Losing Sarah (A Sarah Roberts Thriller Book 16) Page 20

  Whitman rubbed his scalp where it had smacked Spencer’s.

  “We can’t leave Mexico,” Whitman said. “Not without Sarah.”

  “The fuck we can’t.” Spencer turned to glare at him with bloodshot eyes, rimmed in dark circles. “You’ve fucked a lot of people over, Whitman. Your cover is blown. You’re going to need a new name, a new life.” Spencer smacked the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

  “Wow, great to see you, too. Thanks for the welcome home.”

  “You’ve set Mexican and Canadian relations back a century, not to mention the Americans.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” Spencer shouted.

  “Don’t mention the Americans.”

  “Oh my fuck.”

  They rode in silence for a moment. Then Whitman said, “Drop me off anywhere. I’ll find Aaron and Sarah on my own.”

  “Oh, no you won’t.”

  “I’ll jump out at the next light then.” It was his turn to glare at Spencer. “You don’t seem to understand how important this is to me. I am not leaving Mexico without Aaron and Sarah.”

  “Aaron is a Canadian citizen, isn’t he?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “When he left your little motel this morning, he came to the casino, too. We picked him up before the Mexicans could get to him. If you weren’t so thick-headed, you would let me fill you in on these developments.”

  Chastised, Whitman turned in his seat and stared out the front windshield, his skull throbbing. “Go on then.”

  “We have a military flight booked for you and Aaron. You’re both going to Las Vegas in about,” he pulled his left hand off the steering wheel to glance at his watch, “forty minutes. I am trying to save your life. His too.”

  “Look, I appreciate what you’re doing to save my life. But I don’t need saving. Sarah does. So, take Aaron. Get out of Mexico, but I’m staying to find Sarah. A woman named Jane—”

  “Turner,” Spencer finished for him. “Blah, blah, blah, yeah, yeah, yeah, we know all about Jane Turner and how she bailed Sarah out of the holding cell. Well, guess what? If you want to help Sarah, then you’ll be on that plane with Aaron heading to Vegas.”

  “How is that going to help Sarah?” Whitman almost screamed.

  “Because our intel discovered that Jane Turner has a private jet booked to fly out of here in the morning. They’ve filed a flight plan that takes them to Las Vegas. It is believed that Jane is bringing Sarah to Vegas.” Spencer smacked Whitman in the arm. “You fucker. You should’ve never come down here. But now we’re in this and if you want to finish it, get on that plane to Vegas and let’s help Sarah stay alive with whatever she’s doing.”

  “How accurate is this intel?” Whitman asked.

  “Fuck off, Whitman. You think I’m feeding you a line? After all these years? Really? Fuck off, Whitman. How’s that for accurate?”

  Whitman remained silent until they got to the airport. He boarded the large Canadian Globemaster without protest. He decided that asking why such a huge Canadian military plane was in Mexico waiting to transport no more than seven people, plus the crew, would only cause Spencer to blow an artery.

  Aaron was already on board, seated and waiting for them to take off.

  They didn’t talk to each other the entire flight to Vegas.

  Spencer made himself scarce during the flight.

  Whitman surmised it was so he didn’t hit him again. When Spencer got this mad, he talked with his fists. It was something new he had started to do over the previous few years.

  As Spencer always said to him, new name, new game, or some shit like that.

  Chapter 48

  Parkman had been awakened by a fire alarm. Once the alarm was deemed false and things calmed down, he settled in again only to be woken up by Casper shaking him.

  “What?” Parkman asked. “What’s up? I’m trying to sleep here.”

  “Whitman’s gone.”

  Parkman sat up. “What? You let him go?”

  “No. The alarm was his ruse to escape. He took off.”

  Parkman was awake now. “Then he’s as good as dead.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Send someone. Do what you do best. Find him. But let me sleep. I need at least two hours.” He dropped back on the mattress and covered his eyes with his forearm.

  “You can’t sleep,” Casper said. He flicked the lights on in the room. “Wake up. Coffee’s on.”

  Parkman stayed where he was, forearm across the bridge of his nose. “And why the shit can I not sleep?”

  “Because we’re leaving Mexico.”

  “And we can’t leave in two hours?”

  “No.”

  “Oh for shit sakes.” He swung his legs off the bed and pivoted as he sat up. “Why the hell do we have to leave so soon?” He rubbed his eyes and winced when his wounded arm protested.

  “Because Sarah is on the move.”

  He stopped rubbing his eyes and met Casper’s gaze, blinking sleep away. “What?”

  Casper walked to the door and stepped into the corridor. “We understand she’s going to be on a private jet heading to Vegas in the morning. We’d like to be there when she lands.”

  “What about Aaron? Whitman?”

  “A Canadian problem. But one I’m pretty sure they’re able to handle. Before I came in here, I got a courtesy call from them that they picked up Aaron.”

