Past encounters had taught her that it was easy to make people underestimate her; most people took one look at her perfect figure and penchant for pink and assumed she was an air-headed bimbo. More often than not, she played it up.
“Pssft,” she finally hissed in dismissal, when it seemed clear he’d wait as long as it took for an answer. Roman, have you ever tried to make a personal phone call under surveillance? Seriously? It took a while before my father’s men stopped sticking to me like glue and I had the chance to call Alexa without worrying about some bonehead listening in while I spilled my guts. That’s why you’re here to pick me up and I didn’t just catch a flight, by the way. My dad would have found out about the plane tickets in a heartbeat and then I’d never have been able to get away from him.”
Elena had rehearsed her story over and over again until it had become second-nature. The words flowed as easily as the truth would have, and she couldn’t help being pleased with herself. When she tilted her head and studied Roman’s face, however, his reaction was impossible to gauge.
“Your father’s men… where are they now? How did you get away from them if you were under surveillance?” Roman asked slowly.
Elena gritted her teeth and glared at him. More questions? They weren’t even good questions, either. What did it matter? “Wow, you really aren’t the brightest crayon in the box, are you?” she spit out. “That’s why I want to just get on the plane and go. I slipped away from them and met one of Viktor’s contacts—check with your beloved boss if you don’t believe me—and he got me here. But I don’t know how long we have until they find me, and so, yeah. We. Need. To. Get. Going.” Elena huffed an irritated sigh and glanced behind her for affect, letting her eyes move around the hangar before she swung back to look at Roman. It was all a lie, and she knew she wasn’t being followed, but adding pressure to the situation might persuade Roman to let up on the questions.
Obviously, there was no choice but to get over this hurdle as the first stepping stone to the rest of her mission. Somehow, she needed to win his trust, get back to the Sokolov mansion, and complete her mission. The faster they got to Boston, the faster this whole ordeal would be over with, and then she could go back to her luxury apartment with the perfect view that she’d had to leave behind because of stupid Boris’s stupid death. Russia was okay, but damn did she miss that apartment and the mall next to it. It would be just like old times, but her father would be thrilled with her, and her best friend would have her life back—perhaps they could even take a trip together as soon as the dust settled, and make up for lost time.
“What is your relationship like your father like?” Roman asked.
Elena shook her head, frustration building. “I don’t know… fatherly? We were okay until he went off the rails. But, really, are you fucking kidding me? When are the questions going to stop? When is enough actually enough for you, huh, chaufferone? You can ask me three hours’ worth of questions—birthday, social security number, what I ate for breakfast, whatever—but no matter what I say, you aren’t going to trust me, are you?” Elena’s hands had balled into fists, and she trembled slightly as her irritation festered into rage with each second that passed.
When he didn’t answer, she walked over to him, glared at him, and picked up her suitcase from where it still sat at his feet—a not-so-subtle cue to get going.
“I’m not here because I want to be, you know,” she told him quietly. “It’s not my fault my own dad practically kidnapped me because of whatever issues he has. I’d rather be at home—my real home, that I had to leave behind in Boston, not bumfuck Russia—drinking a mocha and flipping through social media. But I’m here, and you’re here, and you don’t trust me—that’s okay, I get it, daughter of the family’s sworn enemy or whatever—but the more time you spend asking stupid questions, the more time you aren’t spending doing your job and just flying me back. Not to mention the fact that my father’s goons could show up at any time and break up both of our plans.”
This, finally, seemed to placate Roman, if only a little. He studied her with dark eyes, their depths seemingly endless. Elena found herself looking him over, taking in his broad shoulders and high cheekbones, momentarily captivated by him. His unyielding manner seemed to hide a touch of darkness… but one he had under control. Elena would have loved to unravel him and see what mysteries lurked beneath—if she hadn’t also wanted to strangle him.
Roman exhaled slowly. “I still don’t trust you—”
“I know,” Elena interrupted. Roman held up a single index finger, and she tilted her head back with a throaty sound of exasperation.
“I still don’t trust you. But I will permit you to board the plane, and I will warn you that, should you try anything, anything at all, which hinders or threatens those I work for, I will not hesitate to take you out.”
Roman nodded toward the airplane, and Elena breathed out in relief.
He picked up her suitcase, gesturing to the pilot’s door he’d just opened, and together they boarded the plane. While Roman sat down and settled in to run through a series of equipment checks and warm-ups that Elena couldn’t even pretend to understand, she moved behind the front seats to enter the cabin of the craft. And found the door locked.
“Uh-uh. No, Ms. Popov. One consequence of my distrust is that you’ll need to stay where I can see you. As much as it pains me to subject myself to more of your arguing, eye-rolling, and hair twirling, I must insist.” Roman lifted his chin toward the co-pilot’s seat.
Elena stared at him as though he’d just eaten a live squirrel. “Sorry—what?” She blinked at him.
“Sit right here, where I can see you, and don’t touch anything.” Roman hadn’t even looked at her as he’d spoken this time. Elena wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to like a child, though, and she definitely wasn’t accustomed to being ignored. Her luggage banged against the cabin door and she sulked back into the cockpit to slip down into the seat next to his.
