Dead Reckoning

by Ronie Kendig

  Panic shot through her. “Where are we?”

  The doctor chuckled. “Landing at Heathrow in another minute or two.” He patted her hand. “Don’t worry. Most crashes happen on takeoff .”

  “Heathrow?” Shiloh squeaked. “I’m on the wrong plane.”

  He taunted her with his laugh. “A little late to figure that out, love.”

  She looked out the window again. He had to be wrong. “No,” she whimpered. She’d be spotted right out of the gate. They’d arrest her and slam her in prison. How would she get back to India? She’d be of no help to … Reece.

  Her heart rate climbed. “No.” He couldn’t have … wouldn’t have …

  Sometimes he does stupid things believing they’re for the best.

  Reece did this. He put her on the wrong plane. The revelation jolted her as hard as the wheels scorching on the blackened runway. She jerked with the violent impact.

  Anger replaced panic. Anger at him. Anger at herself. You idiot! This is why he’d said he loved her. To set her off kilter, to get her mind scrambled so she wouldn’t notice … She gritted her teeth. Dug her fingernails into the flesh of her palms.

  The devastation worked through her system like a fast-acting poison.

  “Miss?”

  Why would he do this? Why hadn’t she expected this? Because I trusted him!

  “Miss!”

  Shiloh whipped her head toward the flight attendant and scowled.

  The woman handed her an envelope. “I was asked to give this to you when we touched down.”

  Shiloh trembled as she accepted it. She let it drop into her lap, then buried her face in her hands, fighting the tears. Why? Why would he abandon her? Betray her? She pounded a fist against the arm rest.

  The plane slowed drastically, then veered toward the terminal. The authorities were probably waiting. She’d be extradited … imprisoned.

  A phone rang somewhere.

  Defeated, she hung her gaze out the window. Trapped in a plane. Trapped in a nightmare Reece had set up. How could he do this? Tears slipped down her face. I loved him and this is what I get? A cold pang smothered her.

  The phone's cheery melody stamped out continuously.

  Why wouldn’t the person answer the stupid phone?

  “I think your envelope is ringing,” the doctor said, pointing to her lap.

  Shiloh glanced down, numb. Her senses realigned, and she realized he was right. She snatched up the brown paper and ripped open the flap. Eyeing the contents, she spotted a black phone. Ringing blared against her hurting ears. Reece had given her a phone in Mumbai. What if it was him?

  She pressed TALK. “Hello.”

  “Take the blue attendant jacket on the rack inside the galley,” a strange voice ordered. “Disembark. Exit and use the first door on your right. Down the stairs. I will be waiting.”

  The call ended as the plane taxied up to the terminal. As the other passengers disembarked, Shiloh sat staring at the phone. Who had called her? How had he known she’d be on the plane? The only way was through Reece or Kit. If one of them had told this person, then he was most likely an operative-friend.

  Shiloh rose and donned the blue blazer. Heart in throat she strode onto the umbilical. With one glance over her shoulder to make sure nobody saw her, she pushed through the door and hustled down the spiral stairs.

  23

  India

  COLD AND MERCILESS, THE RAIN PELTED HIS BACK AND NECK. THE PAIN FELT appropriate. The cold matched his heart. Reece downshifted and eased his bike through a turn. Six hours ago he’d knowingly put Shiloh on a plane to London. And he hadn’t stopped since.

  It was the right thing. The only way to protect her.

  A bug splatted against his helmet, obscuring his sight.

  Just as you let your fear obscure My plans for you.

  The gentle reprimand pounded him. He aimed to the side of the road and rolled to a stop. Drenched and shivering, he cleaned the visor. His vision swam as he looked down. He wiped the rain from his face, and squinted down the grey stretch of road reaching into the mountains. He stuffed the helmet back on and got under way. He’d head up into the mountains where he shared ownership of a house with his sister. Lay low for a while, let the India conflict—now under the effective influence of Kit Fowler—get resolved, then he’d head to the Rockies.

  It was the right thing. Best thing to do.

  Reason said he’d done the right thing, but his heart cried foul. God, forgive me.

