Fatal Honor: Shadow Force International

by Misty Evans

  “If I’m flying the plane, I’m doing an inspection.”

  Megadeth raised a thick eyebrow and scratched his bearded chin. “Who said you were piloting this trip?”

  Miles flipped him off and Megadeth headed for the front cabin, chuckling.

  “You’re flying the plane?” Charlotte said.

  “Consider me a full-service provider.”

  “You have a pilot’s license?”

  “Don’t you?” His voice was teasing. “Let’s see. You can’t drive a boat or fly a plane. MI6 failed you, Agent Carstons.”

  Charlotte sighed and looked out at the peach and pink stripes on the horizon. “In more ways than one.”

  The sun was fully up by the time Miles completed his inspection. While she was waiting, Megadeth returned, a laptop, magazines and a couple of paperback books in hand. “The plane is equipped with Wi-Fi, and there’s a printer and other office supplies in the back,” he said. “If you need more coffee or some food, the galley’s stocked. Help yourself.”

  “Does Miles fly a lot? Is he a good pilot?”

  That quirky smile moved the man’s lips. “Don’t trust him?”

  “Flying isn’t my favorite thing in the world.”

  Megadeth produced a couple of airsick bags. “Keep these handy.”

  So she was in for a rough ride. Great. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t worry. As co-pilot, I’ll make sure the flight is as smooth as possible.”

  Miles suddenly appeared. “We got company. Let’s move.”

  Megadeth tore off toward the front of the cabin.

  Charlotte looked out her window. “Who is it?”

  “Don’t know,” Miles said, “but two black SUVs rolled up fast to the main office. Could be Feds, could be Bourean’s men. I didn’t stick around to find out. Buckle up. We’re out of here.”

  He disappeared into the front. Craning her neck, Charlotte saw part of the main office behind them. Sure enough, the SUVs Miles had mentioned were parked at a weird angle to the private airport’s main building. As the Gulfstream’s engines roared to life under her, she saw the men emerge, looking in their direction.

  The four men had short, slick-backed hair, expensive shoes, and the air of superiority. Not Nicolae’s.

  Charlotte braced herself as the plane began to move in a slow arc heading toward the runway. The men picked up their pace.

  Oh, God. They weren’t going to make it. The men in the suits would catch them, stop them.

  She’d be screwed but good. Miles, too, for helping a fugitive.

  What could she do? Give herself up to save him?

  She couldn’t get off the plane even if she wanted to. They were already picking up speed, the runway only twenty yards away. The men were yelling now, running.

  Charlotte’s heart jackhammered inside her chest. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

  The plane pulled up to the long, straight runway.

  …And stopped.

  Her heart sank, blood running hot beneath her skin. He was giving her up.

  Any sane man would.

  She started to unbuckle herself, mentally preparing for the coming hours of interrogation, the real possibility she’d be in some dank, awful prison before nightfall.

  Could she run? Outwit them somehow?

  She was contemplating the idea when the engines kicked up, roaring loud. The plane began a quick acceleration. Charlotte was thrown back in her seat, sudden G-forces pinning her into the soft leather.

  The men outside waved at the plane, their mouths moving. Sunlight glinted off weapons.

  Would they fire at the jet?

  Charlotte held her breath and prayed, the nose of the plane tipping skyward. A moment later, they were airborne.

  Finally able to sit forward again, she stared down at the black blobs of the men growing smaller. How had they found her?

  Her stomach heaved like a tsunami that had nothing to do with flying. She eased back and closed her eyes. There were no other trackers on her, no way for MI6 to have followed her.

  Which meant someone had told them where she was going to be.

  There were only four people who’d known.

  Shinedown, Megadeth, the woman Miles had spoken to on the phone, Beatrice…

  And Miles.

  As an operative, Charlotte knew there were no friendly intelligence services. CIA officers learned the same thing. “Friendly” foreign intelligence services might be useful for joint operations, but they weren’t to be fully trusted. The more you relied on someone else during an operation, the more likely the operation would get blown.

