“A professional hit?”
“That’s what the FBI thinks,” William replied. “The woman was a medical professional.”
“Connections to Erica?”
“The FBI doesn’t know about Erica, so until I get a name of the victim, I can’t run a background check to find out.”
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Lauren asked. “You have that look.”
“I had a long conversation with Buck this morning. He passed on that at Donovan’s insistence he made some inquiries, and it’s been discovered that the phones at Eco-Watch headquarters are being monitored.”
“Oh, perfect. Any idea by whom?” Lauren asked.
“According to Buck, the phone tap is a professional job, domestic, and not all that high tech, something you’d see from any mid-level private investigative service.”
“How long has someone been listening?”
“Buck didn’t know.”
“Maybe that’s the link I haven’t been able to figure out. I’ve been trying to understand who tried to kill Donovan and Erica here in Orange County. In fact, I can’t understand who knew Erica was even alive, aside from myself and the CIA.”
“Donovan didn’t think it was Garrick.”
“And I believe him—Garrick wants Donovan to suffer, not die. Help me break this down. If the gunmen Donovan encountered here in California weren’t part of Garrick’s little nightmare, then who were they? CIA?”
“Doubtful.”
“I agree. Erica made contact with Eco-Watch, so her incoming number would have been logged, if the phones are bugged it would lead back to Orange County. Erica surfaces for the first time since the massacre at the German clinic, and someone tries to kill her. I have to think the information from CIA ended up in the hands of someone who wanted her dead.”
“That sounds like Garrick,” William replied.
“For the sake of argument, let’s say Donovan is right, this wasn’t Garrick’s work. Who does that leave?”
“Mossad.”
“The people connected to the clinic where she worked.”
William’s phone rang and he swept it to his ear. “Yes, that’s fine. Let him in and tell him we’re in the kitchen.”
“Who is it? I’m not showered or dressed for company.”
“Don’t worry, it’s family.” William stood.
Lauren looked over William’s shoulder and was horrified to find the last person she expected to see, or even wanted to see. She’d run this scenario in her head a hundred times and it never turned out well.
“Hello, Lauren.”
“Hello, Michael.” Lauren stood face to face with the man she knew was her biggest detractor. He was Donovan’s best friend and the number-two man at Eco-Watch. Michael was usually relaxed and casual, more likely to smile and laugh than do what he was doing right now—which was to stare at her with no discernible emotion whatsoever. He looked like he’d lost some weight and he looked good, same blond-haired, overgrown surfer out of Southern California.
“William, could you give us a moment?” Michael said, breaking the silence.
“Of course,” William replied.
Michael gestured for Lauren to take a seat. Once she did, he sat as well. “What brings you to Laguna Beach?”
Lauren hated chitchat. She wanted to pull the pin on this grenade and see what was left afterward. “Someone tried to kill me in Paris. The three of us fled Europe and came here.”
“Three?”
“Abigail and Stephanie VanGelder, William’s niece, you remember her, but, of course, your first concern was finding out if I’m with another man. Am I right? Never mind the part where someone tried to kill me.”
“Donovan was right,” Michael said. “You don’t make anything easy, do you?”
Lauren recoiled at the words, even though she knew there was an element of truth to them. “What else does Donovan say? The two of you have had months to dissect what a bitch I am. Come on, let’s hear it.”
“I’ll be honest, at first there was a lot of anger and harsh words. You leaving was hard on everyone, not just Donovan. He was beat up, both mentally and physically. I ran Eco-Watch while he recovered. Susan and I took turns making sure he was eating, going to physical therapy, not drinking. Yeah, to be honest, I was furious.”
“Was?”
“I finally realized one day that the only one who was still angry with you—was me.” Michael lowered his head. “I hated you for leaving my friend in his hour of need, until I finally listened to what Donovan had been telling me for months. He didn’t blame you, he admitted it was his fault and the timing was his doing as well. He took full responsibility, told me he’d hurt you and that I shouldn’t be angry with you. He said that if I wanted to be mad at anyone to be mad at him for screwing everything up.”