  London, England

  Wind whipped her hair into her face. The pungent odor of jet fuel burned her nostrils and eyes. As her toes hit the tarmac, a black Suburban slid into her path. Tires squawked as it lurched to a stop. A flurry of movement revealed two heavily armed guards in tactical gear. They hustled and flanked Shiloh, their backs to her. Soon followed a suited man. His dark hair rustled under the commanding wash of the jet's engines.

  “Shiloh Blake?”

  Instinct spun her around. She’d taken only a few steps when a weight plowed into her back. She flew forward, the cement rushing up at her. Fire lit down the side of her face as she kissed the pavement. Another weight dropped onto her neck, pinning her. Grunts and curses flew out as the men secured her limbs.

  Options eliminated, she gulped back the nearly tangible fear. “What’re you doing?”

  A man with a slick suit and smile to match sauntered toward her and squatted. “You followed my orders right down to the jacket.” With a swipe of his hand over the lapel, he dusted off the blazer.

  “Who are you? How did you find me?”

  “Agent Brody Aiken, British Intelligence.” He cocked his head to the side and peered down at her. “Surely you did not think us so daft that we would let you get away with it.”

  “Get away with what?” she asked through gritted teeth as the men hauled her to her feet by the plastic cuffs.

  He planted his hands on his hips. “Board a plane, escape a very deadly plot that you unleashed, and think we would welcome you with open arms?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  His eyebrow rose and he grunted. “Oh, you are quite convincing, Miss Blake,” he said in his taunting British voice. He started back to a black vehicle, waving behind himself. “Bring her.”

  The guards dragged Shiloh across the tarmac and hoisted her into the back seat of an SUV and buckled her in.

  Shiloh stemmed the panic that made her palms sweat. “Where are you taking me?”

  Doors slammed shut, and the vehicle lunged across the long runway. Trying to keep her bearings and sense of direction, Shiloh mentally noted several landmarks as they whizzed through traffic.

  Aiken looked back from the front. “To think, he actually thought we would need to protect you.” He chuckled.

  “Protect me? Who—” She gulped. Reece!

  His raking gaze seemed to assess her every reaction and move. “If I’m right, that's anger in your eyes.” Another smile. “Brilliant. Tell me, did you not see this coming? Is that why you are so indignantly angry?”

  Angry didn’t cover what she felt toward Reece Jaxon right now. Reece sent her for protection? Not likely. He wanted her out of the way. He betrayed me!

  “Huh. Fascinating.”

  “You’re easily amused, Mr. Aiken.” The gaping hole in her heart pulsed, growing with each beat.

  “How did you do it? Deceive him so thoroughly?”

  Ignoring his attempt to draw her into a confession, Shiloh pinned her gaze to a city that blurred beyond the heavily tinted windows. She needed to get out of here. When they got to wherever they were going, she’d bolt. Get back to India. Stop the insanity. Hurt Reece. Real bad.

  “You see, this is all quite fascinating to me. I mean, I can’t recall the last time he contacted me personally. Deep cover, American, working special ops in India. To boot, the very girl he sends for protection turns out to be someone we need protection from.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What are you
talking about?”

  “Murder, Miss Blake.” His smile disappeared. “You murdered two of our operatives.”

  24

  LIKE A LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTER.

  Shiloh stepped into the steel trap and turned as the three men joined her. Agent Aiken punched in a code as two armed guards flanked her. Silence hung thick and heavy for several seconds as the elevator climbed then came to a stop. The steel barricade slid back, revealing another door five feet ahead.

  Shiloh moved out, her muscles knotting. It wasn’t a hall. Just a small box-like foyer that offered only one choice—a door. She glanced back. A grey wall glared at her. Where had the elevator gone? Unnerved, she traced what should be the outline of the box—and saw the faint impression of the door. The two guards stood on either side with their weapons ready.

  “Miss Blake?”

  She pivoted and found Aiken standing on a threshold.

  “Your home. For now.”

  “I have no home.”

