Page 29 of One Secret

On the rushing wind against my legs, the hum of the bike between my thighs…

…and the warmth of Cyrus's broad and reassuring back.

* * *

It doesn't take us twenty minutes. In fact, we ride Cyrus's bike along sideroads and highways for nearly an hour.

We weren't, I quickly discover, headed for Giovan Battista International but to a private airstrip some ways south of the city. Even engulfed by Cyrus's leather jacket, the cold has seeped into my bones by the time we turn off the interstate and begin following signs for a world war bunker memorial and the town of Rocca Massima. Later, skirting seven feet of chain-link fence and frequently-spaced signs warning of private property, I'm half numb. Only my cheeks, pressed against the form padding inside my helmet, have any warmth left.

How Cyrus hasn't yet turned into a hunk of ice and fallen sideways to shatter on the motorway, I have no idea.

The bike is electric. Without engine noise to judge our speed, I only know we're slowing down when the links in the fence become less of a blur and the wind begins to ease. The sleeves of Cyrus's t-shirt are no longer pressing around his muscles like a second skin but left to flap and dance in the breeze.

We approach a turnstile. The single bar-barrier kind you find at parking lots. There's a small booth for a ticket taker but it's empty and practically derelict. The red and white stripes on the barrier are peeling.

Despite appearances, some kind of tech is still working because the barrier automatically lifts at our approach.

Through the gate and another five-hundred yards east, I spot a jet out on a short runway. Opposite, to our right, is a small carrier, only large enough for a couple of birds.

To my surprise, we drive right inside. Into the bunker. And into a storage container kept in a back corner.

I follow Cyrus's lead as we dismount the bike. My step echoes inside the vast metal tin and I quickly take my luggage in hand and head back outside.

Cyrus is vigilant in checking the bars, barriers, and all-out padlocks keeping the container secure. Like he's tucking in his baby for the night.

I roll my eyes.

Men and their machines...

Caging the judgment, I shoulder my rucksack and head out towards the runway and into the sunshine. With no planes inside the carrier, I assume the jet is our ride. Outlandish as that is.

After all, who charters an entire jet for just two people?

'Darcy...'

The tone of Cyrus's call has me stalling on the tarmac. Without the shade of the helmet visor, I wince in the summer light. Without the whipping of the wind aboard a high speed bike, the sun is hot and balmy.

I use my hand as a shade over my eyes. I raise an eyebrow quizzically.

What's the hold up now?

'I swear if you're about to kick up a stink about me going with you,' I start, 'I'm gonna—'

'I'm not,' Cyrus assures with hands raised in surrender.

I can't help but shuffle where I stand. Totally unimpaired behind his aviators, it's like Cyrus has the upper hand. Especially as he steps out of the shadows of the carrier and that great ball of white sunshine becomes a halo of lasers over the ridge of his right shoulder.

I wince harder.

'I just think you need to know something before you get on that plane,' Cyrus says.

'Right now? Why?' I ask, befuddled.

We're literally a hundred feet from the damn thing.

'Because you need to be fully informed before you make your choice to come with me.'

Seriously?!

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