by L. T. Ryan
A sweet smell rode the air and was pulled in through the cracked windows. Mandy wasn't sure what it was, and Kat hadn't answered when she asked. The aroma made her mouth water, though, and since she had missed dinner, cod liver oil might have had the same effect.
"You still haven't told me where we're going," Mandy said.
"And I'm not going to until we get there."
"Why?"
"Because."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you will get."
"Whatever." She turned toward the side window, squinting in an attempt to cut through the dark. Lights the size of pinheads dotted the landscape. She wondered how far away they were, and if one of them might be their destination. She imagined family sitting down to a late dinner, or in front of their televisions, huddled up watching their favorite shows. Football, maybe. No, they were in Europe. Soccer would be on. She wished it were her. Didn't matter if she and Bear were watching table tennis. She craved the security of his presence.
A bright light reflected off the side mirror, hitting her directly in the eye. Pain knifed through her unprepared retina. She blinked hard, saw red through her closed eyelids. The driver pressed his high-pitched horn repeatedly, ten times at short durations, finally holding it in place.
Mandy heard her heart pounding in her ears like swirling water, and at once it became difficult to breathe. She looked to Kat for reassurance, but the woman glanced hastily between the road and the rear-view mirror, her mouth open, breathing hard.
"Are you going to stop?" Mandy said, both hoping the woman would and wouldn't.
"Not here," Kat said. "Too remote. Might not be another car by in ten or fifteen minutes. There's a town close by, maybe five kilometers. I can get us there."
The vehicle lurched forward. Mandy stared at the speedometer's climbing needle as it exceeded one hundred fifty kilometers per hour. She clutched the armrest mounted to the door. Her fingernails dug into the leather upholstery. Ahead, the cone of light the halogen bulbs produced only lit up a small portion of the road. Mandy worried as much about what lay ahead as she did over the vehicle behind them. Glancing in the side mirror, she saw it had fallen back a ways, but continued to honk and flash hi-beams at them.
"Shit," Kat said as they approached a curve.
Then everything happened in slow motion. The car began to slide counterclockwise. Perpendicular to the road, the headlights washed over the jagged face of the mountain, cut through to make room for the passage. Mandy glanced right. Barely visible was the guardrail. It didn't look sturdy enough to stop a vehicle traveling at such a high speed. The vehicle hit the rail. Grating and crunching and scratching filled the cabin. The noise was deafening. The car stopped spinning and rode the rail until reaching the curve. The sounds rose and became high pitched. Tension. The metal was close to snapping. The vehicle about to tear apart. Something had to give.
And it did.
The car peeled away from the guardrail and began spinning the other way. The sudden movement jerked Mandy toward Kat at first. Then she whipped back the other way. Her head collided with the glass. It might have shattered. Perhaps that was her skull. It was impossible to tell.
The impact rendered her unconscious.
Chapter 33
Lisbon Portela Airport, Portugal.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, if I can have your attention for a moment." The speaker above Sasha and Mason hissed with static while the pilot gave his passengers a moment to silence.
What would it be now? Every half hour they were informed that it would only be another thirty minutes. After the fifth announcement, Mason attempted to locate a private plane, but no one could get them to Tenerife today. Even if their commercial airliner left now, it would be close to ten at night by the time they arrived. A private flight would take even longer. It might not even matter. It's possible Sasha's paranoia had gotten the better of her. Mason shifted in his seat and leaned into the aisle. He'd come along, she thought. And he wouldn't have if her warnings hadn't set off bells for him, too. He glanced over and smiled, grimly. It did little to hide the concern. They both felt it. Shared it. The longer they sat, the smaller Erin and Mia's chances at surviving their getaway.
A burst of static signaled the pilot was ready to speak again.
"We've just been informed that our flight is canceled due to mechanical problems. There will be staff waiting after you exit the airplane. They'll be able to help you with hotel accommodations for the evening, and get you onto another flight within twenty four hours."
"A full day?" Sasha said, leaning toward Mason.
She wasn't the only one. The entire cabin filled with soft exclamations.
"We'll be there no later than noon tomorrow," he said. "I've got a friend in Huelva, Spain. My last resort, I suppose. He has his own plane. Let's get a car and head there. By the time we arrive, he'll have it prepped and ready for flight."
She could only imagine the plane they'd fly in, or the condition of Mason's friend. But it was obvious that Mason had made up his mind about this. He'd trusted her enough to come along. It was time she trusted him.
She glanced at his phone. "You going to call first?"
"After we're on the road."
"You're so sure he's going to help?"
"Not a doubt in my mind."
Short of commanding Mason to call the guy, Sasha couldn't think of any way to convince him to do so before they rented a car. They would be among the first off the plane, allowing them to make arrangements before anyone else. If this guy didn't come through, and they bypassed the airlines assistance, it could be three days before they secured a flight to Tenerife with the airline.
"Who is this friend of yours?" she asked.
"Old friend."
"Ok," she said. "Old friend of yours."
"Just a friend."
By this point, she'd grown beyond curious. Why the need for secrecy? She was along for the ride no matter what.
"Got a name?" she asked.
