Breath fast, Bill turned to his desk, shocked to find there was no pencil, no paper. “Yes, ma’am.” She’d probably send her own jet, which meant he had a bare few hours.
“We’ll get this sorted out. If they don’t accept Jack, he can at least keep tabs on her from a distance.”
“That was my intent.”
“Good,” Helen said. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, but she’d already hung up.
Exhaling loudly, Bill set the phone gently in its cradle. Smiling, he held his hands up to gauge them. “Not a tremor, not a shake,” he whispered, then spun to his door.
“Margo!” he shouted, startling the woman. “Where is Michael right now?”
The wide-eyed woman touched her gray hair. “If he’s holding to your schedule, he’ll still be with his physical trainer, sir, working on his knee. But knowing him, he’ll be in the pool doing laps.”
“Pool, eh?” Bill said, then darted back into his office. Motions fast, he yanked open the bottom drawer, pushing aside the bottle of scotch to find the dart pistol underneath. His smile widened as he checked the expiration on the Amneoset it was loaded with. He’d get a tech and a sedation dart from medical. Calculating the dosage was tricky, and if Michael was in the water, he’d want some help.
First Peri, and now Michael. He hadn’t brought this many people down in a long time. Another pleasure regained in the pains of becoming small again.
“Clear my schedule for today,” he said, dart pistol in his jacket pocket as he breezed through his outer office and down the empty hallway to the stairs, ignoring the older woman’s bemused but uncaring response.
Michael was far more dangerous than he let Helen think, but killing him would be a tragedy and a waste. Peri was good—better than Michael would ever be—but Michael killed without remorse, and sometimes a throat that didn’t deserve it needed to be slit.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bill hardly noticed the soft bump as the chartered jet touched down. The hard brake the pilot was forced to make was substantial, though, and the med officer behind him gasped as they were nearly flung into the seats ahead of them. The runway was markedly short, originally built for private prop engines and still relying on Boston’s tower for guidance. If they didn’t leave before the approaching winter storm hit, he might have to take a commercial flight home.
Or wait until tomorrow, he thought as he unbuckled his belt and began gathering his things. He’d been listening to the crew grumble about the possibility the entire way.
His frown deepened as he faced Michael, out cold in the chair across the aisle, his wrists bound to the armrests to keep them from flopping about. “Wake him,” he said to the med officer, and the quiet man began rummaging in his little tackle box. Bill turned away at the sight of the needle, confident that Michael wouldn’t make much of a stink. Guilt was a wonderful evener.
The jet was still moving, making its casual way to the single low building that housed the minimal security needed at the private landing strip that had once been the destination for Washington’s up-and-coming who could afford the summer retreat. The med officer sat across from Michael and injected him with stimulant, and knowing he’d wake thirsty, Bill gestured for a bottled water before the pilot serving as their flight crew went back to tidy the toilet. “He’ll need a few minutes,” the med officer said as he moved to the back of the plane with his things.
Bill shifted to sit across from Michael, wiping off the moisture from the cold bottle on his slacks as he waited for Michael’s breathing to increase. He had to get Michael to appease her, the little dick squirt. He could be unbelievably charming when he wanted to be, but he’d be a bastard if he thought it would make Bill’s life harder.
He checked his watch, impatient as the jet stopped right beside a waiting black car. Men dressed inappropriately for the weather got out, one taking chucks from the trunk and wedging them behind and before the wheels. “I don’t have a few minutes,” Bill grumbled. His hand went back, and with a grunt of satisfaction, he sent it smacking across Michael’s face.
Michael snorted awake, still groggy as he tried to lift his arms only to find them tied down. “You darted me,” he slurred, and Bill quickly pulled the straps free, stuffing them in his suit’s pocket and out of sight. From the back, the medical officer frowned.
“Mmmm.” Bill handed him the bottled water. “You wouldn’t have come if I had just asked. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to draft as soon as you can stand.”
Eyes unfocused, Michael grasped for the water, unable to manage the top.
“Let me,” Bill said, one thick hand covering Michael’s thinner fingers, snapping the seal.
Michael slammed it, his breath sounding in come-and-go gasps. The door to the plane opened, and a flush of cold air spilled in. It drew Michael’s attention, and his bobbing Adam’s apple slowed. Hands shaking, he lowered the nearly empty bottle. “If you dart me again like that, I’ll kill you.”
“But then you’ll have to draft to bring me back,” Bill said, smiling as he forced Michael’s head against the rest so he could watch his eyes dilate. Satisfied, he eased into his chair to give him time to find himself.
“Where are we?” Michael rasped, head hanging.
“Newport. Trying to keep you from being scrubbed,” Bill said, the sour taste from his stomach becoming worse. “Do yourself a favor and play nice.”