Take It On The Run

Chapter 39

POV: Sloan

Dread, thick and heavy, settled over me as I navigated the Beara Peninsula—as I drove farther and farther away from the men I loved so fiercely.

The unfamiliar roads wended through rolling hills and colorful towns, through picturesque harbors and bays and rivers. I'd grown accustomed to the gray skies here, which seemed to mirror the perpetual dark cloud hanging over my head.

More than anything, I wished I could enjoy the breathtaking landscape, but a pit formed in my stomach, sharp and dominating. It permeated everything and suffocated me, like unruly vines of kudzu overwhelming a small southern town.

I had put on a brave face earlier while saying my goodbyes to Dad and the boys. The difficult truth, however, was that I had no way to guarantee I'd ever see them again.

Deacon had still been livid earlier when I'd gotten behind the wheel, which was on the opposite side of the rental van and was seriously throwing me off. Still, he'd gently buckled my seatbelt, making sure it was secure before blessing me with a long, passionate kiss.

"I'm sorry, honey," I'd offered remorsefully, memorizing those silver-lined sapphires. His agony had been so potent it'd made my heart stutter. "It'll all be over soon."

His deep voice had cracked on his soft reply. "That's what I'm afraid of, sweetness." Then he'd briefly pressed his lips to my cheek and shut the door, joining the others before the barn. The searing image of them standing there in the rearview mirror had nearly made me turn the van around and admit how foolish this plan was.

Now that the familiar twinge of loneliness had set in, my chest felt hollow. I'd come to rely on the guys—emotionally, mentally, and physically—which oddly enough no longer scared me as it once had. But I found myself wishing Misha was here to take my mind off their absence.

I stopped for gas at a bustling petrol station near the airport. The worn baseball cap I'd donned gave the appearance of going incognito, but I used a compromised credit card inside while wearing one of Avery's Tulane t-shirts so they'd know it was me. Then I returned the rental van and booked it to Cork Airport.

Being detained was always a part of the plan, but now that I was staring at the security line, I suddenly felt nervous.

My palms were sweating as I handed over my ID, which was instantly flagged by the security officer. She radioed someone over the walkie-talkie strapped to her shoulder as she eyed her screen suspiciously.

"Please come with us," a large man in an Airport Police uniform said sternly.

"Why? Is something wrong?"

The female officer grabbed my small carry-on and instructed, "Follow us, miss."

"Um, okay."

They ushered me into a private room with a barebones table, four uncomfortable-looking metal chairs, and a two-way mirror that screamed interrogation torture chamber. The place was barely larger than a closet.

I was about to complain about the cramped accommodations like an entitled American when they told me to have a seat, departing swiftly before I could argue. Oddly enough, they left my bag in my possession instead of confiscating it.

After what felt like hours later, two very large white men in their early thirties entered the room—one with flaming red hair and a matching beard, the other a brunette with a slicked-back ponytail and diamond stud earring.

To my surprise, neither wore uniforms or anything denoting border patrol, customs, or immigration officers. In fact, they were wearing nondescript black suits as if they were MI6 agents or some shit.