Mason rose, glanced down at her, shrugged, then looked away. "You don't want to know."
There was something about the look on his face, the way his skin had a tinge of crimson to it, that concerned her.
"Why don't I want to know?"
Mason glanced down, shrugged, then reached up and pulled a bag down from the overhead.
"Mason," she said.
He walked down the aisle, squeezing past a couple grabbing their carry-ons.
Sasha rose and followed him. She caught up before they reached the door.
"Who is it?" she said, her hand wrapped around his forearm.
He sighed, shook his head, and said, "Gerry."
"Gerry," she repeated. "Gerald Harrington?"
Glancing away, he nodded and said nothing.
"Shit."
"Right," he said, breaking free of her grasp and reaching for her wrist. "Now come on. We've got to get moving."
Chapter 34
Tenerife.
BRETT HAD SPENT a total of two hours away from the hotel. Not ideal, considering a second player might be involved. Was the man someone to be concerned about? Probably not. But Brett hadn't survived as long as he had by assuming the good in people. This was a case where he had to err on the side of presuming the man to look the part, but nothing more. If it turned out otherwise, so be it. He still had not heard from Ballard regarding the issue. Whether that was to be construed as a positive or negative development was up for debate.
Since returning, he'd remained in the area of the plaza. Tourists flocked to the spot, gathering near the restaurants and bars, drinks in hand, talking up friends and strangers alike. The groups afforded Brett some anonymity at a distance. The open area also provided him with an unobstructed view of the hotel. Dozens of people had entered and exited, but he had yet to see Erin or Mia or the younger woman accompanying them.
He gazed past the center of the plaza. It grew livelier as the sun set and flaming torches and artificial lights took over
its duties. The crowds migrated and thickened in front of a jazz ensemble at the western end. The smoke from the grills of five different restaurants dissipated into the air, leaving the smell of steak and seafood in its wake. Brett's stomach ached in response. He stifled the sensation as best he could.
Brett decided to return to the hotel's lobby. He stuck to the shadows as he crossed the plaza. The smoky tones of a saxophone rose and fell. All gazes were directed toward the bronzed woman singing a Jobim tune. She hit each note perfectly. It would have been easy to get lost in a drink and her voice.
During the short trek, Brett thought through his plan one more time. The simplicity was what made it foolproof. He knew Jack Noble. Knew things about the man's past. He knew the woman's connection to Jack, about their daughter, something that not many others were aware of. Erin might have doubt, but ultimately, she would trust him. Mostly because she would have no choice.
Jack would be unreachable.
Brett rehearsed the lines to himself: Jack sent me. You're in danger. There's a team coming to the island, and at least one is here now, watching you. They're either going to abduct you, or kill you. Come with me. I can get you off the island and we'll rendezvous with Jack in a day's time.
After a few failed attempts at reaching Noble, Erin would agree to go willingly. It turned out the man he spotted in the lobby worked to Brett's benefit. Brett would be more convincing because of the guy. So long as the man had not acted yet. In fact, it would work to Brett's favor if he could catch the other guy in the act. Just not too far into it.
That was a jagged road, laced with traps. Get the women, he told himself. Don't wait.
Brett continued toward the hotel, scanning the crowd, going unnoticed.
Mostly.
"There you are." Female. American. Southern drawl. The girl from the elevator. They'd made it easy on him. They'd found him.
Brett prepped himself to give his emergency speech. He would have to tone it down amid the crowd. Perhaps after a few lines they'd seek a quieter spot around the side of the hotel. That'd be better as they were currently close enough that the guy in the lobby could see them. If he was still there, of course. Chances were when the women had left, so had he. Brett turned, ready to face two women and little girl and at the same time locate the other man.
But instead of a trio, only the one woman stood there.
"You know," she said, "I thought you were going to wait around in the hallway to see if I'd come back out."
Her eyes glistened, her smile broadened, and in the faint light, her cheeks looked red. The smell of alcohol washed past as she approached. He thought back to the encounter earlier that day and considered whether he had shown interest in the young woman. Surely the few words he had spoken couldn't be construed as a come on? She was attractive, so it wasn't entirely out of the question that his gaze had lingered too long. But the purpose of his being on the island precluded any encounter with her, which should have prevented him from giving any indication that he might be interested in her.
He shrugged and said, "Sorry. I did wait around for a few seconds at the end of the hall."
She continued smiling and stepped even closer. "Can you show me where?"
Brett glanced behind her, looking for Erin and Mia. "Where are your mates?"
"They went out for ice cream."
"Are they coming back here?"
She nodded, her face inches from his. "But we are in separate rooms."
"Do you normally come onto strangers like this?"
The breeze lifter her hair off her shoulders as she shook her head. He smelled the sand, salt water, perfume and rum that soaked her skin and hair.
"It must be the unadulterated ocean air," she said.
Brett had hoped that the woman wouldn't be around when it came time to escort Erin and Mia off the island. And here she was, practically begging him to take her out of the picture. He stepped back. Smiled. Turned. Gestured toward the door.
"After you."
Chapter 35
Unknown Location.
"MANDY!"
