Elliot knew a dismissal when he heard it; besides, Daria was already closing the main doors, stowing the tray of drinks that had been waiting for new arrivals, and rearranging the galley for take-off. Elliot snagged a glass of water before heading into the main seating area.
The plane’s seating was exactly like every private plane he’d ever seen on TV or in movies—so much so, it was almost laughable. It didn’t even look like a plane, except for the curve of the ceiling and the tiny windows on either side at evenly spaced intervals. There was a conference table, plush chairs, a sofa, soft carpeting, excellent lighting—and in the back, a bed big enough for two, with curtains neatly tied to the sides with large bows, as if the bed itself was the centerpiece of the entire space.
Called it, thought Elliot with grim satisfaction, and tried not to think about how many times Anthony had probably used that bed with previous field partners before. At least I’m not going to be another notch; not when he didn’t even want me along for the ride.
There were four loungers suitable for take-off and landing, all near the front of the plane, all spaced so far apart the occupants might have been sitting by themselves. Three were empty and facing Elliot.
The second chair on the left faced the other direction. Elliot had a good idea who occupied it.
Elliot took possession of the first chair on the right, catty-corner from the occupied seat. He risked a backward glance—but the chair hadn’t moved, and all Elliot saw from this angle of its occupant was a pair of knees covered in dark fabric, and the top of his brown hair.
Fine. He can be snooty about me being late if he wants to be. I screwed up, I admit it.
The pilot’s voice was just as scratchy and tinny as it was on a large commercial flight, though it sounded a great deal more polite. “Gentlemen, we’ve received clearance to taxi, just as soon as you’re both buckled in with your seats locked in the forward position.”
There was a brief sigh—as if someone had just been dealt a most inconvenient and unwelcome blow. Anthony’s chair spun around. Elliot was almost surprised he wasn’t stroking a cat for effect.
“You’re late,” observed Anthony. Disgruntled, yes. But otherwise perfect in every aspect, from his finely pressed shirt to the razor-sharp crease on his trousers. He was even nursing a glass of Scotch on the rocks. There was no sign of a book, or a set of earphones, or even a seat belt to mar the impression that he’d been waiting all day for Elliot to appear.
“I’ve been here for over an hour,” said Elliot dryly, fumbling with his seat belt. At least the seat angled enough that he could easily see Anthony, despite Anthony sitting one row back. His chair didn’t swivel, either, which was mildly annoying. “It’s not my fault I couldn’t find the plane.”
“A plane which I located and boarded twenty minutes ago. Where were you?”
Elliot paused. “Twenty minutes? My briefing said to arrive at the airport forty-five minutes ago. Which was still fifteen minutes after I showed up. Who’s the late one now?”
Anthony frowned. “Where have you been?”
“Trying to check in.”
“Check into what?” asked Anthony—and to Elliot’s shock, he honestly sounded confused.
“The flight?”
“But this is the flight, and you only just arrived,” Anthony pointed out. “Where have you been?”
Elliot twisted in his chair, wishing it would swivel. “Come on, checking in? Going through security? Which aren’t you a little worried we didn’t actually do?”
“Of course we did,” said Anthony calmly. “The archways.”
“Archways— oh, wait. Do you mean metal detectors?”
Anthony rolled his eyes. “Do you honestly think they only detect metal?”
Elliot tried not to blanch. “Wait—what else do they detect?”
The familiar rush of engines filled the plane as they started taxing for take-off. Anthony looked out the window, and Elliot looked, too. Strange how the sight was familiar, even if the surroundings weren’t. The tarmac dropped away as they lifted into the air; within minutes, the plane rose above the cloud-filled sky and Northern Virginia became just a memory.
Elliot sat back in his chair and looked at Anthony out of the corner of his eye.
Anthony looked directly at him, eyes narrowed as if determining whether taking Elliot out now would be beneficial, just to save the bad guys the bother.
Elliot turned back around. He didn’t think he’d made any noise; the squeaking sound was just the way clothes rubbed against faux leather seats, right?
Anthony was still staring at him. Had to be, the way Elliot’s ears burned.
“We should go over O’Leary’s file,” said Elliot, because the silence was horrible. “I’ve brought several files worth examining with me, they’re in my carry-on. Some of his associates—”
“Can you handle a gun?”
“—look too perfect on paper—what?” Elliot turned around in his seat. How the hell had Anthony made his chair swivel?!?
“A gun,” clarified Anthony. “I’m fairly sure you’re familiar with the concepts of them, if not the direct handling.”
Elliot flushed. “I know what a gun is.”
“Great. How is your accuracy?”
“Why exactly does that matter?” said Elliot. “The DVM doesn’t kill anyone. We capture, we bring to trial, we don’t kill.”
Anthony wasn’t impressed. “How about hand-to-hand combat? Have any skydiving experience? Are you SCUBA certified? Do you know how to hack into a high-security computer system?”
Elliot screwed his eyes shut for a moment. “No, I don’t. Want to list any other inadequacies I probably have?”
“I’m just trying to figure out why Bea insisted you come with me,” mused Anthony. “You aren’t exactly the typical profile for my field partners.”
Elliot flushed. “Oh, because your track record against Cicero has been stellar so far. How many times has he gotten away from you?”
Anthony frowned. “You’re an analyst. You’re woefully under-prepared for a field assignment which will put us both in grave danger. We’ll need to rely on each other’s skills to survive. So forgive me if I’m trying to determine exactly which skills Bea thought you could bring to the table that would ensure a successful mission. So far, I don’t see any, beyond a suitcase full of files that I could easily read myself.”
Elliot stared at Anthony. Judging from the honestly confused expression on Anthony’s face, he wasn’t saying it to be mean or judgmental about Elliot’s field capabilities.
He really, honestly, didn’t know why Elliot was there.
Then again... neither did Elliot. Except for one very, glaringly obvious thing.
“Yeah, but,” said Elliot, “you didn’t read them. So.”
“I don’t need a field partner,” continued Anthony.
“You very obviously think that,” muttered Elliot.
“You are not field-trained or field-ready, but I find myself in the unenviable position of being responsible for your imminent death.”
Wow. “Thanks for the vote of confidence?”
A familiar ding sounded—the signal that the plane had reached cruising altitude and the pilot had turned off the seat belt sign. Anthony instantly disengaged the locks on his chair and swiveled around so he was no longer in view.