The Hostage

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

Genres: Medical Thrillers

Synopsis

He was the last person she expected to save her life . . Air Force One meets The Fugitive with a thrillingly romantic spin in Melinda di Lorenzo's gripping suspense novel. Perfect for fans of Nora Roberts, Laura Griffin, Melinda Leigh and Debra Webb.

Surviving the plane crash was the easy part.

After losing someone close to her, nurse Joelle Diedrich needs a change of scene. But stepping in as a last-minute medical escort on a prisoner transfer flight results in a bigger one than she bargained for.

Waking in the wreckage of a crash, Joelle swiftly gathers that no one else on the plane was what they seemed. And if she wants to make it out of this alive, she must place her trust in the only survivor who's not trying to kill her: Beck, the convicted murderer who was being transported.

Fleeing with Beck presents more than one danger - not only that of simple survival across treacherous terrain, but by making Joelle a target in ruthless plot. As the threats multiply and Beck and Joelle grow closer, Joelle has to ask herself just how much she's willing to risk for a man she's just met, and figure out whether Beck will risk the same for her...

Release date: March 15, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

Joelle Diedrich splashed a little more water onto her face, then patted it dry with a disposable towel from the dispenser. The commercial-grade paper scratched at her skin, and she winced. If the sting wasn’t a reminder that she was in an airport bathroom rather than the comfort of her own apartment, she didn’t know what would be.

Which is the whole point, she said to herself as she tossed the paper towel neatly into the trash bin.

A change of scenery. A change of pace. It was exactly what she needed. In fact, it was the entire reason she’d accepted the sudden request. It kept her from having to face going back to her regular job—something she wasn’t ready for. Not yet.

A sigh slipped through her lips anyway, and the redhead in the mirror—someone who looked an awful lot like a deflated, less shiny version of herself—sighed, too. Joelle wrinkled her nose, trying to find at least a piece of her former self in the reflection. The physical changes couldn’t possibly be all that dramatic, and surely they were a normal part of grieving. Because three months of sadness and guilt would take a toll on anyone. Wouldn’t they? Probably. But she struggled to find anything but fault in her appearance.

She studied herself, picking apart her present state.

Her hair was too long and too wavy. She usually kept it styled in a crisp bob, held in place by exactly four spritzes of finishing spray. At the moment, it touched her shoulders. Maybe even went past them a little. If she’d had an elastic, she might’ve been able to make a ponytail for the first time in a decade. And with the last-minute call to fill in for the medical escort who’d pulled a no-show, she hadn’t had time to even think about getting it properly trimmed, let alone done it. The one thing that should’ve been a plus—the fact that the extra ten pounds she always complained about had evaporated—was actually a nuisance. Now that it was gone, her black dress pants hung a little too loose. Her cream-colored blouse was a tad big, too, and it kept trying to slide to one side. Even her feet had somehow narrowed. The casual flats she’d tried to put on first had fallen off when she started walking, and she’d been forced to trade them out for a pair of lace-up leather shoes. What really struck her, though, was the flatness in her green eyes. How long would it take for the sparkle to come back?

“C’mon,” she said in a soft voice. “You’re better than this, J.D. Get it together.”

Of course, the mirror-her mouthed the words, too. And from Joelle’s point of view, it looked like her reflection was mocking her. She rolled her eyes. But that only made things worse. So she let her lids sink shut instead, taking a second to block it all out.

She needed to get a hold of her professional self-assurance. And while she was at it, the personal insecurities had to be dropped. There were only five minutes left—give or take—before she had to meet with the rest of the Prisoner Transfer Unit, and they’d be expecting someone competent. More than competent.

So far, her only interaction had been a quick check-in with the pre-flight Correctional Manager—a harried woman who’d scrutinized Joelle’s credentials, reeled off a short list of instructions on how to get to the right terminal, then clacked away in her impractically high heels. It had left Joelle dazed. And to be honest . . . a little intimidated, too. What were the others in the unit like? Equally brusque? Even less congenial? Presumably, all of them had experience that exceeded hers. At least as far as prisoner transfers went. Her own decade of working as a nurse in corrections had been directly inside a facility. Stomach aches. Bruises and contusions. The odd cough or rash. Those were the ailments she attended to on a daily basis. Anything truly serious—or truly interesting, for that matter—got referred to the prison doctor. And she was left with the paperwork.

