Chapter 1081
The neon lights of the Boardwalk blurred into streaks of violent color as they sped away. Skye’s bare feet were pressed against the floor mat, absorbing the vibration of the engine. She picked shards of safety glass out of her hair, her hands trembling slightly now that the adrenaline was beginning to ebb.
“The Trident Platform,” Alistair said, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. “A decommissioned oil rig in international waters. A ghost site — perfect for black ops interrogation.”
“Can the Gulfstream make the landing?” Skye asked.
“No. It needs a runway. We need a seaplane or a long-range chopper. And we need it now.”
“Who do we know in Atlantic City with that kind of hardware?” Skye asked, turning the USB drive over in her hand. It was safe.
Alistair was quiet for a moment. He took a sharp right, heading away from the airport and toward the marina district, where the casinos were less polished and the shadows ran longer.
“Sylvia Stone,” he said. The name came out like gravel.
“Who?”
“An old associate. She runs The High Roller — a casino for people who find the Borgata too public. And she collects vintage aircraft.”
They pulled up to the service entrance of a nondescript building that looked more like a fortress than a casino. Two massive guards stepped forward. Alistair rolled down the window. He didn’t say a word. He simply held up a coin — a heavy gold doubloon bearing a specific insignia.
The guards stepped back immediately.
They moved through the kitchen, the smell of searing steak and garlic flooding Skye’s senses, then took a private elevator to the penthouse.
Sylvia Stone was waiting. She was a woman of indeterminate age, with silver hair cut in a sharp bob and eyes that had seen everything and been impressed by none of it. A cigarillo burned between her fingers.
“Alistair Thorne,” she drawled, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “You look terrible. And you’ve brought a stray.”
Her gaze settled on Skye, lingering on her bare feet and the glass dust scattered across her sequined blazer.
“Skye Sterling,” Skye said, stepping forward. “And we need a plane — a Grumman Albatross or anything that can land on water. Fueled and ready.”
Sylvia laughed — a dry, rasping sound. “You don’t ask for much, do you, princess? Why should I help you?”
“Because Alistair saved your life in Macao ten years ago,” Skye guessed, glancing at him.
He didn’t blink. “And because I won’t burn this building down if you say yes.”
Sylvia raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat, darling?”
“It’s a forecast,” Alistair said.
Sylvia sighed and stubbed out her cigarillo. “I do owe you, Alistair. But my pilot is currently unavailable. He’s downstairs losing his shirt at the poker table, and he won’t fly until he wins it back.”
“Which table?” Alistair asked.
“Table four. Texas Hold’em. He’s down fifty grand to a man named Marco. Marco is cheating, incidentally — I just can’t prove it.”
“Get the plane ready,” Alistair said, turning to Skye. “I’ll handle the pilot.”
“No.” Skye put a hand on his arm. “You’re too conspicuous. You look like you’re ready to kill someone — Marco will fold the moment he sees you. Let me do it.”
Alistair hesitated. “Skye…”