  “What? Really?” Parkman closed his eyes and covered his mouth with his hand as relief coursed through him. He opened his eyes and looked heavenward. Sarah was leaving Mexico. Aaron was safe with the Canadians. Maybe things would turn out okay after all. Casper would get him out of Mexico and Whitman would turn up somewhere. This could all be coming to an end.

  “Get ready, Parkman. We’re to meet Aaron in Vegas along with two Federal agents running a case we’ve stepped in the middle of. They’re quite angry up there in Vegas, but I can smooth that out. Once Sarah lands in Vegas at seven tomorrow morning, all this trouble goes away and she and Aaron can finish their vacation on American soil. We will have to offer an official answer of some kind to the Mexicans, but once we write everything up, they’ll see their men were at fault.”

  “I hope so.”

  Casper’s footfalls echoed down the corridor as he shouted back, “Five minutes.”

  “I need toothpicks,” Parkman shouted back. “For the plane.”

  A door closed somewhere down the hall, then silence descended.

  Parkman yawned, stretched, and winced at his arm again.

  It was a relief to have this all ending in such a nice way. Maybe they could stay calm for a while, take it easy. Maybe Sarah would actually take a vacation.

  She may need a break, but he needed one for sure.

  Hanging out with Aaron was dangerous. He was just happy Aaron was a terrible shot with that gun.

  Or a good shot, depending on how he looked at it.

  Chapter 49

  They had taken off without incident. Sarah felt like herself again as Jane Turner’s private jet soared above the clouds en route for Vegas. Blair sat in a separate part of the plane as ordered by his mother.

  In the brief moment Sarah saw Blair, he looked sick. His face appeared gaunt. The shallow expression, lack of smile and pale complexion looked like he had some kind of disease. But Jane assured Sarah her forlorn son was sad because a friend of his—she had used air quotes when referring to Hank Olsen—was still in the hospital and would be for at least another month. In Blair’s presence, Jane had said the word “men” sarcastically and then rolled her eyes. Sarah wanted to peck out those eyes with needle-nose pliers for the pain she caused her son. There should be parenting courses for people like Jane to educate on the virtues of self-esteem and confidence building.

  Once the jet had leveled off at thirty-thousand feet, Jane wanted to talk. In her words, she wanted to bring Sarah up to speed. Although this talk took on more of the planning stages and
details of the purchase of the device she was now calling a radiological dispersal device, or an RDD.

  “What’s the difference between that and a dirty bomb?” Sarah asked. Not out of interest alone. She needed to know as much as she could about it so she could be able to handle the device, if it was radioactive, with limited exposure to herself.

  A woman dressed as a flight attendant had served them wine five minutes ago. A smooth Chilean Syrah with a dark berry aftertaste. Sarah cleansed her palate quickly to calm her shaking hands. This job was much more delicate and nerve-wracking than a bunch of men with guns. This job could get her killed, or worse, poisoned with radiation.

  “Since I can’t get my hands on enriched uranium or plutonium, using a conventional explosive with radioactive materials is the next best thing. So, yes, an RDD is essentially a dirty bomb.” Jane spoke of these chemicals like she might discuss a rare mushroom or tomato she was adding to a salad.

  Sarah blinked a couple of times. She tugged at an earlobe, then dropped her hand to her pants and wiped the palm to rid it of sweat. What were the odds that she would be in this rich woman’s presence discussing the illegal arms deal of former Soviet Union weaponry?

  Am I in over my head, Vivian?

  The small private jet shook with turbulence. It dropped a few feet, then shook again. By the sound of the engines, the pilot increased their speed.

  “Seatbelts please,” came over the small speakers above their heads.

  Sarah held her wine glass tight, so nothing spilled. Jane wasn’t so lucky. She hadn’t touched hers since it was delivered and red wine leaked over the rim of the glass and onto the small tray in front of her.

  All the color had left Jane’s face when the plane dropped and shook. She had grabbed the armrests and dug her nails in. Her bottom lip trembled, a red oasis on an otherwise ashen face.

  It wasn’t just a fear of flying. Sarah gathered Jane Turner had an extreme fear of death. Maybe even an irrational fear, like a phobia.

  “You okay?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes,” Jane stammered.

  “Fear of flying?”

  “Not really. I fly quite a bit. When things are smooth, I could fly all day. It’s more a fear of crashing.” The smile she offered was clipped, then it waned to tight lips, pulled back by anxiety.

  Deathly afraid of death. Jane wasn’t going to Las Vegas to die. She was going to Las Vegas to live. Once she dealt this blow to the Indian community, Jane would feel better, her load lightened some.

  So who was set to deliver the bomb, then?

  Jane giggled to herself. “You know what I find quite amusing?”

  “No.” Sarah turned her attention to the blue sky outside the window to think. Or wait for Vivian to offer answers. “Can’t say that I do.”

  “They actually call this kind of weapon a WMD.”

  Sarah looked at Jane, her mouth hanging open, until she found the words. “A Weapon of Mass Destruction?”

  “No. A Weapon of Mass Disruption. Isn’t that hilarious?”

