Rio and Dylan were the only passengers aboard the sleek Gulfstream twin engine. The jet and its human pilots were on round-the-clock retainer for the Order, although as far as the two flyboys knew, they pocketed their sizable cash salaries on behalf of a very private, very wealthy corporation that demanded—and received—complete loyalty and discretion. They were paid extremely well to not so much as lift an eyebrow when Rio had carried a dead-to-the-world, psychically tranced woman into the aircraft in Berlin, nor when he took her off the jet in the same condition some nine hours later in Boston. With Dylan resting soundly in his arms, her backpack and messenger bag slung over his shoulder, Rio headed down the brief flight of steps to the concrete below. As he crossed the short distance to the Range Rover idling in the hangar, Dante got out of the driver’s side, jacking one elbow up on the open door. He was dressed in night patrol gear—long-sleeved tee-shirt, fatigues, and combat boots—all of it as black as his thick, shoulder-length hair.
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