So yeah, scared shitless. But not nervous.
This is nervous. I'm not afraid—they're not here to kill me, after all. Harris has assured me he knows Bryn's abduction wasn't my fault, and there wasn't shit I could've done to stop it. RMI vouched for that.
I'm just flat fucking nervous. Not just because these blokes are the most legendary operators on the planet, but because they're Bryn's family.
Bryn means something to me.
The longer she's gone, the more obvious that becomes. I'll tear apart heaven and earth to get her back, and I'll gut anyone who tries to fucking stop me. You don't feel that way for someone who's just a fun, easy fuck.
Of course, Bryn was never that. It was always complicated. Now, it's not complicated. She's mine. I'm hers. However you want to put it, that's what it is. I don't use the L-word except with Eliza. But consider it used.
And she's being held by fucking Pugli. To say I'm unhappy is a bit of an understatement.
A low rumble shakes the earth—an approaching aircraft. But this ain't your typical jet, I can already tell by the engine signature. The power of it even at this distance is just fucking bonkers.
The others are standing up, gathering their gear, stretching, doing the things career soldiers do once the hurry-up-and-wait period is finally over.
The rumble becomes an earth-shaking roar that shocks even me, and I've been around the most powerful aircraft any military can field. The jet that approaches, however, puts all of that to shame. It actually somewhat resembles an SR-71 Blackbird, the only aircraft I know of that can threaten this thing for speed—at least, that's what Harris told me.
I watch in awe as it shunts toward the ground almost recklessly fast, flaring at the last second to kill airspeed and then touching down as delicately as a butterfly landing on a daisy. Whoever the hell is at those controls is a right fucking master of their craft, I'll say that—a real artist.
Moments later, the long, low, sleek black aircraft—all angles to deflect radar—scuds to a halt outside the hangar, and a ramp at the rear lowers. Chico doesn't wait for a written invitation, jogging toward the ramp with the rest of RMI on his heels. I follow suit, mixing in with the pack.
The ramp leads up to a fairly small cargo space—enough to pack in luggage, gear bags, and shit like that. Huge black duffel bags are secured to the walls…six of them. Chico and his guys—and two gals, if you wanna be all politically correct about it, even though I use “guys” interchangeably—find places for their gear and move toward the door in the back wall of the cargo area. So, I do the same, strapping my carbine with my bag, although I do keep my sidearm in its holster on my right thigh.
Through the door and into a different world.
Everything is white. White carpet, white ceilings with embedded, hidden lighting along the ceilings above the rows of individual captain's chairs. Which are white leather.
"Fuck my eyeballs," I mutter. "Bloody blinding in here, innit?"
I hear a laugh. "I've repeatedly asked Val to redo the interior so it's less…this." The voice is familiar—I've been speaking on the mobile with him regularly: it's Harris himself. "But so far, he thinks I’m being funny. You get used to it."
He's about six feet tall, built lean and rangy, with a buzzed head and piercing green eyes, a short blond beard dusting his jaw. He's dressed in all black, with a sidearm on his thigh, a tactical knife on the opposite side, and another, smaller pistol in a shoulder holster. He's in his late fifties, maybe early sixties—it's hard to tell, although I know it has to be closer to sixty based purely on Bryn's age, unless he was quite young when they had her.
His gaze rakes over me, scrutinizing me, assessing me. "Rush Bellamy. Nice to meet you in person."
I shake his hand, going for firm but not trying to prove anything. "You too, sir."
He rolls his eyes. "Harris. I've told you."
I wince. "I know. Habit. You know how it is when you’ve been in the service for a long time. Old habits are hard to break."
He chuckles. "This I know, son. Val was 'sir' to me for years, too. I started out as his driver and bodyguard. Eventually, I became his best friend, and now we're more like brothers. So yeah, I do know how hard it is to kill old habits, especially ones ingrained into you by the military." He gestures for me to sit in one of the seats. "Sit, sit. Mercedes is a stickler for that kind of thing."
"Who's a stickler for what?" I ask, clicking my belt into place.
"Mercedes. My—well, Val's pilot. The pilot of this aircraft. She won't even taxi until everyone is seated and buckled, and she’s got a monitoring system up there, so she knows.”
I look around. "Everyone seems sat to me."
He raises his voice to address the aircraft at large. "If you are not buckled, please buckle now. We can’t taxi until every seat that bears an ass is buckled."
There's a chorus of clicks; the instant the last click sounds, the engines whine with an increase of power.
Harris grins at me. "Ever fly hypersonic?"
"No, sir."
