Losing Sarah (A Sarah Roberts Thriller Book 16)

by Jonas Saul

  Instead, she turned her attention to Jane, now even more invested in the story. Vivian could piss her off, not tell her everything, get her beat up and hooked on drugs, but one thing Vivian would never do was lie to her. That meant Jane’s story was true. Getting to Jane’s house had been a tough road. Wouldn’t hurt to find out more about Jane.

  “How is that possible?” Sarah asked. “How could they never get caught when your family knew them?”

  Jane looked down at her feet, then slid them under the chair. Sarah had almost forgotten the man by the door.

  “It was a different time in India.”

  The door clicked. Lanky was back. He held a tray with a French press and two coffee cups on it, cream and sugar. Jane waited until Lanky poured coffee into both cups, then retreated to the door.

  “That will be all,” Jane said without looking up.

  The men by the door quietly exited the room.

  “That puts you in a risky position,” Sarah said. “Us, alone.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Jane mixed cream and sugar into her cup, brought it to her mouth and sipped. After a deep swallow, she said, “I read a lot about you while you were here sleeping. You’re a kind soul. One not taken to violence unless provoked. Now, cream? Sugar?”

  “I drink it black. I never dilute my coffee or my whiskey.” Without missing a beat, she said, “I’d consider holding me prisoner against my will in this large panic room as a provocation.”

  “In case you do, you would not escape this fortress. I have fifteen men roaming the premises, watching, guarding, two of which are right outside that door. Any attack on me would prove fruitless.”

  “Not entirely fruitless.” Sarah couldn’t resist the coffee any longer. They drank from the same French Press. The chances her coffee was drugged were slim.

  “How so?”

  “I’d garner a certain level of satisfaction from it.” She sipped, burned her lip, then swallowed. “But we’re getting off topic. Please continue with your story.”

  Jane nodded slightly. “I was very young. Memories at that age, with the trauma, are hard to formulate. Things are clearer when I was seven years old. Then again when I was ten. I remember one summer using the toilet.” She drank from her cup. “I should stop and tell you that our village didn’t have running water. We used the stream to clean our clothes and bathe in. The toilet was a rough hole in the ground with a wooden seat built over top of it. My father would move the wooden seat weekly, burying our waste as he went.”

  Sarah looked around the room. “You made good with your life coming from that.”

  “It wasn’t all me. But I’ll get to that.”

  Sarah set her cup down to let the coffee cool.

  “When I was ten, after helping my mother with the clothes and chopping vegetables for dinner, I walked alone to the wooden box. I was taken away by four men who gang raped me until the next day when they left me to die a mile from my house. My dad found me, cleaned me up in the river—I still remember the sting of my wounds when the water touched me—and brought me home. He told my mother that I had tried to run away and had to teach me a lesson. That explained my injuries. She beat me for it, too.”

  To Sarah’s surprise, Jane didn’t shed a tear. It was like something had closed over this woman’s heart and sank it to depths where she couldn’t feel anymore, like the maelstrom that took down Captain Nemo’s submarine.

  “I’m sorry,” is all Sarah could think of saying in response. She picked up her coffee cup and sipped from it to do something. The air in the room had changed. She was a good listener when she needed to be, but she wasn’t good at hearing these kinds of revelations.

  “I’ve stayed on top of the statistics in India,” Jane said as she got up from the chair. She set her cup down, rubbed her hands together as if they were cold, and walked to the window where she parted the curtains and stared outside just as Sarah had earlier. “Rape is the fourth most common crime against women in India.” She swiveled to face Sarah. “Nearly twenty-five thousand rapes are reported annually. Ninety-eight percent are known to the victim, but do you want to know the worst part?”

  Sarah swallowed audibly. “Not really. But go ahead.”

  “Reported rapes, you know, the ones we hear about, stand at an alarming one percent of the total number of rapes in that country. That means that out of every one hundred rapes, only one is reported to the police. And do you want to know why?”

  “No. But I feel sick now.” Sarah held her stomach.

  “When a victim comes forward, it is widely known that the police in India mistreat the victims and humiliate them. Sometimes it’s as simple as a caste system.”

  “Can you explain how that relates?”

  “Family status. For instance, here’s a true story. Two girls from the Dalit caste, another word for Untouchables, were raped and hung from trees. Initial evidence pointed to the rape and murder of these two girls. But the perpetrators and the police belong to the Yadav community, supposedly a higher class. Guess what happened in that case?”

  “I have no idea. The perps were arrested and charged with murder among other things?”

  “There were arrests all right, but without breaking the case down, no charges have ever seen the inside of a court room and the case was eventually overturned and deemed a suicide. It’s a complete cover-up by the CBI because of the caste system.”

  “What’s the CBI?”

  “Central Bureau of Investigation in India.”

  “How is it possible that they can get away with this?”

