I did not know it did that. How did he know it did that?!?
“They definitely know each other,” continued Elliot, completely oblivious to Anthony’s surprise. “O’Leary called Cicero ‘Syl,’ and Cicero answered to it. It’s got to be short for something—maybe Cicero’s real name. And Cicero was calling him Archie. Not Mr. O’Leary, or just O’Leary. Archie. Not even O’Leary’s wife calls him Archie.”
Anthony frowned at the screen. The plane shook as it hit a patch of turbulence; nothing terribly unusual, but holding onto the table was going to make him look even more incompetent than Elliot was already making him feel. “They’re... friends?”
“Maybe. I get the sense there’s some seriously long history between them, even. Something more than just world domination.” Elliot flicked the image; the focus shifted to the side, where the third person had likely been. “Mastermind—have you ever heard of them?”
“No. Have you?”
“No,” admitted Elliot. “And I probably read a lot more of the traffic than you do.”
Anthony tensed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Elliot shrugged. “Well, you never come in to consult with us.”
“I’m usually in the field. Working,” Anthony reminded him.
“I’m just saying. Every one of your partners came by whenever they swung through Headquarters. Enrique practically had his own desk.” Elliot frowned, his fingers tapping against the table. “You said Enrique took this video—”
“Yes,” said Anthony. “The day before the raid on Cicero’s warehouse in Kazakhstan. Where he was—”
Anthony couldn’t continue for a moment; the knot in his throat was too thick.
Where he was murdered by Cicero in cold blood. Anthony still saw the bullets ripping through Enrique’s body as he ran for cover—right into Anthony’s arms. That Enrique had even been able to speak—Get him next time—was a miracle.
Just as much a miracle as the tiny fragment of video surviving in Enrique’s shirt pocket.
Elliot’s jaw tensed. But if he’d known Enrique—then he’d be mourning, too. Viewing the last intelligence Enrique had collected would be hard for anyone to handle. Besides, Elliot didn’t have the experience with losing partners like Anthony did.
“Last time I saw him, he planned to investigate O’Leary,” mused Elliot. “But why Kazakhstan? I didn’t think O’Leary had an office there.”
Anthony frowned. “No, our mission was to investigate Cicero. Who has a very large office in Kazakhstan. Cicero. Not O’Leary.”
“Yeah, but—”
The plane shook as it hit another batch of turbulence. Elliot stumbled, and then slammed into Anthony as he lost his balance. Anthony only barely caught him, even though his hip rammed up against the table, exploding in pain.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” said the pilot over the intercom. “Can I ask you both to take your—”
The plane exploded.
Chapter Four
They were falling out of the sky.
The engines roared, choked, stopped, started again with impossibly exhausted whines. Alarms and whistles blared out, anxious and terrified, at levels so high-pitched that they burrowed into Elliot’s head, just like they’d probably bury themselves into his nightmares for the rest of his life.
Assuming his life was longer than the next five minutes, anyway. Elliot doubted it, particularly since falling out of the sky in an airplane was way more uncomfortable than the movies claimed. His stomach pressed up against his brain, which was flattened at the top of his skull. Breathing wasn’t happening, not with the smoke or the lack of air pressure or—
The mask clamped over his face; Elliot briefly fought back before the last bit of his brain that wasn’t squeezed realized that the mask was supplying him air. Stale, metallic-tasting air; nevertheless, air. Elliot pressed the mask to his face, capturing the hands offering it, too. They were warm, strong, lightly dusted with hair...
Anthony’s hands.
Elliot gulped in the air. His eyes stung in the smoke-filled cabin, but he saw Anthony, also wearing a mask and still looking as cool as a cucumber. He’d donned his suit coat—because of course he did—and also a backpack, and he shoved another backpack at Elliot, motioning him to put it on, too.
Elliot did, looking around the cabin. Flames danced over the windows, everything not bolted down careened wildly in all directions. The cockpit door held tight, despite the dents... and also despite the blood running from under it.
Elliot almost retched.
Oh, fuck. The pilots!
Anthony motioned wildly at him—something vaguely military-like that looked extremely impressive but didn’t mean a thing to Elliot. He took a wild guess and followed Anthony to the door, where Elliot had boarded only a few hours before. Where Daria had greeted him—
Daria, Elliot realized with a jolt. He scanned the cabin while Anthony karate-chopped the door, but he didn’t see her anywhere.
The rush of air when Anthony kicked the door open almost sucked Elliot out of the plane, until he grabbed hold of the doorframe.
“We have to find Daria!” Elliot yelled at Anthony. His voiced echoed in the mask, and Anthony’s reaction did little to reassure that he’d heard Elliot yell. Anthony motioned angrily toward the open door.
Elliot peered outside. The ground was still distant, but it was closer with every second. Elliot’s stomach did not like that speed. Not that the rest of him liked it much, either.
“Daria!” Elliot yelled again, twisting around to look for her again.
Behind the lounge chair: a ladies’ shoe, with a foot and leg still attached.
Elliot lunged for it. Sure enough, it was Daria. There was a gash on her forehead, but she was breathing. Her eyes were closed and she felt limp under Elliot’s hands.
If it was a split-second decision, Elliot later thought it was a very small split. He pulled her out from behind the chairs and dragged her to the door, where Anthony waited.
Anthony continued motioning like an idiot: out the door, in the plane, at Daria. None of it made any sense to Elliot.
“We can’t leave her behind,” snapped Elliot. “The plane is going down!”
Dimly, Elliot heard Anthony yell back, “I know, you idiot!”
“She’s coming with us!”
“Fine!” yelled Anthony—and then he jumped out of the door.
Elliot stared, open-mouthed. Did he just... that asshole!
There was only one thing to do.
Elliot spied his scarf still hanging in the nearby closet. He grabbed it and quickly wrapped it around his and Daria’s torsos, never so grateful to have a ridiculously long scarf in his life. He tied it so tightly he almost lost his breath.
A quick prayer that his parachute was strong enough for two, and he jumped.
It didn’t feel like falling at all.
In fact, Elliot wasn’t sure they had left the plane, until he rolled in the air and saw it somewhere ahead of them—behind them?—at least a couple hundred yards away, somewhere above them. Fire licked at the engines and the wings and everything else, and Elliot tried desperately to roll over again, but it was hard with Daria tied to him. It didn’t help that he had no idea how to turn, either. The wind whipped around him, yanking at his clothes and hair and even his facial muscles.