things, at once. A shout. A gunshot. And a sudden fight, one of such intensity she shut her eyes against the disequilibrium of movement. When she opened them, she saw two shadows, fists flying, moving so quickly it was like she was watching a movie, a staged sequence, a choreographed scene. Only one of the men was better than the other, that was readily apparent. The weaker one went down, and a sickening crack echoed through the room. She knew a neck had been broken.
Whose?
A light swung into her eyes and she was blinded, her senses on overload. She screamed, and a soft voice shushed her.
“Are you okay? My God, Avery. Tell me you’re okay.”
She was imagining things. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. She was dreaming. Of course, she was dreaming. This was a nightmare. She was going to wake in her bed, feeling foolish for the spark of hope and joy that filled her at this very moment. Hope and joy and fury.
He was dead, had been for years.
A bottle of cool water was pressed to her lips.
Her vision cleared, and a face shone in the gloom, the light from below his chin like a campfire ghoul telling a creepy story. The face of a stranger. The face of a lover. The face of her very dead husband.
Not so dead, after all. Richard stood before her, a little thinner, a little older.
And very much alive.
The water must have been drugged because she was floating, drifting, and as she slid into darkness, all she could think was You bastard. I am going to kill you for this.
And then, as she disappeared: Richard. Oh, my darling Richard.
Fifty-One
TUESDAY: LONDON, ENGLAND
The plan was simple, as far as plans went. Even Taylor had to admit it had a certain kind of elegance. But elegance and reality were two different things.
Fly their jet into Northolt—it was a more and more popular business aircraft destination as well as the RAF base, so a Gulfstream wouldn’t stand out at all. This shift in Northolt’s policies worked in their favor across the board—Macallan had enough clout to have multiple airports to which their aircraft was welcomed. No, the landing wasn’t the issue. The issue was getting into Ahmad’s plane. It was under guard, in a hangar, being serviced, while Ahmad played in the end-of-season polo matches. They had to get past the guards, into the hangar, and steal the damn painting, then get back to their jet and fly the hell out.
Taylor had bit back a thousand reasons why this was a very bad idea and was only slightly reassured when Santiago called to let them know he’d pulled the plane’s maintenance records and they were getting really damn lucky because the service was finished and a flight plan had been registered for the following day. Ahmad was moving on to Brazil, and they were catching him just in time. Getting in and out of Brazil unnoticed would have presented more problems. Not insurmountable, but a much more difficult operation. So the plan was solidified—while Angelie and Taylor made their way to the 747, Santiago would lay in their cover should they be stopped: they were there to repossess the 747 for the bank.
Apparently, this was a relatively common occurrence. When Taylor questioned this, out of genuine curiosity, Angelie explained.
“We often pose as plane repo men. Jet repossession is a huge business. You’d be amazed at how many people can’t afford their jets. It’s a lucrative industry, and all the private airports are aware that it happens. We come in under the auspices of taking the plane back for the bank. It gets us into the airports, and on the ground, in many areas we would otherwise have trouble getting into. Some of the more private airports are rarely surprised when a group of us fly in and steal whatever is sitting there, looking out of place. Gets us into trouble sometimes, too, when the owners are expecting the real repo men to come and they fight back, but it’s a solid tool.”
“That’s clever,” Taylor said, and Angelie laughed.
“Only when it works. Which is half the time.”
“And the other half?”
Angelie jacked the slide on her pistol and didn’t say a word.
“Great. What else do I need to know for this?”
