Also by Vincent Zandri

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  Meta Man: Mars 900 C

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  A Sam Savage Sky Marshal Thriller

  Dead Heading

  The Sam Savage Sky Marshal Boxed Set

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  (Vincent Zandri on Writing Book)

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  Watch for more at Vincent Zandri’s site.

  Begin your journey today with a FREE copy of MOONLIGHT FALLS, the first novel in the Thriller and Shamus Award-winning series. Or visit www.VincentZandri.com to join Vincent’s “For your eyes only” newsletter today.

  PRAISE FOR VINCENT ZANDRI

  “Sensational . . . masterful . . . brilliant.”

  —New York Post

  “(A) chilling tale of obsessive love from Thriller Award–winner Zandri (Moonlight Weeps) . . . Riveting.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “. . . Oh, what a story it is . . . Riveting . . . A terrific old school thriller.”

  —Booklist “Starred Review”

  “Zandri does a fantastic job with this story. Not only does he scare the reader, but the horror

  Show he presents also scares the man who is the definition of the word “tough.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “I very highly recommend this book . . . It's a great crime drama that is full of action and intense suspense, along with some great twists . . . Vincent Zandri has become a huge name and just keeps pouring out one best seller after another.”

  —Life in Review

  “(The Innocent) is a thriller that has depth and substance, wickedness and compassion.”

  —The Times-Union (Albany)

  "The action never wanes."

  —Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

  "Gritty, fast-paced, lyrical and haunting."

  —Harlan Coben, New York Times bestselling author of Six Years

  "Tough, stylish, heartbreaking."

  —Don Winslow, New York Times bestselling author of Savages and Cartel.

  “A tightly crafted, smart, disturbing, elegantly crafted complex thriller . . . I dare you to start it and not keep reading.”

  —MJ Rose, New York Times bestselling author of Halo Effect and Closure

  “A classic slice of raw pulp noir…”

  —William Landay, New York Times bestselling author of Defending Jacob

  “We go back to Dhaka. Plane broke. Badly'."

  —RNAC (Royal Nepal Air Corp) Pilot while on a flight from Dhaka to Kathmandu

  1

  She can still smell him on her clothing. When he rubbed shoulders with her at the bar, excusing himself for coming too close, his aftershave must have rubbed off on her. She recognized the fragrance. Polo. Her favorite. It was possible to fall instantly in love with a handsome man who wore it. Not that she was easy. Far from it. Now in her early forties, the longest relationship she’d ever had lasted just a hair less than five years. But now, as she takes her seat in the twelfth row of economy class beside the window so that she can look out over the wing (in doing so she convinces herself the plane is not going to crash because, after all, the wings are still attached), she finds herself smiling.

  Sure, the man she met at the bar was a bit overly flirty, but he was an interesting guy. A former Navy Seal. At least, that’s what he referred to himself as. He was handsome too, not in a classic, tall, dark and swarthy kind of way, but more like a cowboy. Rugged. His face needed a razor, and his salt and pepper hair was a bit unkempt; still, he seemed at home in his worn black leather coat, blue jeans, and combat boots. And he smelled of Polo. To top it off, he made her laugh, and that was enough to get her juices flowing.

  She stared out the window as the last of the passengers boarded, and the door to the aircraft was sealed tight. Next stop, Rome, Italy. She could make out her vague reflection in the tempered safety glass. She wasn’t as young as she used to be, but she took care of herself, eating right but, at the same time, drinking a couple of beers every night (she hated wine). She also exercised daily on a special bike that wasn’t propelled by pedals and a chain but instead powered by an elliptical machine. What did they call it?

  An ellipticycle.

  She might have looked entirely goofy to the neighbors in her upstate New York neighborhood who watched her pedaling such a strange contraption up and down its quiet streets and around its cul-de-sacs, but she didn’t care. It was a terrific workout which was entirely evident in her perfect glutes, strong arms, plump thighs, and pert breasts. Her body might have been hard, but her face was smooth, her eyes blue and mesmerizing, or so she’d been told on more than one occasion by adoring boys, lustful men, and even a few women. Her only marriage had been to a man years older than her, and the sex was infrequent at best, so it made her feel good inside to receive the compliments. Made her feel she was still desirable.

  The nice smelling man she’d met in the bar made her feel that way without saying a word. When he’d looked into her eyes, their stares just locked in. As much as she tried, she could not get him off her mind. Yet again, she pictured him as she gazed out the window. He was not tall, but not short either. His build was sort of stocky, but hard stocky like he trained with weights in the gym and maybe did a little road work too. He was a former SEAL, after all, and SEALs stayed in shape long after their combat days were history. Or so she imagined. His salt and pepper hair was cropped short, his face bearing some scruff, which made him seem all the rougher if not, dare she say it to herself, macho. His leather coat was as worn and old as the hills. His brown eyes were stunningly big pools, and they didn’t look at her so much as peered directly into her very core.

  There was no doubt that he’d taken an instant liking to her. He was also a toucher. When she’d set her hands on the bar, he subtly touched them with his fingertips, as if to let her know he just couldn’t resist her. He wasn’t overly aggressive, nor was he a groper. Far from it. He was just a toucher, a man who enjoyed showing his affection. At her age, she knew the difference between good touch and bad touch and judging by the way his touching made her feel in her stomach and stirred things slightly south of her stomach, his touch was most definitely of the good variety.