Again . . . she thought. That’s why I’m here. Something different.

Despite the reassurance, nerves flitted through her. And with them came a hit of acute longing to be back in her bed. Maybe it was a mistake to believe that she was ready for a new challenge. She’d only been back at work once since taking her leave of absence. Just a brief meeting with the warden. Basically a glorified high five. But even the short visit in the familiar environment had been overwhelming. There’d been so many people. So much hustle and noise. Far too much of everything. And if Joelle was being honest, she still missed her mother every second of every day.

She lifted a hand to her chest, trying to press away the physical manifestation of the sadness. But her palm just barely met the spot above her heart before a throat-clear made her eyes fly open. She spun toward the sound, embarrassed to have been caught in the contemplative state. Her gaze landed on a blonde woman in her forties, who was standing in the doorframe of the bathroom, clad in an airline uniform, and looking far less awkward than Joelle felt.

“Sorry,” said the woman. “Are you Joelle Diedrich?”

Automatically wary—and abruptly worried she might be about to be turned away—Joelle nodded. “I am. Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all. I just thought you might want to know that the Lead Transfer Escort just got back in from doing his inspection. He’s a bit of a grump.” The woman smiled as she said it, taking any unkindness out of the last statement. “I’m Wanda, by the way. I’ll be your team’s dedicated flight attendant today.”

“Nice to meet you. And thanks for the heads up,” Joelle replied, grabbing her jacket, then stepping away from the sink to follow the flight attendant out the door. “I take it you do this regularly?”

“I do,” said Wanda. “Some of the flight attendants prefer not to get near the prisoners, but I grew up around that kind of thing—both my parents were involved in the law business—so I don’t shy away from the bad guys. And the good guys like me because I don’t come close to peeing my pants when a prisoner looks my way.”

Joelle couldn’t help but laugh. “I can see why that would be preferable.”

“What about you?”

“Are you asking if I’m going to pee my pants?”

The flight attendant flashed another smile. “I guess I am. Is this your first run?”

“First prisoner transport, but not my first prisoner,” Joelle said. “I’m just filling in for a colleague. Last minute, emergency thing. Hard to say no to the overtime.”

All of the statements were true. They were also rehearsed. A miniature cover-up that she’d designed solely for keeping her emotion under wraps and repeated to herself in the car on the way from her apartment to the airport. Now, Joelle held her breath, waiting to see if the other woman showed any hint of seeing through it. But Wanda just smiled yet again.

“Totally get it,” she told Joelle. “All money is good money.”

They entered the pre-boarding area, walked past the meager number of passengers who were awaiting a crack-of-dawn flight, then headed for a set of frosted doors marked with the words “Executive Lounge”. Wanda pulled open the door to reveal a trio of suit-clad men who stood in one corner. They all had their eyes on a shared binder, and none of them looked up at the silent intrusion.

“I take it those are my guys?” Joelle asked in a low voice.

“They sure are,” said Wanda, her words equally quiet.

“Which one is the grump?”

The flight attendant laughed under her breath. “The tall one with the perma-frown. His name’s Darby O’Toole.”

Joelle’s eyes sought the man in question, and she nodded. “Okay. Here goes nothing, right?”

“I’m sure it won’t be nothing,” replied Wanda with another laugh. “And if it is, I’ll give you an extra package of snacks on the house.”

“Deal. See you onboard?”

“You bet.”

“Thanks again.” Joelle inhaled and stepped toward the group, schooling a professionally cool smile onto her face as she joined their circle. “Hi, all. Sorry I’m a bit behind. Last-minute addition. I just got the call an hour ago.”

Darby O’Toole turned a puzzled look her way. “And you are . . .?”

“Joelle,” she replied. “Diedrich. A lot of people call me J.D.”

He shared a glance with one of the other men—a shorter, stockier guy with steely gray hair, and whose pants were cinched with a steer-head buckle—then met her eyes and spoke slowly. “Jo. Elle.”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“Not Joel?”