  Surprise leapt through her as she entered the room. A lavish apartment consumed her view. Wood floors gleamed under the tease of sunlight that came through four high-placed windows. Pale blue paint brightened the mood of the living area that slowly morphed into a kitchen with an island that served as the only divider between the two areas.

  “Through there is a bedroom. You will find a change of clothing and a shower.” He stood at the bar and lifted a phone. “I’m on the other end.”

  Which meant, nobody else was. But that wasn’t what bugged her. It was the lavish apartment. “Am I missing something?”

  Aiken glanced back at her. “How is that?”

  “This is extravagant for someone accused of murdering your operatives. Where's the cement and iron bars?”

  Aiken strode toward the door without a word.

  Shiloh trailed him, her heart pumping hard. “I demand to speak with someone from the American embassy right now.”

  “Meals are served at seven, noon, and five.” He chuckled. “Sorry, no afternoon tea. You are, after all, a murder suspect.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone! I know my rights! I’m an American citizen and you must—”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Blake.” He reached for the door handle and eased it to. “I am certain you will be comfortable here.”

  “No.” She gritted her teeth. Captivity, and he expected her to be comfortable? “I won’t.” Arms folded, she stood beside the window, staring out. A ledge blocked her view of the street below, but off a few miles to the right, Uncle Ben towered. With the clock-face not visible, she guessed herself to be south of the tower. Or was it north?

  She heard the men leave. Good. Alone, she could figure a way out of here. She batted back the sheer curtains and bent, reaching for locks on the window … only, there weren’t any. She turned to the door—and like the elevator, it had bled into the wall. The imprint of its outline barely noticeable.

  She dashed through the living quarters looking for a window that opened, a door, anything that would let her escape. Nothing. The bedroom boasted a lush bed and thick comforter. A tiled shower and sink huddled in one corner. Back in the main area, she turned a slow circle. Imaginary bars gradually took shape, closing in.

  How? How could they possibly think she had killed anyone, let alone two operatives? She didn’t even have time. Kit put her on the plane and …

  Kit.

  Shiloh's thoughts skidded into the face of the pretty woman. Was Kit dead? Is that who Aiken and the British accused her of killing? They said there’d been two operatives killed. Who else died?

  She moved to the ornamental fireplace and traced a white statue on the mantle. An idea gripped her mind. She snatched the statue and smashed it against the window as hard as she could. The piece shattered into a million pieces … like her hope. Not even a scratch on the window.

  She was trapped, blamed for murder, and locked up in a room with no doorknobs or window locks. And she had one person to strangle for this—Reece. Why would Reece do this to her? Hadn’t they agreed to work together? Or had it just been his cover story until she gave him enough information and sources that he could finish the task on his own? She closed her eyes and hung her head. Her chin quivered as she thought about his last kiss and profession of love. He knew— knew what was coming.

  For what felt like hours, she remained alone with only her reflection as company. The solitude gave her time to come to three important resolutions. One, she’d find Khalid's killers if it was the last thing she did. Two, she would never ever trust another man. Three, she would make sure Reece Jaxon paid for this—in a very painful way.

  But first she had to get out of here.

  She moved to the stove, where a ceramic cooktop sparkled back at her. After retrieving a towel from the bathroom, she rushed back into the kitchen. She flipped on the front, large burner and waited for the thing to glow a brilliant red. Then she dropped the towel on it.

  After a few seconds, a slow spiral of smoke curled up, higher and higher. A spark twinkled back at her.

  Unnerved at the desperate measures she suddenly felt ready to take to get out of here, she took several steps back, her eyes on the white towel turning grey with smoke.

  Then … it fizzled. Stopped. The flames ate through, but did little else.

  Overhead sprinklers kicked on, spraying cold water over the kitchen and Shiloh. Sizzling ensued as water drenched the towel and doused the fire. Only then did she notice the stove wasn’t on anymore. She double-checked the knob. How—? She fidgeted with the dial. Tried another. Nothing. The stove wasn’t working.

  She wrinkled her brow and brushed back the soggy hair from her face. Why had the stove lost power? Moving out of the kitchen, she tested the lights. They worked. The living room lights. Yep. Finally, the sprinklers stopped. She lifted the phone. Immediately, it rang.

