Jorja settled into the nearly full plane and swept her eyes over the passengers. She might have made it there in one piece—barely—but it didn't mean she had shaken Züber's guys off her trail. And since Zeus had confessed Sokolov was also involved, she wasn't safe from his men either.
So, she kept one eye open, just in case, resting in the knowledge that, considering she had scarred both their faces during her escape, there would be no mistaking the men who tried to run her off the road. She would surely spot them among the passengers in a heartbeat.
Her body was bruised and ached all over, welcoming the plush cushioning of the first-class seat Andre had booked for her. Upgraded traveling wasn't a choice; it was a necessity and the only way she could get on and off a plane quickly. She had learned this very early on in her career and had used the airlines' VIP privileges to her advantage to escape many tight situations in the past.
As soon as the plane took off, she got up and walked toward the restroom where one passenger had just entered the small cubicle. This she had intentionally planned as a way to obtain a bird’s-eye view of all the passengers in first class. She paid particular interest to the two men who flanked her. To the right of her seat was an older man whose expensive gold watch and off-white designer suit didn't fit the profile of a killer. His hands were shaking, possibly from Parkinson's, and he’d declined the glass of champagne upon arrival. As far as she could tell, he was not a threat.
The man to her left, however, she wasn't sure of. He was of average height, well dressed, and even though he had a certain charm about him, he looked nervous and was already on his second Scotch. Either this was his first time on a plane, or he was about to get married, but something did not quite add up.
He looked up at her, saw she was looking at him then quickly hid his face behind the in-flight magazine. Jorja's suspicions grew and she caught the attention of the flight crew member who was prepping the in-flight snacks at the station behind her.
"Excuse me, I know this is probably none of my business but the man seated in seat 2B, is he all right? He just seems on edge or something."
The young woman, roughly in her mid-twenties, sneaked a peek from behind the half-drawn red curtain then replied with a smile.
"Oh, that's Rupert Pemberton. He's terrified of flying, poor soul."
Jorja relaxed.
"The Rupert Pemberton, from Pemberton and Lochton, the Queen's jewelry makers?"
She nodded with glee. "I know, right? He has meetings in Geneva at least twice a month. He is super embarrassed about it, bless him. But don't let it bother you, he’ll settle down as soon as his meds kick in. Can I get you something?" She recoiled when her manager cast a watchful eye in her direction.
"No, I'm good thanks, just waiting for the loo."
"Well, I'll be sure to set down your tray if you haven't made it back to your seat by the time I pass it, and just shout if you need anything else, okay?"
Jorja nodded and slipped inside the small washroom as soon as it was free. Inside the cramped space, she relaxed her guard and told herself that she was probably just paranoid since she had not slept in days. She was on a plane for goodness sake. It's not like they would kill her mid-flight or anything.
Taking a deep breath, she adjusted the make-shift sling she had made for her arm from a silk scarf she had picked up from the Duty Free shop. She had also swapped out her stolen garb for a new pair of jeans and a pale blue tee shirt, disposing of the dress in the canteen waste bin before she boarded. Her wristwatch told her she had less than an hour before they landed, not nearly enough time for her to squeeze in a nap.
In the mirror in front of her, she studied the dark rings that had formed under her eyes. Deep red bruises had settled on her jaw and several small wounds threatened to rise to the surface from beneath the rushed make-up job in the hangar that was no longer nearly enough to conceal them. While she took advantage of the safety and solitude of the small in-flight washroom, she thought of Ewan and the circumstances under which he had died. That she wasn't there for him in his last moments, to say goodbye. She recalled his eyes looking up at her from where he was bleeding out on the floor in her gallery. Even while staring death in its face, his eyes were warm and reassuring. Thinking back now, Ewan had always made it about her, selflessly putting her needs before his in every situation, protecting her even at the cost of losing his life.