Lauren processed what she was hearing. Nothing she hadn’t heard directly from Donovan. He’d never tried to blame her or deflect his own culpability for the implosion of their relationship.
“Is it true?” Michael asked. “Is this all his fault?”
“It takes two. I’m not blameless, but I think you should take him at his word.”
“Then I owe you an apology.”
“Thank you, Michael.” Lauren cherished this small repair in the devastation she and Donovan had wrought. “I really appreciate you coming here. I’ve missed you and Susan and the boys.”
“We’ve missed you as well. Are you here because you’re coming home?”
“No.” Lauren shook her head and watched the smile drop from Michael’s face.
“That seems a little absolute,” Michael replied. “How can you be so emphatic when you haven’t even seen him yet? Why come at all?”
Lauren absorbed the isolation of the situation, as if Donovan and his friends wanted her in their lives, but only on their terms. “I’m here because Eco-Watch is under attack. People are trying to kill my family. My entire security team was murdered in Paris. I came to the nearest safe haven I could think of, which was here with Abigail’s father. As it turns out, he’s not here, is he? And no one seems to know where he ran off to, only that he’s with another woman. So, no, I’m not coming home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
For the last hour and a half, Donovan had flown in and out of the valleys, slowly working his way toward the Strait of Georgia, staying as low as possible to avoid radar. Once over the water, he weaved through the islands that dotted the area, hoping to create nothing more than an intermittent target.
“Look!” Erica pointed off to the right and waited until Donovan spotted the threat.
The UH-60 was nearly on top of them and easily closed the gap as they banked in above and slightly behind the Cessna. Just one glimpse of the black-and-gold markings told him it was the United States Border Patrol. Dead ahead was Haro Strait, which would feed them into U.S. airspace near the San Juan Islands. A light mist had started to fall, and the ceiling was dropping along with the visibility. They’d finally caught up to the backside of the weather front they’d left behind hours ago, and the conditions were deteriorating quickly. Donovan was forced to inch closer to the water to keep his outside visual reference.
Donovan handed Erica the Irish Wake’s nautical charts. “Help me find the best way through these islands. With the weather getting worse, we might have a chance to lose them if we treat it like a maze. The more twists and turns the better. A dead end and we crash.”
“Where are we?” Erica said as she took the charts from Donovan.
“South of Spieden Island.”
She studied the nautical chart for a moment then turned to him. “Where do we want to end up?”
“There’s an airport outside Burlington, or even Arlington. All I want is to lose these guys long enough to land and get away. We need to be careful, there’s a Naval Air Station near the north end of Whidbey Island and there are Navy installations all the way down Puget Sound to Seattle. I think someone might get nervous enough to start shootin
g if we pushed it too far in that direction.”
“Okay. Just ahead is the south side of Shaw Island. Tell me what you think about this.” Erica held up the map so Donovan could see what she had in mind as she traced a zigzag course through the islands.
Donovan glanced from the ocean racing past, to the chart, and back again. Erica had devised a serpentine route through the dozens of islands that would make it difficult for the Border Patrol to stay with them. “Those places on the east side of Lopez Island—you have us going over land twice. We may not have the ceiling. If we end up in the clouds we’re finished—the running will be over.”
“Trust me.” Erica put her hand on his arm. “I’ve stood on both of these places. It’s flat, all of five feet above sea level. We’ll be fine, but the sudden terrain might cause the helicopter pilots to back off a bit.”
“Is this Shaw Island off to my left?”
“Yeah. Get ready for the first turn. Trust me. I’ll talk you through this as we go. Just do what I say. There will be a hard ninety-degree turn to the left then straight for five miles then a hard right turn.”
Donovan glanced back at the helicopter. He knew the guys flying it were good, but it was like playing football in lousy weather. The advantage goes to the player who knows the route he’s running.
“Get ready. Turn now!”