Looking out the large front window, over the nose of the plane, she scanned the horizon.
“Uh… it’s gotten dark outside,” she said.
“It would still be light out if you’d showed up on time,” Roman replied as he leaned over a small screen and scrolled his eyes across a series of gauges that all looked like something from a science fiction movie—circles and lines with tiny numbers and letters that made no sense to her.
All they needed was a computerized voice talking about a self-destruct sequence and the illusion would be complete, Elena thought.
“No, it would still be light outside if you hadn’t decided to give me a huge interrogation when you should have just started the plane and gotten us flying to begin with,” she snapped back.
Roman didn’t respond, focused on his work as he was. They sat in relative silence then, interrupted by the thrum of the engines and the clicking of buttons as Roman finished what he was doing and finally taxied them out of the hangar and onto the strip, and got them into the sky. Elena watched the world blur around them and the landscape below fade into indeterminate blobs of light and color. When she realized they hadn’t spoken at all since leaving the hangar, she let out a tiny sigh of relief; it seemed that Roman’s endless questions were over.
After what felt to Elena like a small eternity, she leaned back in her seat and looked more closely at the sea of tiny buttons and blinking lights. She had never been in a cockpit before. Everything looked so complicated.
Growing tired of staring at the console and all of its complexities, she next watched the clouds for as long as she could bear, then eventually pulled a meal replacement bar and a heavy leatherbound tome from her suitcase. She munched with relative contentment while she read.
“Dostoyevsky?” Roman asked. She looked up to find him staring at her with the faintest hint of intrigue.
“Uh… yeah? Why?” She gave him a sideways look.
“Just didn’t expect that is all,” he said.
“What, just because I’m
pretty, you think I can’t read?” Elena nodded toward her suitcase. “Today, Dostoyevsky, and tomorrow, Nietzsche.”
“Never would have pegged you as the philosophy type,” Roman said quietly, looking back toward the front of the plane. Elena rolled her eyes and buried her attention back in her book.
Hours passed while she remained engrossed in her reading, until she noticed Roman fidgeting.
He kept checking that small screen he’d been examining earlier, and she saw something unfamiliar on his face: a flicker of concern.
“Everything… okay?” she asked. Any trace of contempt had fled from her voice now—her earlier irritation had long since passed, and this man was the pilot; if he was concerned, she was, as well. Maybe chauffeurone wasn’t the nicest person, and maybe she generally hated his guts, but a problem with the plane meant a problem with them getting home—and Elena wanted nothing more than to be at the Sokolov mansion and out of this plane.
“To be honest, no. You’re going to have to help me so we don’t crash,” Roman said gravely.
Elena could only stare back at him, praying he was joking.
3
Roman
“You’re serious?” Elena asked.
Roman nodded. His eyes scanned the monitor, checking the readings for what seemed like the twentieth time, before looking back to her. He hated to ask this catty, loathsome woman for anything at all, especially help, but their lives were at stake.
“Do you see that, there?” He pointed to a small gauge near the center of one of the monitor screens. “There’s an engine indication advisory. The oil temperature in engine three is over a hundred degrees hotter than the other engines.”
“Uh, so, what? You want me to climb out onto the wing and fix it while we’re flying?” Elena asked. She blew out a sarcastic puff of air as her hands twisted together in her lap, her book falling to the side. Despite the jab, she looked genuinely worried, and despite the circumstances, Roman got a little satisfaction out of watching her sweat.
“No,” he answered with a small smile. “I need to remain focused and sit here to fly the plane since autopilot and navigation has been on the fritz, and I need you to talk me through the steps to fix the problem.” Before Roman could continue, Elena interrupted.
“Like I know anything about airplane engines! Are you crazy?” she shrieked.
“If you’d let me finish…” He glared at her. “There should be a manual under your seat. I need you to check the index and find the section on electrical issues. Turn to the page listed and look for an entry regarding engine temperature.”
Elena pulled a massive, spiral-bound manual from beneath her seat and began flipping through it furiously. She skimmed the index, a single manicured finger trailing down the page, until she found what she was looking for. Roman alternated between watching her, watching the console and monitors, and focusing on flying the plane.
Roman’s time in the Russian army, coupled with his experience working for the Sokolovs, had forged him to be especially good under pressure. From the look on Elena’s face and the shaking of her hands, it was clear she hadn’t had anything to offer her the same training. She looked to be a few breaths away from panicking, and he wondered her if eyes were even focusing on the words in front of her. If they were going to get through this, they needed to work together as a team.
“Elena.” Roman tried to soften his voice and sound soothing. “If you routinely read heavy literature like Dostoyevsky, then you are smart, and you are capable. You can do this. All you have to do is find the right pages, and then read aloud. I’ll take care of the rest.”
His encouragement seemed to work. He heard Elena inhale and exhale a few times with intent, this being followed by the careful shuffling of pages.
“Got it. Electrical. Uhhh… let’s see here,” she said. “Engines one, two, three, four, overheating. Oh geez, this makes no sense.”