THE VOICE sounded distant. Sort of familiar. Yet unknown. The heavy accent, what was that?
"Please, I can't reach you. Are you OK?"
Why wouldn't I be?
She went to answer, but couldn't. She went to stand, but her feet were above her head. One, in fact, touched her head. She opened her eyes. Fluid, thick and dark, flooded them, burning. She opened her mouth to cry out, but nothing happened.
"I see your fingers moving," the woman said. "We'll get help, sweetie. Just stay as still as you can."
Still? Why?
The pressure she felt increased after a few attempts at moving. Where was she? What was that weight she felt, and what caused the pressure? She managed to get one hand to her face, then let her body relax. The blood swept to the side. She opened her eyes. They stung, but not as bad. It was dark, but after a few moments, the girl realized she was inverted, twisted at the waist, her shoulders pinned to the floor. She wanted to scream out and ask where the hell she was.
The woman with the accent began breathing so heavily she was panting. Then whimpering. She let out a strange squeal, then spoke to herself, then to the girl.
"Don't move. Okay? I'm going to cover you with these scarves. Stay still until we're gone. Understand?"
The girl tried to respond. Couldn't.
"Wiggle your fingers if you do," the woman said.
The girl complied. A moment later, she felt something soft and light and silky draped over her hands and legs.
"Don't move," the woman said again. "Not for a few minutes."
Metal crunched. The sounds of crickets and cicadas roared in the girl's ears. The woman screamed, to which a man laughed. He called her a bitch. He told her to come easy, or die right here and now. The girl's heart pounded against her ribs like a wild horse trying to break down a gate. The woman agreed. She cried out in agony saying her leg felt broken. The man laughed again and said if he carried her, she was going over the cliff.
The cliff, the girl thought. She remembered the cliff, and the guardrail. The car hitting the metal barrier.
The engine choked. The muffler ticked. The crickets and cicadas grew louder. A vehicle approached, its small engine whining. Everything brightened and the girl saw the direness of her predicament. Please, she thought, don't let the car be on fire. She sniffed the air, checking for smoke or the odor of gasoline. She thought she might have smelled it, but wasn't sure. The other car passed and things grew quiet.
Except for the crickets and cicadas.
Their songs were deafening.
Chapter 36
Ithaca, New York.
"WHAT THE HELL'S going on, Frank?" Jack looked through the rear window at the other sedan performing a three-point term. "Who the hell was that?"
Frank stared straight ahead. Said nothing. The other sedan drove away in the opposite direction. Turning toward the front, Jack leaned forward and placed his hand on Frank's shoulder. He clutched the pistol in his other hand and let it point toward the floor.
"Answer me."
Frank glanced at the guy driving. Stared for a moment. Then looked over his shoulder at Jack. "You've been targeted, Jack."
No explanation was needed. For several years, Jack had been the guy they'd call when someone else had been targeted. The why of it, however, escaped Jack. So had Charles's involvement. And Frank's.
Jack said, "You're gonna have to tell me a bit more than that."
Frank said, "I will. Let's get out of here first."
"Approaching the highway," the driver said.
Jack couldn't recall ever seeing the driver before today. Jack's visits to SIS had grown fewer as the years passed, so it was possible the man was one of Frank's agents, and that Jack hadn't run into him yet. Presumably, the guy didn't know all the details. Frank and Jack went back far enough that Frank shouldn't care where they were. He held back because of the driver.
They drove north for fo
rty minutes, then east, eventually reaching a road that ran alongside Lake Ontario. After a short silent stretch, they turned onto a narrow lane, guarded by two looming relics of the War of 1812. Finally, they parked in a lot overlooking the lake. The wind swept toward them, sending whitecaps toward the shore.
Frank opened his door, stepped out, and then opened Jack's.
"Walk with me," he said.
Jack joined him. The two men headed toward the lake. The breeze coming off the water neutralized the brunt of the heat, though it remained considerably warmer than inside the car. In the distance, boats streamed by, their wakes blending in with the churning surface.
At the shore, they turned left, away from a family gathered and playing at the water's edge. Fifty yards later, Frank stopped. Jack continued on a few more steps, stopped, turned.
"Let me see your phone," Frank said.
"Are you kidding me?" Jack said.
Frank shook his head while extending his hand. "I tracked you through it. Need to make sure no one else can."
Jack balked. Frank didn't fall for it.
"I'm not saying anything until you pony up with the phone."
The pistol resting against his back nearly provoked Jack enough to draw it. He could have it out and aimed before Frank could move. But where was the driver? The man could be positioned just out of sight, a rifle aimed at Jack's head. One wrong move, or a signal from Frank, and the driver would fire a shot that'd pierce Jack through the heart, and they'd leave him on the shore.
Frank offered both hands. Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone and tossed it to Frank. The man studied it for a moment, turning it over, pressing a button, waking it. He looked over the screen. Then he powered it off and flung it over the lake. It skipped twice along the surface before plowing into a foot high wave and sinking from sight.
"Son of a bitch," Jack said.
"Sorry," Frank said. "But like I said, I tracked you with it. No doubt someone else might do the same thing next time you make a call."