  “Brody Aiken.”

  Shiloh blanched. Everything but the stove worked.

  Which meant one thing.

  “Why are you spying on me?”

  “You killed two operatives. A deep-cover operative sent you here. Quite obviously you have secrets to tell.”

  “I. Did. Not. Kill. Anyone!” Shiloh dug her fingers into her hair. “I want to talk to an American lawyer!”

  The door whooshed back. A Middle Eastern man entered.

  “Change your clothes. Then tell Mahmud what you remember.”

  Shiloh hung up, her mind on escape. Shivering, she stared at her new jailer. Did he follow the Muslim faith as rigidly as many of his race? “I’nsh Allah,” she mumbled, hoping to gauge his loyalty.

  He quirked an eyebrow, then smiled as he inclined his head. “As Allah wills.”

  Hope surged. She’d found an ally!

  Groaning emanated through the wall. She glanced at the clock. Almost five. They were right on time. And so was she.

  Bulb in hand, she monitored the plastic fork in the other. She’d have just one shot at this. If she was fast enough, she could escape, force their hand against the reader, and get to the garage. From there, she’d just have to trust her instincts.

  The door opened.

  A man in a uniform carried the food tray into the kitchen and set it down.

  “Oh, is that coffee?” Shiloh lifted the cup to her lips. Lukewarm. Okay, so it wouldn’t scald the guy, but it’d at least throw him off for a few seconds, which was all she needed. She worked her way in front of him, her mind on the guard who waited three feet away. With a quick flick, she tossed the drink at the uniformed guy.

  “Argh!” Hands over his face, he doubled.

  She smashed the bulb against the counter. Then she shifted her weight to the left, leaned and drove her heel into the guard's chest. He grunted. But instead of falling back, he flipped her leg up and planted her on the ground.

  Her breath whooshed out. Stars sprinkled through her vision.

  He lunged toward her, but she rolled. Using the bulb as a knife, she thrust it toward him. He grabbed a hand towel on the counter, s
napped it at her, catching her arm. He wrangled it into a semi-knot and spun her around—straight into his fist.

  Whack! Pain spiked down her cheek and neck, momentarily blinding her. She wobbled, and he punched her again. Everything went black.

  “Miss Blake?”

  Shiloh blinked. A blurry shadow bobbed over her.

  “On your feet.” The man who’d knocked her unconscious sat on the leather sofa, his hand wrapped in a bulky towel. An ice pack? Was her head that hard?

  She lifted her shoulders, noting the plastic cuffs strapped to her wrist. She peeled herself off the floor—and tensed as pain speared her head. She hissed.

  “Careful. I might have given you a concussion.”

  Shiloh moaned through the roar of aches as she struggled to stand. “Are those hands registered as a lethal weapon?”

  “Actually, yes.” He hooked her arm and led her to the door. “Former SAS commander.”

  Considering him, Shiloh chided herself for trying to fight the best of Britain. “Figures.”

  His stone-like face faltered just enough to reveal a very small smile.

  He accessed the security panel and in seconds, the elevator opened and he guided her in.

  “Where do I have the pleasure of going this time?”

  “The director.”

  “Why?”

  “Not for me to know or ask.” They rode up for several seconds, and the doors opened—behind her. She turned, stunned to find a long hall stretching to the right. Doors lined the corridor. Her mind whirled—where was she? MI-6? The thought decimated her courage. Escaping one of the most highly secured buildings in Britain?

  Mahmud emerged from the far end of the hallway. His lanky build, so much like Khalid's, quickly carried him to her. He offered a Styrofoam cup. “We’ll go in here,” he said as he accessed a ten-by-twelve room and allowed her and the SAS commander entrance.

  Shiloh accepted the cup of cocoa—cold cocoa. She grimaced.

  “Sorry.” Mahmud's dark eyes sparkled. “Aiken didn’t want you try to take anyone else out.”

  The laughter hiding behind his words did little to ease the tension in her shoulders or soothe her throbbing skull as the commander directed her to a chair at the head of a table.