Guilt suddenly engulfed her and tears fell down her cheeks as she recalled the day he’d told her he loved her, that he would do anything to make her happy. She had known that he was in love with her months before, but as much as she wanted to love him back, she couldn't, not in the way he loved her. She had lost her heart to someone else long before Ewan came along, and now she would never see either of them again.
Jorja quietly wept for the first time since hearing of Ewan's passing. She mourned the loss of her dear friend who’d sacrificed everything. She mourned losing the only man she’d ever loved for a second time, this time for good. She cried for what her life had become, and for what it could never be. She had nothing and no one left. All she had left was the anger toward the men who had taken it all away. The men who had robbed her of ever having a normal life, from a future with Ben, from having any meaning to her life. She hated them with everything she had left in her.
And while her sadness slowly transformed into resentment and guilt over allowing them to get away with it for so long, the tears slowly dried up. When she finally stared into the mirror again, she saw nothing but bitterness, and all that remained were the streaks her tears had left behind in the make-up.
Lukewarm water ran from the tap and she splashed several cupped hands full of the soothing liquid on her face. She didn't care if the make-up washed off and revealed the scratches. She was done hiding. She was done pretending. Come what may, both Gustav Züber and Artem Sokolov will pay for what they’d done to her, for taking Ewan, for taking Ben.
And even if it were the last thing she would ever do on this earth, she would not let them go unpunished.
A gentle rapping at the door pulled her back into the present. She had completely lost track of time. Drying her face, she adjusted her hair and drew in a deep breath before she opened the door to exchange places with an uppity woman whose eyes looked daggers at her. Back in her seat, her thoughts continued to consume her mind as she tucked into the fresh chocolate croissant and orange juice the attendant had left for her. A smile settled on her face. It wasn't a smile of joy, rather a smile filled with self-satisfaction. Because for the first time in a very long while, she knew exactly what she needed to do to set herself free.
Twenty-four hours earlier, she had planned to make her way to the quaint guesthouse nestled on the banks of the lake. She and Ben had discovered it by accident one year when they got lost. The house was quiet and off the beaten path, accessible only by foot—if you knew where to find it. She had thought she would need to hide out there for a few days to strategize and plan her way into Züber's house with minimum risk. But now none of that mattered anymore. There wasn't a moment to spare. She didn't need to sleep, didn't need to recover. She had been at his house a thousand times before; he wasn't one to change anything. Gustav was an old dog who thought no one could teach him any new tricks. Even prison wouldn't have taken away his arrogance or obstinance. She had helped him with his security, found any loopholes that could put him and his art at risk. She knew his house like the back of her hand.
But he knew that.
Yes, he would know by now she was coming for him, but not how or where to expect it. She didn’t care about his house or the few small pieces of art she was certain he kept there. Her plan included taking something far more important to him.
Allowing her eyes to drift to the full-page advert on the back cover of the in-flight magazine in front of her, she couldn't pass up on the opportunity that stared her in the face.
No matter how much she hated him, she couldn't kill him even if she wanted to. She wasn't a cold-blooded killer, nor would she ever be. But taking the only thing Gustav Züber had ever loved more than himself, that she could do. Prison was nothing compared to losing his entire fortune and all the precious art he had been hiding in plain sight for decades.
There was one place on earth he was too arrogant and proud to hide from the world. One place he did not want to conceal behind the smokescreen of his shell companies or fictitious collectors—it was what had given him credibility in the industry and he would never separate from it. It was the only place to which Züber attached his name, and seeing him go down during the biggest fine art gallery in Switzerland's annual private banquet, was all the revenge she could ever want. Twenty years ago she had kept one final ace up her sleeve, in the event the evidence she had leaked to the police wasn't enough.
Now the time had come for her to place the final card on the table. One that would expose him to the world and strip him of everything he owned, and it just so happened to be taking place that very evening.
There would be no stone left unturned and Gustav Züber's entire empire would come crumbling down, in front of the entire world for all to see.