  The white blanket of clouds crawled by below the plane when Sarah peered outside to avoid looking at Jane. “Yes, hilarious. A ball of utter laughter.”

  “I’ve arranged to purchase this thing from a former military intelligence colonel out of Sliven, Bulgaria.”

  “How would you meet someone like that?”

  “Money. Status. The right questions. The right people. I’ve traveled to Bulgaria a few times. Set things up. Money’s sitting in Britain to pay for it. A quick transfer and it’s all mine.”

  “Clever.”

  “The man hid these devices in various places. The one I’m buying was actually hid in his mother’s garden. Imagine that. Right beside her potatoes, or cabbage. Funny eh?”

  Sarah took a large gulp of wine as she contemplated the fate of mankind if there were people out there willing to steal and sell these kinds of bombs to the highest bidder. Money controlled the world and that was the bottom line. Because Jane had money, she was able to purchase this device and cause her little piece of mayhem. Sarah had recently read somewhere that one percent of the world owned and controlled about half of the world’s wealth.

  The scales had steeped too high in one direction and now there were people like Jane. Not a woman who came into money, but a deranged woman who came into money. Sure, Sarah would help her buy the bomb so it wouldn’t disappear into the hands of some other lunatic. But she wouldn’t help her detonate it. Sarah planned on taking off with the device and the money. Jane thought Sarah was a willing member of her security team. But Sarah, for the greater good, had no problem being a Judas.

  “Why a weapon of mass disruption?” Sarah asked. She held her glass up to discover it was empty. Jane rang a button and the flight attendant entered their part of the plane.

  “More wine,” Jane ordered.

  The woman nodded and backed out of the door she had just emerged from.

  “Disruption because of the economic ramifications. The social unrest and the widespread fear. It disrupts a lot of people, their lives and kind of fucks with their good day. Before I came along, the Indian lawmakers were happy people. When I’m done with them, they’ll be happy shiny people.”

  Sarah caught Jane looking at her. She offered Jane a smile.

  Jane continued, “These devices are meant to contaminate the area where they are detonated. Almost like chemical warfare does. Radiation poisoning is especially scary because you can’t see it or feel it.”

  “Will this device have a lot of radiation?”

  “I’m led to believe it will. Oozing out from its very core.”

  “How about getting close to it? Dangerous? I mean, aren’t we supposed to be setting up a booth at the conference right on top of this thing?”

  “It’s only dangerous for those who don’t die once it’s detonated. I won’t care either way.” Jane shrugged and stared into her wine glass. Her eyes moved up, then down, before she took another sip.

  What was she thinking? Her last line, I won’t care either way didn’t sound authentic. Did she have a plan to detonate the device remotely? Or send someone else in with the bomb? Blair? Her only son? One of her security guards?

  Hey, Sis, could use some help here.

  Nothing was forthcoming.

  Jane pulled her iPad from the table beside her and turned it on.

  “I have a quote to read to you from former Attorney General John Ashcroft.” She touched an icon and opened a page. “He said on June 10, 2002, and I quote, ‘A radioactive dirty bomb spreads radioactive material that is highly toxic to humans and can cause mass death and injury.’ End quote. That’s something.” Jane shook her head as if she was amazed at Ashcroft’s wisdom. She met Sarah’s eyes and stared into her. “I wanted another Pripyat but can’t have something that big after all.”

  “Pripyat?”

  “The town near the Chernobyl reactor in northern Ukraine. You know, just before it was evacuated, fifty-thousand people lived there. Now the city’s abandoned, empty, dead.”

  That happened in April 1986, three years before Sarah was born. Sarah’s school had covered it. The media talked about it. The accident. The fallout. She had forgotten the name of the nearby city, but Jane hadn’t. In fact, Jane Turner wanted to recreate that event. Sarah was sure Jane wanted to recreate that event without the evacuation of the residents. And she wanted to do it on Indian soil.

  It occurred to her that this was a trial run, a test. What happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas, but something told Sarah that Jane Turner was going to run with the information and make a play against India itself in the near future. She had the money, the desire and the cunning insanity.

  A question rose in Sarah’s mind. One she had asked herself in the past. Would she have killed Hitler knowing what he was going to do? Her answer was always a resounding yes. That’s who she was, what she was all about. Stopping the villain before the villain hurt or maimed the innocent.

  Should she kill Jane right now? En
d this here? Stop the detonation at the source?

  The answer was no in this case. Or more appropriately, not yet.

  Sarah needed to be a part of the purchase of the weapon. Then she could take action against Jane and call in the proper authorities to deal with the sellers and the weapon, too.

  She would be everyone’s Judas. Only no one would ever suspect her because she was only along for the ride. She was supposed to be Jane’s spirit guide, her protector, the one assigned to keep her alive. Wouldn’t Jane be surprised when she discovered that Sarah was the one who was most likely to kill her? What was one death, Jane’s, compared to dozens, or even hundreds?