  Jane turned back to the window and placed her hands, open-palmed on the pane. “Things are changing, but slowly. Protests still happen. But it’s not only an Indian problem. I read that the U.N. studied countries around the world. Only eleven percent of all rapes are ever reported globally. That’s disgusting to me.”

  Sarah dropped her eyes. Half her coffee was gone already. She’d been held so rapt by Jane’s story that she didn’t notice how much she’d drank. She set the cup down and addressed Jane.

  “What has this got to do with me? Why am I here?”

  Jane stepped away from the window and stood in front of Sarah.

  “I’m buying a device from a friend in Bulgaria, something called a Dirty Bomb. We are meeting in Las Vegas to do the deal in—” she looked at her watch— “fifteen hours. There’s a conference in Las Vegas for international lawmakers soon after the deal that will have a large Indian presence. I want you to help me buy that device so I can plant it at the conference in the Sands Expo at The Venetian and send as many Indian men to hell as I can.” She breathed in deep, then loudly blew the breath out. “How about it, Sarah the Vigilante? Will you help me buy a bomb and kill a bunch of Indian rapists? My personal helicopter is outside waiting to ferry us to my private jet at the airport.”

  Sarah got to her feet and moved close to Jane. Their noses almost touched.

  “I will do it,” Sarah said, her tone filled with conviction. She could still hear Vivian’s words telling her to help Jane. “You have my word. I will help you buy the bomb.” An idea occurred to her. “But on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You bring Blair with us to Vegas.”

  “Fine. Blair comes.”

  They shook hands.

  Chapter 43

  A medic saw to Parkman’s wound, cleaned and redressed it. Parkman met back with Whitman where they were supposed to take a two-hour nap after Casper built a profile on Aaron.

  He watched Whitman and Casper in a small room, sitting across from each other at a metal table where Casper recorded everything Whitman told him about the attack. Whitman was a wealth of knowledge regarding Aaron’s hotel, Parkman’s hotel, and what happened in between. Parkman broke in to the conversation to add as much as he could on his visit to the Mexican police station and what he knew of Aaron and where he thought the man might be at the moment.

  Casper told them he’d found out Sarah was released into
the care of a rich woman named Jane Turner. He had men assigned to find out everything they could on Turner and why would she vouch for Sarah. He assured them that he would do everything he could to get Aaron back safe and got up to leave the room to further direct the operation on the ground.

  “Wait,” Parkman said. “What about Sarah? Why can’t we just drive to the Turner house and pick her up?”

  “We’re working on it. Short of a military operation on foreign soil, we can’t do a thing. The woman has a veritable army surrounding her house. If Sarah’s inside, it’s not due to her own free will, but we don’t have the same legal channels down here that we enjoy north of the border.” Casper held the door open, swinging it back and forth as he talked. “Even if we did, we’re unwelcome here. No one’s talking to us and we need to maintain a low profile. Until something cracks with Sarah, I’m afraid there’s not much I can do right now.”

  “There’s your reason, then.”

  Casper stepped back into a room. “My reason?”

  “Why Aaron went AWOL. He saw this coming and is hunting Sarah his way.”

  “You may be right. But his way will get him killed. There are a lot of police officers in Mexico and each and every one is looking for him. His odds of success are extremely low.”

  “Aaron doesn’t bank on odds. He banks on himself.”

  Casper pulled the door open and stepped into the corridor. “That catches up with you eventually,” he said over his shoulder. Before the door closed, he added, “And it fucking hurts.” The door closed.

  Parkman glanced at Whitman. “What now?” he asked. “What are you going to do?”

  “Sleep. We’re no good to anyone burnt out.”

  “Agreed.” Parkman moved for the door. “I want to be up in two hours. I want caffeine, chocolate and cake. Something to juice me up. Then we find Aaron and Sarah and leave Mexico.” He stepped into the corridor with Whitman following. “Agreed?”

  “Absolutely. Find them and leave. Top on my agenda as well.”

  They moved away from each other, headed to their bunks as detailed by embassy staff when they arrived.

  Parkman rolled the green blanket aside, lay down onto the bed’s thin mattress and winced at the sharp pain in his arm when he put weight on it.

  Pain seemed to be more intense with age. He wondered how Sarah dealt with it. Toothpicks would help. What embassy didn’t have toothpicks in the mess hall or the receiving area? He would’ve sent someone to a local grocery store, but they were in lockdown mode.

  Just my luck.

  He was asleep before his head was on the pillow for a full minute.

  Chapter 44

  Whitman entered his small room where a bed waited. He sat on it and tried to decide on a tactic. He wasn’t American. He held a Canadian passport. Yet he was in an American Embassy on lockdown. Normally that would please him. But he didn’t want to be on lockdown. He wanted to be out there, looking for Sarah and Aaron.