  Trust no one had long been her mantra. Still was.

  So which one of them betrayed me?

  Six hours later

  MILES EXITED THE onboard bathroom to find Charlotte waiting for him.

  “Who told them?” she asked. Her eyes were wide, her fingers shaking as she played with her hair. “Who told MI6 I would be at the airport this morning? Shinedown? Megadeth? The woman on the phone?”

  They’d avoided Miles’ original route, heading into Canada and refueling in Newfoundland. Over the North Atlantic, on their way to Ireland, he’d finally broken down for a pee break. “How do you know those men back in California were MI6?”

  “They were.” She chewed on a nail. Her hair glimmered under the cabin lights. She must have fallen asleep in her chair; one side of her hair was matted down. “Trust me.”

  “I thought one of them looked familiar. I was too busy getting us out of there to care.”

  “One of them looked familiar?”

  “Andy Hardy.”

  “Hardy? You know him?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah.” She ran a hand over her face. “He’s the best tracker MI6 has.”

  “Trust me, Charlotte, no one in my organization would sell you out.”

  “How else did MI6 know I was going to be there?”

  He’d been wondering the same.

  No one had been waiting for them at the private airstrip in Newfoundland, but then, if the snitch was Jax—Megadeth—he hadn’t had a chance to call anyone since Miles had been seated two feet from him during the entire trip so far.

  But he knew it wasn’t Jax or Colt.

  The one person who had political as well as personal contacts all over the world and might know who to call at MI6 was…

  No. Couldn’t be. Beatrice would never betray him.

  Would she?

  He didn’t want to believe it—that she could undermine him and put Charlotte at risk—but she hadn’t wanted him to take this job. She’d been adamant that it could destroy his career and he’d end up in a foreign prison. In looking out for him, had she betrayed Charlotte?

  No matter what, if someone inside Shadow Force gave Charlotte up to MI6, they’d betrayed him too. “I don’t know how MI6 found you, but I’ll figure it out.”

  “Will they be waiting for me when we land?”

  Her tone was accusing. As if she might actually suspect he was in on it. It pissed him off. “Well, if they are, it won’t be because I told them. I jammed the plane’s GPS transmitter so we can’t be tracked and we aren’t sharing our change of flight plans with anyone. My boss has called multiple times trying to contact us and I’ve ignored her. For you,” he added.

  He brushed by her, felt her hand grip his bicep, stopping him.

  “What?” he said without looking at her.

  “I wasn’t accusing you of anything.” She released her grip. “I was simply asking a question because my life depends on it. You would do the same in my situation.”

  Her voice was low, tense. Turning, he met her eyes. Her face was pale, scared. She rubbed her arms, took a step back.

  Modern day warfare was fought in the dark corners of the world. Caves, back rooms, tunnels. Right now, Miles saw Charlotte fighting her own war, the war zone in her mind as harsh and desolate as the battlefield she’d survived inside Bourean’s compound. She trusted no one.

  “You’re
right,” he said, keeping his voice even. “I would do the same in your situation. Question everyone’s motives and everything that seems out of place. You have every right to be paranoid and skeptical of my team, but at some point, Charlotte, you’re going to have to trust someone. I’m hoping that someone is me.”

  If possible, her face paled even more. “I’m just…I’m gonna…”

  She jerked around and ran for the bathroom.

  “Charlotte?”

  He followed and found her leaning over the sink, hyperventilating. Sweat trickled from under her hair, running down the side of her neck.

  “I hate planes, hate flying,” she said, splashing water on her face.

  She also hated trusting anyone but herself. He understood where she was coming from. While he’d been trained to rely on a team, she’d been trained to be a lone wolf. To infiltrate criminal and terrorist organizations all on her own.

  Working as a SEAL and as an operative for Shadow Force, Miles valued loyalty, honesty, bravery. Charlotte, on the other hand, had been taught to betray and expect betrayal in return.