Her cheeks warmed, but she answered smoothly. “Nope. Not Joel. You’d be surprised how often people misread it, actually. But here I am, reporting for duty as the replacement Medical Escort.”

He stared for another second before at last extending his hand and smiling a tight smile. “Apologies. You caught me off guard.”

Sloughing off a trickle of unease, Joelle clasped his palm and shook. “You’re the Lead Transport Escort? Darby O’Toole?”

“Indeed. It sounds like you’re a step ahead of me despite your status as a last-minute addition, Ms. Diedrich.” He sounded anything but impressed. “Do you need introductions to the rest of my unit, or have you got them pegged, too?”

The heat in her face crept up again. “No, sir. No other pegging going on.”

“Well, then . . .” He swept an arm toward the short stocky man. “Let me introduce Shane Dreery, our Onboard Transfer Coordinator.” He jerked a thumb at the third man, who was averagely built and had nondescript features. “And this is Win Redburn. He’s our Onboard Correctional Manager. The guards will meet us onboard.”

Joelle murmured a greeting and shook each of the men’s hands before asking, “Do you guys know why the prisoner needs a Medical Escort? The conversation with my supervisor was a bit vague, and I’d like to be prepared.”

“Allegedly, there was an issue with a seizure a few months back,” O’Toole told her.

“Allegedly?” Joelle echoed.

“You know how these assholes are,” Dreery interjected. “Maybe it happened, maybe it didn’t, maybe they just want an extra buddy on the trip.”

“Right,” Joelle murmured, a bubble of concern sliding in.

“I take it you’ve already filled in the waiver, Ms. Diedrich?” O’Toole asked.

She redirected her attention his way. “Sorry?”

“The liability waiver.” He didn’t hide his impatience. “If you haven’t filled it in, you’ll need to do that before you join us on the plane.”

He snapped his fingers, and Win Redburn yanked a piece of paper from the binder and held it out to her. A pen appeared in Dreery’s fingers, too. Joelle took both and fought to keep from chewing the inside of her lip.

“Well,” said O’Toole, “I’ve got a few things to check, so if you’ll excuse me?”

“Sure,” she replied. “Of course. Just let me know when you’re ready for me.”

“We’re already ready for you, Ms. Diedrich. If you’re not finished with the paperwork in five minutes, you can meet us on the tarmac.” The tall man nodded at his counterparts. “Five minutes, gentlemen.”

Then he spun and strode off toward the doors. Frowning a little, Joelle watched him go. Had he deliberately alienated her with his parting words, or was it an oversight? And as late as she was to join them, she’d still expected to hear at least a few more details.

A few more? How about any?

With a request for clarification poised on the tip of her tongue, she turned back to Dreery and Redburn. But the two men had already moved on. Each of them was seated in one of the lounge’s chairs, engrossed in their respective phones.

“Okay, then,” Joelle said to herself.

She hovered where she was for another second, then gave in and sank down into one of the leather-backed chairs a few feet away from the other prisoner escorts. She balanced the paper on her knee and lifted the pen. But her fingers stalled, even before they could write her name in the blank space at the top of the form. Maybe she’d made a mistake in agreeing to do this. She certainly didn’t feel welcome. Or anything close. Doubt surged and swirled and wouldn’t settle. And under that feeling was another, stronger one. Disquiet.

Beck stared at the water-color painting that hung on the wall on the other side of the room. Roses. The vibrant shade of pink was the brightest, prettiest thing he’d seen in God knew how long.

Twenty-one months, sixteen days, said an obnoxious voice in his head.

“Shut up,” he growled.

He let his eyes rest on the flowers for another few seconds before he dropped his gaze down to his hands. Sometimes, he didn’t recognize them as his own. For fifteen years, his fingers had the luxury of working behind a desk. They hadn’t been soft. Not exactly. Beck had still been a fisherman and a camper—a man who liked to get away from the city. A weekend warrior. Slightly more than that, maybe. A long-weekend warrior. Possibly even a week-long warrior. Now, though, there was nothing weekend or even week-long about the way his hands looked.