  He still had his cell phone on him. Since it was on vibrate, no one heard the phone when Spencer texted him that he was in Rosarito at a casino waiting for Whitman.

  But how could he leave the embassy on lockdown? He thought back to other times in his life when he needed to leave a building without being stopped. Like the apartment building in Toronto where he discovered a dead body. He had left his fingerprints all over the crime scene, then found the body. The police were already knocking at the door. Yet he escaped and managed to stay alive when every cop in Toronto was looking for him. He did it once; he could do it again.

  Although, that was Canadian police. Americans might be more apt to see through his ruse. Whether they were better trained or not, he felt the risk level needed to be elevated when dealing with the Americans.

  “Fuck it,” he whispered and got up off the bed.

  Out in the corridor, he headed toward the rear of the building. When they landed in the helicopter, he was able to see where the embassy was in relation to where he wanted to go. Leaving through the back, where the vehicle came and went, was his answer.

  He made it up to the street level without seeing anyone, but was stopped by a guard standing at his post near the rear door.

  “Where’s the toilet?” Whitman asked the guard.

  “Back downstairs,” the guard said. “By the room Agent Schaffer has put you in.”

  Whitman nodded. Everyone knew him here. He was Schaffer’s guest. He turned back and headed down one flight of stairs and stopped when he was unobserved.

  Everyone knew him here, and soon enough, all of the Mexican police would have his description as well. It wouldn’t take long to travel along the road from the four dead cops to the motel where Whitman’s car rental was still parked and where a loud helicopter dropped in at sunrise to pick up three men. The police would trace the car to the rental agency and ultimately get his name. That would lead them Toronto, the special investigations unit, and ultimately, Spencer, who was just now wandering around the Rosarito Casino and Hotel looking for him. It was a stretch, but within an hour or so, Whitman believed the Mexican police would pick up Spencer and after questioning, he would never be heard from again.

  A simple text to Spencer wouldn’t work.

  Whitman pressed his back against the wall of the corridor. And what about Sarah? The authorities knew where she was. They know the woman who has her. It’s only a matter of time before they raid that woman’s home in order to take Sarah out.

  Without action on Whitman’s part, the Mexican authorities would get their man, or woman in this case.

  He had to stop it.

  Whitman grabbed the fire alarm, held it while he said a short prayer, then pulled the alarm.

  As the blaring sound resonated throughout the American Embassy, Whitman ran for the back exit.

  If there was a chance he could steal a car, he would. One with diplomatic plates would work well.

  If not, he would venture out on foot. Either way, he’d get Spencer and together they would find Aaron and Sarah and leave Mexico.

  He just hoped he wouldn’t fuck this up and leave Mexico in a body bag.

  Chapter 45

  FBI Special Agent Stacy King slept on the plane while her partner, Special Agent Mary Fitzgerald didn’t. The car that came to McCarran Airport in Las Vegas to pick them up wasn’t exactly a car as much as it was a decked-out, black, bulletproof Suburban. Even the driver had the trademark FBI sunglasses.

  King slapped her partner’s arm. “Mary, wake up.”

  Fitzgerald stirred beside her. “Huh?”

  “Wake up. We’re almost here.”

  Fitzgerald blinked in the Nevada sun. “Where’s here?”

  “FBI office. Vegas. You want to tell me why we’re here?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “We’re here because we’re being reassigned is why. We fumbled the case. Sarah Roberts got involved. After all Sarah’s done for the Bureau over the years, they’ve handed our files over to her.”

  Fitzgerald wiped her eyes. “Your sarcasm won’t win you any favors where we’re going. There are certain agents that applaud Sarah’s work.”

  “Yeah, sure. Applaud the woman. I actually like what’s she’s done, too. But don’t fuck with a case we’re in the middle of and then get us pulled from it.”

  The SUV slowed for a traffic light, then turned into the FBI building’s parking lot.

  “I just hope our reassignment isn’t brutal. I’d like to avoid being sent to Alaska or some shit.”

  Fitzgerald was waking up fast as the SUV came to a stop. “You really think they’d fly us to Vegas to reassign us? What about the Hoover building? Why Vegas?” Fitzgerald opened her door and hopped out. “Let’s hear the Special Agent in Charge out. See where it goes.”

  King shrugged. “Whatever.”

  They were escorted through the main building, signed in and were taken upstairs to the agent in charge’s office.

  Samantha Puig, the SAC for Las Vegas, didn’t make them wait long. S
he ushered them into her office and after the required amount of handshaking and greetings, Puig offered them a beverage and sat behind her desk.

  “I’ve ordered you here for a few reasons.”

  Here we go, King thought to herself. The punchline of my career.

  “We have reason to believe there’s a device in Las Vegas. We haven’t been able to find it. This device is for sale and it can cause considerable damage in the wrong hands.”