Page 26 of Wild Sentinel

"Will do," I said before ending the call.

I grabbed the ice bucket and made a few trips to the machine. I popped some ibuprofen and iced my neck and sore spots, trying to get ahead of it.

Needless to say, our current situation made for a long, sleepless night. We both slept with one eye open.

Isabella called me back around 4:00 AM. She said she had a pilot en route who would be there around 6:00 AM. That was fine by me. I was ready to get the hell out of Stillwater.

I pulled myself out of bed, feeling stiff and sore. I took a quick shower, then gathered my things. Once JD was ready, we walked across to the Waffle Wizard and grabbed breakfast. At this hour, the crowd was thin. A few late-night drunkards who hadn’t been to bed yet. Several long-haul truckers with weathered faces, guzzling coffee. A couple of tourists out to get an early start. We kept our heads on swivels, not letting our guard down. If we kept connecting the dots, someone would keep shooting at us. That was certain.

We feasted on blueberry pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon, and fueled up on French roasted coffee.

After we stuffed our faces, I called for a rideshare.

A young guy in a silver sedan showed up 15 minutes later.

JD and I grabbed our bags and kept a watchful eye as we hustled out to the silver sedan. We hopped in back after stuffing our bags in the trunk.

The driver had dark hair and sleepy eyes. He looked tired, like he’d been driving all night. Or maybe he just wasn’t a morning person.

He took us to the airport and dropped us off. There was no one around, and I mean no one. We waited in the terminal for our plane to arrive. They had free Wi-Fi and a restroom. The place was open 24/7, but only staffed during normal hours. This was the kind of place that offered self-pump jet fuel. They didn’t have full FBO services.

The G-750 arrived right on time. The tires barked when it landed.

JD and I made our way out to the tarmac as the plane taxied around. The crew opened the clamshell door. We climbed the steps and boarded the plane.

We greeted the pilot, co-pilot, and cabin attendant.

JD and I stowed our gear, took our seats, and buckled up for the flight.

This was a tricky airport. With a high elevation atop a plateau, it was perched in a precarious position between two canyons. At liftoff, you would have to make a rapid ascent to avoid the mountains ahead. Then you'd have to veer right to avoid restricted airspace.

It wasn’t long before the plane rocketed down the runway. The pilot nosed up, and we ascended into the sky. The landing gear retracted with a clunk. We cleared the mountains, and I leaned back in my seat. In less than 2 hours, we’d be in Los Angeles.

Isabella had given me contact information for Brooke Larson's mother, who lived in Marina Del Ray. I did a little research on the flight.

Brooke was a gorgeous blonde with flowing hair that kissed her shoulders. Her classic features, blue eyes, and sun-kissed skin could hypnotize. There were more than a few pictures of her in a skimpy bikini on her social media profile. There hadn’t been any recent updates.

Beauty and brains, Brooke Larson had it all. Until she disappeared, just like Michelle Morgan.

16

We touched down at the FBO in Burbank. It was a lot easier to get in and out of. LAX could be a nightmare, especially with traffic. With the time change, it was almost 6:00 AM. Check-in at the hotel wasn’t until 4:00 PM.

As usual, Isabella had arranged for transportation. Another town car picked us up and drove us over the hill into Hollywood. We headed west on Sunset Boulevard.

We passed billboards for the latest blockbuster, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the Chinese Theater, and the nightclubs. The faces of movie stars were on the sides of buses and painted on the sides of buildings. Anywhere an advertisement could be placed, there was one.

The driver took us up a winding canyon road in the hills to Scarlett’s house. He pulled up the short drive to the gate and buzzed the callbox.

A man’s voice crackled through the speaker a moment later. “Can I help you?”

“I’ve got Jack Donovan and Tyler Wild for Scarlett.”

“Tyson,” I corrected.

The guard buzzed us through, and we drove up to the main entrance. The driver parked, hopped out, and grabbed our bags from the trunk. A muscular, bald guy in a grey suit and sunglasses waited at the front door—Scarlett’s security. He greeted us with a smile and a handshake. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Donovan. I’m Vincent.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jack said, then introduced me.