  He found a washcloth in the cabinet and wedged in between her and the sink. “I love to fly. Up here, you’re away from it all. Disconnected in so many ways.”

  She propped herself against the wall as he wet the washcloth. “More like trapped. I’m flying over an ocean and have no control over where I’m going. I don’t know what will be waiting for me when we land.”

  He wiped her face with the cool washcloth. Her eyes fluttered closed and she sighed, reminding him of those nights in her bed again. “So it’s the lack of control that you hate,” he said, encouraging her to talk.

  “That’s part of it. The other part is where my stomach is upside down, doing the hula.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?” He tossed the washcloth into the sink, then went to the galley kitchen and pulled out a bottle of motion sickness pills from a cabinet, a water from the small fridge.

  Returning to the bathroom, he handed both to her. “What is this?” she asked holding up the pill bottle. “I don’t like drugs.”

  The control issue again. “They’re all natural. Won’t make you sleepy, but they will help the queasiness. They’re the only kind I take.”

  “You get motion sickness?”

  “On occasion.”

  Her dubious stare lasted a moment before she broke down and helped herself to one of the white tablets.

  “Make sure you drink plenty of water with it,” he said.

  She did, her delicate throat working as she swallowed down half the bottle. When was the last time she’d had a proper meal? Something besides an energy drink or bottled water.

  He headed to the galley, putting a cup of water in the microwave.

  “I never lied,” she said from behind him. “At the cabin. I didn’t tell you everything, but I never lied. My middle name is Sarah.”

  A box of teabags was stashed behind a box of coffee packs. In the mountains, the only tea she’d had was a loose leaf kind that had tasted like flowers and dirt to him. “Well, Charlotte Sarah Carstons, do you prefer mint or vanilla chai tea?”

  “You have mint?”

  The earnestness in her voice made him look over his shoulder. She stood near the narrow doorframe, clutching the bottled water with one hand, the other clutching the frame itself.

  He raised a green bag from the box and held it up for her to see. “Southern Plantation. Claims to be smooth and refreshing.”

  The microwave dinger went off. “Sounds lovely,” she said, nodding.

  Once he had the bag steeping, he searched for some food. The plane was owned by Petit, used to fly rock stars and film moguls around the world while providing security services for them. But no one had been scheduled to use the plane, so the selection of food was limited to expensive crackers, unopened jars of fancy olives, and crap Miles would never let pass his lips. Caviar. Gross. Hummus. Double gross.

  Wait. There were cans of soup.

  Soup? Seriously?

  Yep, there were two cans of good old chicken noodle tucked into a drawer with some other cans to keep them from flying around if the plane hit turbulence. Who knew? Even the rich and famous liked comfort food on occasion.

  “Hungry?” He held up one of the cans.

  Walking gingerly, she set down the bottle and removed the teabag from the cup of hot water. Her nostrils flared as she brought the cup to her face and drew a deep breath. “I’ll start with the tea, thank you.”

  Food would do her good. She was too skinny, too pale.

  Those scars…

  Fury, sadness, rage, it all warred in his stomach. He handed her a sleeve of crackers. “Try a couple of these with your tea.”

  She seemed reluctant to put down the tea, but did so she could keep a hand on the counter and accept the crackers.

  He went to work warming up the soup, such a stupid, normal thing when they were in the middle of a clusterfuck.

  “You were correct at the motel.” She munched on a cracker, her eyes unable to meet his. They jumped around, past him to the wall, back to his hands as he poured the soup into a bowl, up to his face, and away again. “We were lovers, but not friends. I…I don’t have friends. I’ve been on my own, alone, for a long time. It’s comfortable, familiar. I can’t tell anyone who I really am—an agent for MI6—or share details about my job. So I never let anyone in. I can’t. That rubbish about my friends calling me Charlie is just that. Rubbish. No one has called me Charlie since primary school.”