His palms were calloused. Roughened by the manual labor program that he’d opted to enroll in while incarcerated. Six months into his twenty-five-year sentence—six months of boredom mixed with anger and frustration—had made it seem like a good idea to be productive in some way. So he learned to build furniture. It was almost funny. It definitely served its purpose. Tiring his body to the point that his mind could rest. Feeling half-good about creating something. Even if he never saw the finished projects in the real world.

Sometimes, he lay awake at night wondering just where his latest piece of prison-crafted cabinetry had landed. If the person who’d bought it knew that it’d been crafted behind thick cement walls by a man like him. He hoped not. He liked the idea that somewhere, someone loved something he’d made without the stigma attached to his current life. Maybe the most recent piece—a simple coffee table with perfectly rounded corners—had been given as a gift to a couple of newlyweds.

Beck stifled a snort. Right. Newlyweds. For all I know, it wound up in a place like this. Built in one goddamn institution, housed in another.

His attention lifted back to the painting. He doubted that the artist who’d crafted it envisioned it hanging in an airport security room. Hell. He couldn’t even come up with a good reason for someone putting it there in the first place. Did they think one random decorative piece would add something warm and fuzzy to the atmosphere? It wasn’t as though there was any denying the room’s purpose. Between the two-way mirror, the camera in one corner of the ceiling, and the not-so-fashionable bracelets that held Beck to the table in front of his uncomfortable chair, it was clear that the spot had a specific and limited function. A painting did nothing to change it.

Beck sighed and shifted in his seat, making his chains clink together. “How the hell much longer do they expect me to sit here, anyway?”

As if on cue, the door rattled, then came flying open with more force than necessary. The rose painting shuddered, and two guards appeared. One—who stayed in the doorframe to act as a sentry—was an older man with a paunch, and Beck didn’t know him on any personal level. Marty-something, maybe. The other, though, was a distastefully familiar face and a polished-to-a-shine bald head. He was Beck’s least favorite guard at the penitentiary, and he’d just happened to be assigned as his primary escort.

He stalked into the room, a smirk on his face. “C’mon, Samson. It’s time to play dead man walking.”

Beck grimaced, but he also went ahead and took the bait. “You know, Allan, I really feel like it’s a big part of your job to be familiar with the fact that we don’t have the death penalty here in Canada.”

“A guy can dream.” The guard leaned in to unlock the cuffs from the table. “Besides which, who said anything about the death penalty? You’re about to take a nice little trip in a tin can, thirty thousand feet up. Chances aren’t terrible that I won’t get my wish.”

Beck stiffened, but this time, he didn’t bite. It was a fact that he hated flying. It was also a fact that the warden at the prison had denied his request for another mode of transportation. That didn’t mean the smarmy guard needed the satisfaction of hearing it.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Allan?” he said instead.

“What’s that?”

“If I go down on the plane, you go down with me.”

“Fuck you, Samson.”

Wordlessly smiling to himself, Beck waited for the other man to pull the chains from the table, then refasten them to the bonds at his ankles. He held still as Allan gave the shackles a onceover and tugged on all the points of closure to make sure each one was secure. Despite Beck’s lack of reaction, the other man was still smirking when he was finished.

“On your feet,” he said.

Beck’s eyes narrowed. “The plan was to meet up with Dr. Karim before we left.”

“Sometimes, plans have to be changed.” Allan gave the manacles a sharp tug. “Don’t worry, muffin. You’ll still get your special medical escort.”

Suspicion crept up. It settled in Beck’s chest. It burned. He stood, though, and fell in line. What other option did he have? Fighting back would only get him tased. Or worse. So—with Allan in the front, the other guard in the rear, and Beck practically wedged between them—he let them lead him out to the empty hall. Their pace was purposeful. But the longer they walked, the more the unease strengthened. He was sure he’d heard someone say they were only about thirty seconds away from the boarding zone, yet they didn’t slow down at any of the closest doors. They took a left at a T in the passageway, and a right at another and another. More than a few minutes definitely went by, and finally, the only thing in sight was the emergency exit. Beck realized it had to be their destination. There was nowhere left to go. In response, his feet stalled, immediately prompting a grunt from the man behind him. Allan turned back to face him, too.