“It’s okay. Just read what it says. Even if you don’t know what it means, I will. You can do this. We will get through this,” Roman said as he watched the engine three temperature gauge slowly continue to climb.
Elena rattled off a series of technical directions. Roman reached above them, flipped a few switches, and held a button to restart one of the on-board generators. He watched the temperature gauge, but there was no change. Engine three still risked overheating, and they still had quite a distance to go until they were back in Boston.
Shit-shit-shit, Roman thought. He did his best to remain outwardly cool to avoid upsetting Elena.
“Resetting the generator didn’t work,” he told her. “I know our load isn’t too heavy because the plane is practically empty. Let’s see… go to the engine section and look for ‘engine oil high temp.’” His palms had begun to sweat now, and his hold on the steering yoke slipped for just a minute.
The plane shook and rattled. Elena let out a small scream, and Roman did his best not to jump at the sudden sound.
“We’re going to be okay, it’s just turbulence. Are you on the right page yet?” he asked with more forced calmness.
The problem wasn’t turbulence.
“Like, how are you not freaking out right now, Roman? We are gonna crash and we are gonna die,” Elena said, her tone somewhere between terrified and joking. She kept flipping, though, and Roman kept a tight grip on the yoke. He focused on his breathing.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to us,” he said, a resolve he didn’t quite feel coming through in his voice. The plane rattled again, but this time Elena didn’t scream. Roman could only hope she would be able to keep it together. Even though it pained him to momentarily push aside his frustration with her, he was glad his reassurance seemed to be helping her calm down.
When they got out of this, Roman might even be able to forgive her for being so disrespectful.
Might.
“Got it!” Elena exclaimed. She held the manual close to her face and squinted as she read the next set of directions aloud.
Roman’s heart sank when he heard what she said. He asked her to repeat it, and when she did, he bit the inside of his cheek to stay focused.
“We need to manually reset the engine. When that starts, the monitor here will display some scary-looking warnings. After the engine is offline, we’ll have about five minutes to go through the reset procedure.”
“We?” she repeated. “As in, we, me and you, and not just you?” Elena asked.
“Yes, we,” Roman replied in earnest. “All you need to do is push some buttons and pull some levers when I say so. Nice and easy.”
Suddenly, the plane jolted and jarred, sending both of them jerking forward. If not for their seat belts, they each would have collided face-first with the console. Elena looked terrified, and grabbed his arm for just a moment to steady herself.
Her gripping him had been instinctive, wanting security—in him. It had been a woman’s touch. Roman felt something stir deep in a part of him he’d long forgotten, but shoved the emotion aside quickly.
“Are you ready?” he asked, and held the yoke steady and looked at the monitor one last time. The temperature in engine three was still rising.
“Ready,” Elena said in a determined whisper. Roman reached above them and held the button for the engine to start the reset procedure. After a few seconds, a bright red warning began to flash on the engine monitor. The plane lurched again. Roman’s heart leapt into his throat and sweat beaded on his skin. The air in the cockpit suddenly felt stale in his lungs.
“Flip the switch that says ECAM underneath it,” Roman said. He fought against the yoke to keep the plane under control while Elena searched for the right switch. She flipped it.
“What next?” she asked.
He guided her through the procedure, his own hands busy with the yoke and other needs at every moment. She continued to press a careful series of buttons and toggles, and Roman was pleasantly surprised at how quickly she acted on each of his demands.
The plane bounced again as
engine three sputtered. A tiny cry escaped Elena’s lips, but she continued her work while Roman guided the plane and double-checked their coordinates.
“Now, slowly—carefully—pull back on the lever that says three.” He nodded toward four large levers that sat in the middle of the seats, between the two of them. “Make sure it says three, and only three, or else one of our functional engines will be nonfunctional.”
“Three. Got it. No pressure, right?” Elena huffed. She pulled back on the lever and the plane bounced wildly, so that she froze where she was and stared at him, unsure whether to go forward with the instruction or not. Roman’s knuckles turned white as he held the yoke with all his strength to guide them back on course.
“Slowly! I said slowly.” This time he hadn’t been able to keep the agitation and fear out of his voice.
“That was slow!” she snapped back.
“Slower!”
“Why don’t you do it, then? Jesus fucking Christ, you’re the pilot, not me. Why isn’t this plane safe to begin with? Don’t you know how to do your fucking job!” she screamed at him.
“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Roman shot back at her. Of all the people in the world to have to rely on now, why was it her?
“My mother is dead, idiot, but that’s not the point. Why don’t you just pull the lever since I’m not slow enough?”
“Because I have a plane to fly! You can do this, Elena, just ease it back.” Roman gritted his teeth and continued to hang onto the yoke. He heard her growl in exasperation, but had to keep his eyes on what he was doing; he had to trust she’d figure it out.
Just when Roman began to doubt her, she put her hand back on the lever and lowered it—slowly. As soon as it was all the way down, he quickly coached her through another series of buttons.
Falling for the Mob Soldier: Sokolov Brothers Book Two Page 2