  Being an undercover operative was hell on relationships, and if anyone understood being alone, he did. “What we shared in the cabin…”

  Was he really going to tell her it had been more than a six-week fling for him? That he’d fallen for her? He truly didn’t even know her, this beautiful creature standing before him. The woman he’d fallen in love with was an illusion.

  But he wanted more than anything to figure out who the real woman behind the illusion was. “…it wasn’t just about the sex.”

  She made a big deal about sipping her tea. “For me, either.” Her gaze finally made it to his and stayed there. “Unfortunately, being with me carries a great risk. As I’ve mentioned, it could cost you your life.”

  The microwave dinged again, letting him know the soup was hot. “I’m willing to take that risk.”

  A sad smirk passed over her lips. “I can see that. You could have stopped this plane back in Van Nuys and handed me over to my counterparts. Instead, you probably caused an international incident.”

  He shrugged, retrieving his dinner from the microwave. “I always say, go big or go home.”

  She looked like she wanted to laugh. “I’d say you went big on this one.”

  The soup was the perfect temperature and smelled like rainy afternoons at his house growing up. On weekends, his mother would make soup and they would cuddle together on their old couch and she would read to him.

  Comfort. Security. He wanted to give those things to Charlotte.

  She’d been tortured, beaten, chased by men who wanted to do her harm, and was still determined to finish her mission. She trusted no one for good reason.

  He wanted to change that. He held the bowl under Charlotte’s nose, letting the delicious aroma drift up. “Sure you don’t want some of this?”

  Her gaze softened as she inhaled. “It does smell rather good.”

  Smiling, he took her hand and dragged her back to the cabin where he guided her into a seat and put the soup in front of her. “Eat,” he commanded.

  Before he went back to get her tea, she was already digging in.

  They had a long, dangerous road ahead of them, but for the first time in nine months, Miles felt truly alive.

  And now he had her where he wanted her. Well, sort of. He wanted her underneath him, naked, but this would do for now.

  He had a lot of questions that only she could answer, and this time, she wasn’t getting away.

  Chapter Eight

&n
bsp; _____________________

  ______________________________________________________

  MILES WAS GOOD at taking care of her. She didn’t know how to handle that.

  Once she’d started on the soup, she couldn’t stop. She was famished. The tea was quite excellent too. Her stomach had settled, thank God, and her nerves relaxed somewhat.

  His words about being away from everything, virtually out of reach of the real world, rang in her ears. The hum of the engines lulled her like the boat’s had. The pretty blue sky, filled with whispers of clouds, calmed her mind.

  With him sitting next to her, she could enjoy the soup and tea and the silence.

  He was trying not to watch her, sipping at his own cup of tea, but she felt his gaze flit over her and away each time he thought she wasn’t paying attention. She owed him big for this. Not just the cost of using Rock Star services, but for risking his life for her.

  “Why exactly does MI6 think you’re a traitor?” he asked.

  Her cheeks heated. Why, indeed? She’d been a model agent, commendations galore in her file. “I don’t know, really. My handler told me that when I went off grid last winter when you and I were stuck in the cabin, my superiors assumed I had gone in with Nico and that he and I were working with the terrorist. Even my handler believed I’d thrown my lot in with Nico. It’s maddening. I’ve never given any of them a reason to believe I wasn’t one-hundred-percent loyal. It pains me that they never thought that perhaps something bad had happened to me? I explained everything to CB and he went to the higher ups, but he said they didn’t believe him. That they had proof I was a traitor. What proof? Apparently when he asked, they wouldn’t share what that was. I have no idea what it could be.”

  “Why not give yourself up and explain it all?”

  “Talk is cheap. I need that video, and I have detailed accounts of Nico’s criminal pursuits on that USB. Pursuits involving the terrorist. I don’t know who I can trust inside MI6 and I want that USB in hand when I do talk to them.”

  “You have the scars on your back. Seems like proof enough to me that you weren’t in cahoots with that bastard.”