Donovan threw the Cessna into a forty-five-degree bank that forced the helicopter to climb to get out of the way. The sudden maneuver caught them by surprise, and the UH-60 lost ground.
“We can’t see it yet,” Erica said without looking up from the chart. “Canoe Island is just ahead. Pass left of it and get ready to make a right turn on my mark.”
Out of the mist, the island materialized and then just as quickly vanished into the fog behind them. Donovan was down to fifty feet. He estimated that visibility was less than half a mile.
“Twenty degrees to the right,” Erica said as she looked up from the paper chart in her hand. “We need to keep the Lopez Island shoreline in sight. You’re going to see a beach, then a point. That point is where you need to make a hard ninety-degree turn until we get past Shoal Bay. Then we’re going to make it interesting.”
Donovan loved the certainty in her voice. He could hardly see the island that rose from the water and towered above them. His airspeed was pegged at redline when the point shot past and Erica called out for him to turn.
“Perfect,” Erica said as she searched for their next landmark. Just as quickly, she called out, “Donovan! Look out!”
Donovan saw the churning water below them, a ship’s wake. He snapped the Cessna to the right a fraction of a second before the massive Washington State Ferry appeared out of the fog like a green-and-white monolith. He continued the turn to the right, and as the ferry flashed past, he could see people standing on the fantail and a wooden plaque near the bridge that read Hyak. Donovan twisted in his seat and watched as the chopper matched his move, narrowly missing the ship.
“We turned too far!” Erica yelled. “There’re trees dead ahead!”
Donovan set his jaw and cranked the Cessna in a steep turn back to the left, carefully holding his altitude so as not to put a wingtip into the waves. He guessed they’d just missed the rocks on the peninsula by a matter of feet.
“Oh, Jesus.” Erica put her hand up to her heart. “Fly a one-seventy heading. Be careful, there’s a marina out here and some houses dead ahead, but the terrain isn’t very high.”
In the gloom, Donovan saw the marina slide past, far smaller than the one in Anacortes, but it got him thinking. He saw the scattered houses ahead on the sand spit and easily dodged them as they raced south.
“Okay,” Erica said, “turn right ten degrees and be careful, there are a couple of big rocks out here. We’re going over Spencer Spit, it’s a little piece of sandy beach that juts out and almost touches that island. There’s a log cabin on the beach. Use it as a reference point.”
Donovan rolled to the new heading and marveled as the strip of land appeared off the nose, a solitary cabin made for a perfect navigation tool. To his left and right the terrain reached up into the overcast. It was like flying indoors at 175 miles per hour, navigating from room to room careful not to touch the walls, floor, or ceiling.
“We’re in Lopez Sound. Stay on this heading. We’ll come up on two big rocks, which is the point where we go left and thread ourselves through another narrow area.”
“Where is he now?” Donovan asked.
Erica turned around and scanned behind them. “He’s lost ground; he’s maybe a quarter mile back.”
“Once we leave Lopez Island, where do we go?”
“After Lopez, it’s open water all the way to Fidalgo Island and Anacortes, which is where we started. Oh, and once we’re out over Rosario Strait, heads-up, there will be major ship traffic.”
Donovan processed what Erica had just said and pulled on his memory of the area. Not only what he’d seen yesterday, but what he remembered from twenty-five years ago. “Erica, look at the map, the southern part of Fidalgo Island where it almost touches Whidbey Island. A place called Deception Pass. How far?”
“Seven miles once we leave Lopez Island behind. There’s your rock! Turn left.” Erica pointed and held on as Donovan banked the Cessna steeply.
Donovan saw trees to his left and a gap on his right. He corrected slightly to avoid a huge glass-enclosed house, and they roared above the beach and out over open water. A glance behind them confirmed the helicopter was trailing about a quarter mile. Donovan pushed for more power, but the throttle was already against the stops. The engine instruments were past redlines and he didn’t care. He only needed the engine to hold together for an-other eleven minutes and then, one way or another, all of this would be over.