  His name was Sam. Sam Savage. After his stint as a Navy SEAL, he’d become a freelance foreign correspondent (something that sounded romantic and exciting to her).

  “War stories,” he’d answered when she asked him what kind of reporting he did. “I brought my expertise to the subject. And it was fun for a while, traveling all over the place to get a scoop. Dangerous too. But it didn’t pay, so in the end, I had to settle for a new job in the security industry.”

  She sipped her beer, ran a hand through her thick, dark, shoulder-length hair, and looked into his brown eyes.

  “Have I read anything you’ve written?” she asked coyly.

  He unbuttoned one more button on his khaki work shirt, as if things were really heating up in the airport, ran a hand over his facial scruff, and then placed the hand gently on her shoulder.

  “Mary,” he said, “if you gotta ask . . .” he allowed the thought to trail off like that was answer enough.

  She thought it was a clever response, of course, and she couldn’t help but laugh. As if trying to change the subject, he asked her where she was heading. Rome, Florence, and Venice she told him. He nodded, said he’d gone to Rome on his first honeymoon. He’d been there many times since, but he preferred Florence, further north. He explained that it felt more like a small town whereas Rome was a giant city like New York. She told him she loved Florence too and always made a point of visiting whenever she went to Italy, which was at least once every three years. They looked into one another’s eyes for a time that was a bit too long. It caused them both to blush.

  “Well then,” she said, drinking the rest of her beer. “I suppose I should be getting to my gate.”

  She went to leave a twenty on the bar, but he said, “It’s on me, Mary.”

  She smiled warmly, and for the first time since they’d met, barely a half hour earlier, she placed her hand gently on his.

  “That’s really kind of you, Sam,” she said.

  He grinned, dug into his pocket, came back out with a card and handed it to her.

  Glancing at the card, she said, “You live in New York City? I visit the city a lot for my job.”

  “My number’s on there,” he said. “By all means, please call me when you’re in town.” He chuckled. “After your vacation, of course.”

  She slipped the card into her leather bag.

  “I most definitely will, Sam,” she replied. “Oh, and I’ll be sure to download one of your articles before we take off. Which one would you suggest I read first?”

  He thought it over for a minute. Then, “I did several pieces on pirates in West and East Africa,’” he said. “I’m pretty sure you can still get them online.”

  “Pirates,” she said. “Sounds scary.”

  “It was,” he said.

  “Pirates it is then,” she smiled and gathered up her bag. “Say, Sam, you never said where you were heading to?”

  He drank a swig of whiskey, set the glass back down onto the bar thoughtfully, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  “Oh,” he said, “here, there, and everywhere.”

  She immediately recognized the Beatles song. She loved the Beatles. She was old enough, in fact, to remember the Beatles when they were still together, although she was barely out of kindergarten when they finally split up.

  “You sure a mystery man, Sam,” she said. “And a romantic adventurer. You are true to your calling, whatever that may be now.”

  They looked into one another’s eyes again for far longer than a couple who hardly know one another should.

  “So long, Sam,” she said, tucking her bag under her arm.

  “Have a safe flight, Mary,” he replied.

  She left the bar feeling a pit in her stomach. In a very good way.

  2

  That was merely an hour ago. Now, the plane is taxiing on the runway, the captain just announced they are first in line for takeoff.

  “Flight attendants, please prepare for takeoff,” the captain announces over the aircraft PA system. Something that both excites Mary and frightens her at the same time. While takeoff is the most exciting, adrenalin-filled moment of the flight, it’s also the time when she opens her bag, pulls out her bottle of valium, pops one in her mouth. She washes it down with water from the plastic bottle she brought onto the plane. Almost immediately, she feels the calming effects of the drug swimming through her veins making her very, very happy.

  Soon, the Airbus A300 makes a hard right turn. It comes to a stop. The engines roar and the plane bucks. It moves forward, slowly at first, but then quickly gains speed, and more speed, the power beneath her feeling unstoppable. The vibrations tremble in her backside, running all the way up her spine and into her brain. The plane is alive. The nose tips upward while the belly suddenly dips until the craft seems to catch up with itself, and she is airborne—the airport and the city shrinking rapidly beneath her as they swiftly take on elevation.

  Mary finds herself staring out the window onto a landscape that is a combination of lush greenery and suburban sprawl. The land quickly comes to an end by a sandy shoreline that extends as far as the eye can see. After that, nothing but wide-open ocean. The plane is still low enough that she can make out the fishing boats, trawlers, and cargo vessels that dot the placid-looking surface of the Atlantic Ocean, but soon she finds herself blinded by a layer of clouds. The plane dips and bucks once more, sending jolts of electric shocks up and down her spine. Her stomach goes tight, and a small layer of cold sweat erupts in her palms and on her forehead.

  Mary hates turbulence.

  But, she knows turbulence is a natural part of flying and that it’s as safe as milk. But if it’s all that safe, she whispers to herself, why does it bother me so much?

  The plane breaks through the clouds, and the smooth ride resumes. Suddenly, all is well with the world again. Several chimes sound and the handsome flight crew (half men, half women) immediately go to work. They head to the back—or aft—of the aircraft where they will retrieve drink carts. Truth be told, Mary can’t wait to get a drink in her. A nice Jameson, minus the rocks. Something she only allows herself one of occasionally while on the safety of solid ground. While flying a long-haul flight, however, she might allow herself two. Perhaps even three, if the valium isn’t doing its job and she can’t get to sleep.

 

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