“What now, Samson?” he said. “You see something shiny?”

“Other than your head?” Beck replied. “No. I’d like to know where the hell we’re going, though.”

“Pretty sure you should already know the answer to that, babycakes.”

Allan smirked. Then he turned away again. The other guard gave Beck a small shove, and he had no choice but to move. The gap between them and the emergency exit closed far too quickly, and the step through them was jarring. It was technically morning, but the dawn hadn’t broken, and the dark closed in, barely pierced by the runway lights. The air was crisp to the point of icy. Windier there at the airport than it had been near the prison. Beck shivered. His prison-supplied clothing—jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, designed to look as unobtrusive and “normal” as possible—was nowhere near adequate against the temperature.

“Go ahead,” said Allan, pointing into the dimness.

Beck squinted. Just ahead of them, a black SUV sat on the pavement, somehow managing to look not out of place. It wasn’t the same vehicle they’d used to bring him from the correctional facility to the airport, and nothing about it screamed prisoner transport. Yet one of the rear doors hung open, and Beck knew what it meant.

“You expect me to get in there?” The question came out before he could stop it, and he regretted it right away.

The guard’s smirk became a grin that flashed in the dark. “What I expect is for you to do exactly what the fuck I say, exactly when the fuck I say it. But I’m happy to provide you with some motivation if need be.”

This isn’t how this is supposed to go, Beck thought.

They’d told him, step by step, what the exchange would look like. Prison. Plane. Meeting spot. Drop. Notably, not one of those steps had involved driving over the tarmac in an SUV. He had a strong feeling that once he climbed into the backseat, his fate was going to take him in a very different direction than he’d hoped. Not in a good way, either.

Briefly, he debated fighting the situation for real. He could start with flinging his chained arms around Allan’s neck. Then move onto taking the man hostage until he freed Beck. Finally, he could end with zipping away in the SUV on his own terms.

“Now or . . . well, just now, Samson,” said Allan.

Beck tossed him a glare. He wanted to opt for the crazy escape attempt—he really did—but people were counting on him. He’d given them his word. He needed to keep toeing the line until he’d kept it. With a grimace, he ducked his head, folded his tall frame into the backseat, and waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Or at least nothing extraordinary. The two guards climbed into the front seats. A tinted glass shield rose up between them and Beck. The engine came to life, and the vehicle rolled to a start.

If it’s all so banal, then why do I still feel like something’s off? he wondered.

On high alert, Beck kept his eyes on the passing scenery. Not that there was much to see. Just stretches of mostly dark airport, slowly gliding by. The only thing he did note was that they seemed to be getting farther and farther away from the main terminal, which triggered more unease.

At last, though, the SUV took a turn and coasted to a stop on the edge of a much smaller tarmac. There, Beck’s two guards got out, leaving him alone in the vehicle. He didn’t care. Maybe it was even a bit of a relief. It gave him some time to study his new surroundings through the window. The first thing he spied was a small plane. Quite small. The hull was still emblazoned with a commercial logo, but it certainly didn’t come close to being the 747 he’d been told they were taking. His gut churned.

He dragged his attention from the plane to the people around it. Shrouded in the pre-dawn shadows, they moved around the exterior of the aircraft, some appearing to be loading luggage, some performing tasks Beck couldn’t distinguish. He was about to lean back into his seat again when a solitary figure caught and held his eye.

She—definitely a ‘she’—hurried across the tarmac. Her motions seemed urgent, but she still stopped halfway to the plane and stood there, looking like she wasn’t quite sure what to do. As she did, the light from one of the luggage carts gave Beck a much better view of her features. And for a moment he forgot his concerns over what was going on. He also took back what he’d thought about the painted roses being the brightest, prettiest thing he’d seen in God knew how long. That award most definitely went to the woman standing in the middle of the tarmac with her hands on her hips and her auburn hair whipping around her face.

Ignoring the way the air bit at her skin and sent her hair flying into her face, Joelle frowned at the plane. Ordinarily, she might’ve been annoyed that she’d been left out in the cold. She hated being cold. And she was already irritated by the fact that being forced to sign the waiver had separated her from O’Toole and the others. Add the chill to that, and it . . .