“With our latex gloves, there’s nothing we need to wipe down inside this plane, is there?” Donovan asked. “The moment we’re down, we’re running. Make sure we don’t leave anything behind that can be used to identify us.”
Erica reached back and pulled up her bag as well as their duffel bag. She made sure everything was fastened and cinched. Then she loosened her seat belt, and made a thorough search for anything they’d left on the floor or under the seat of the plane. Once she was satisfied, she secured her harness.
Donovan kept the airplane just feet above the waves, as he scanned ahead. The steep cliffs and treacherous winds of Deception Pass were somewhere dead ahead in the mist. He asked to see the chart, and then he placed his finger on the spot he had in mind, explaining to Erica what he had planned. When he finished, she nodded a wide-eyed understanding before pulling her seat belt even tighter.
“Take a one-one-seven-degree heading,” Erica said. “We’ll see Deception Island first. From there it’s less than a mile to the bridge.”
“There it is,” Donovan said as the island appeared out of the mist and rain. He swung to the north, and the two separate spans of the Deception Pass Bridge emerged out of the mist.
“The gap on the left is really narrow, maybe one-hundred-fifty-feet across at water level.” Erica was focused on her chart. “The span on the right is wider, it’s four hundred feet across. Beneath is Pass Island.”
Donovan banked toward the left, toward the narrowest gap. As the rocks and the mass of steel girders towered above them, Donovan considered the fact that he only had three wingspans of space to shoot the gap.
“Is he following?” Donovan didn’t dare risk a look behind them.
“Yes.”
“Let me know the second we lose sight of him.” Donovan’s muscles tensed as they shot past a narrow bay to his left and then roared under the bridge, racing toward the eastern tip of Pass Island.
“I’ve lost him!”
Donovan immediately yanked the throttle all the way to idle to bleed off as much speed as he could for the turn. He cranked the Cessna into a steep bank to the right. Above him, five-hundred-foot cliffs kept them confined within the narrow gorge. He kept turning until the wings
were almost ninety degrees to the water. G-forces drove him down into his seat, and he added pressure to the tortured controls to keep the airplane from being pulled into the water. Pass Island seemed to hover just off the right wing, dangerously close to rocks, steel, and the icy-cold water. Donovan pivoted the Cessna in a tight, one-hundred-eighty-degree turn. He used the massive steel girders above him as a reference point. They flashed beneath the longer of the two spans and headed back the way they’d just come. Donovan slammed full power to the engine, and in an instant, they were west of the bridge. He made another turn and aimed for the narrow cove dead ahead. If his calculations were correct, the Border Patrol should just now be emerging on the east side of the bridge—searching an empty sky.
There was a narrow gap in the rocks at the end of the cove. Donovan banked to thread the Cessna through the trees, and then they shot out over Bowman Bay. He swept left to avoid a wooden pier and a pleasure boat. He had no choice but to haul back on the controls and climb away from the water, hugging the rocks on a narrow peninsula, then immediately dove back down to wave-top height on the other side. Just off the right wing, logs and kelp mixed with the house-size boulders marked the steep cliffs of Fidalgo Island. He put as much distance between them and the bridge as he could, until finally, he climbed up and over the vertical cliff and leveled off just above the trees.
Donovan kept the Cessna fifty feet above a road that would lead them into Anacortes. He couldn’t see it, but he knew that Mt. Erie towered just off the right wing and rose over a thousand feet above them.
“I don’t see them,” Erica called out as she kept searching for any sign of the helicopter. “I think we lost them.”
“It won’t take them long to figure out what we did.” Donovan held the Cessna steady.
Erica’s gaze was still glued behind them. “Nothing.”
They shot over the first subdivisions, and Donovan throttled back to slow the airplane. He saw the familiar shoreline and brought the engine all the way to idle. When he had the speed, he began to lower the flaps. Just beyond the first marina was the strip of open land where the paper mill had once been. Donovan settled in his seat, the open land he’d noticed yesterday looked far smaller than when he was standing next to it on the ground.
Deadly Echoes Page 17