Deadly Echoes (19 page)

“William, that's all well and good, and we appreciate everything you've done but—” Lauren hesitated as she shot a worrisome glance at Abigail. “You do understand there are people who might try and find us?”

“Steps have already been taken,” William replied. “I've spoken at length with Buck. He's rented us a house on the recommendation of someone familiar with protection requirements. He also rounded up a security team from his acquaintances in the military. You'll not be disturbed.”

“Where's Donovan?” Lauren asked point-blank.

“Honestly, I have no idea,” William matched her tone.

“Is he with Erica Covington?”

“Yes. They're hunting Garrick.”

“Does Donovan know about Paris?” Lauren asked.

“If he does, it's only from the media.”

“Michael?”

“Same.”

“I have no idea what's being said on television.” Lauren sat back and put her hand to her forehead, feeling her exhaustion. “Do we know about the people in my protection detail?”

“I'm sorry, they all died,” William said.

They were on the Pacific Coast Highway, and Lauren turned and stared out the window at the darkness she knew was the Pacific Ocean. She felt immensely sad and silently thanked Henri, Philippe, Giselle, and Fredrick. They'd died keeping her, Abigail, and Stephanie safe. She wished she could stop everything and weep for them. They'd become her friends, but that would have to come later.

“How much trouble are we in?” Stephanie asked.

“It's containable. The French authorities are furious, of course, assassins chasing American agents and diplomats with Israeli bodyguards, border incursions by foreign helicopters. The list goes on and on, but they're focused on the shooters and no footage of the two of you has been released to the media. The CIA is in a quiet uproar over the death of one of their own. They're calling for your head, but they've quieted down for now.”

“How much of that is your doing?” Lauren asked.

“I made some calls,” William replied. “The woman assassin has been positively identified as Nikolett Kovarik, but we already knew
that. She's tied in with Garrick, though we're not sure how or when their alliance began. She escaped Paris, but not before she killed an innocent bystander whose car she used to flee the scene. There was no shortage of witnesses who attested to the fact that Nikolett was clearly the predator. Bottom line: both you and Stephanie are wanted for questioning by Paris authorities. So for the time being, I wouldn't hurry back to France.”

“Can you pass along to the CIA that Fredrick died trying to protect us? His actions the day before tipped us off that something was wrong. That saved our lives.”

“I can do that, but at some point you're going to have to be debriefed by Langley.”

“They can wait. Any idea where Nikolett is now?” Lauren asked.

“None, but I can promise you, she's not in France. She's too smart to hang around. Besides her target isn't in Europe anymore.”

“How much time did I buy?” Lauren asked.

“By doing what you did, you probably have a twenty-four-hour window before she catches up with you.”

“I won't make it easy for her. I don't plan to stay in one place.”

“What do you mean? The best place is here in Laguna Beach surrounded by Buck's handpicked team.”

Lauren leaned forward toward William as if to emphasize how serious she was.

“I was surrounded by Aaron's handpicked team, as well as a CIA operative, and Nikolett made quick work of them. From here on out, I'm the one in charge of my security.”

Through the early morning fog, Donovan spotted the indistinct images of the other ships tied to mooring balls. Erica had the
Irish Wake
barely moving, using the radar to ease her way into the harbor. When he pointed to an empty mooring buoy, Erica nodded that she saw it as well. They'd discussed the maneuver, and Donovan was on the bow with the boat hook.

Erica followed Donovan's hand signals and swung the bow twenty degrees starboard, shifted into forward for ten seconds, then eased it back into neutral to bring the boat to a gentle stop.

Donovan reached out with the hook, snared the steel ring on the buoy, and hauled it up to deck level. Dashing from the cockpit, Erica threaded two lines through the heavy iron ring and then eased it back over the side. The
Irish Wake
came to a gentle stop as the lines gathered up the tension. She checked that everything was securely tied off on either side of the bow before returning to the bridge to shut down the engine.

Cloaked in fog, they'd easily sailed into Canadian waters and were now less than two miles from the Sidney, British Columbia, airport. As predicted, a small, slow-moving boat had drawn no attention from anyone. Erica had explained that where they were wasn't the most popular or the busiest harbor, which suited their needs perfectly. Using the ship's nautical charts, Donovan had calculated that from the airport, they needed a plane capable of flying two hundred miles northwest and then back again.

“Help me launch the dingy,” Erica whispered. “You take this side. I'll take the other.”

Donovan began removing the straps from the inflatable run
about while Erica climbed up and began to release the lines that secured the davit. Once everything was free, she hooked the davit to the harness, and with the electric winch, hoisted the smaller boat out of its cradle, swung it out over the railing, and lowered it into the water next to the hull. Donovan leaned over and released the winch cable, grabbed a bowline, and eased the dingy astern to the swim platform.

Donovan had loaded the backpack with a few essentials. The pistol he'd taken from John's house, as well as the extra ammo, binoculars, dry socks for the two of them as well as the rain gear, plus an assortment of energy bars and bottled water. The final item was a dark-blue baseball cap which he pulled low.

“Let's go.” Erica joined him and took the line from his hand.

Donovan carefully stepped into the dingy and sat down. Erica yanked twice on the starter rope, and the small outboard sputtered to life. She spun them around and headed toward the fog-shrouded shore.

Erica found the marina and pulled the dingy up to a section of the dock reserved for the boats moored in the harbor. She maneuvered them in close, cut the engine, jumped out onto the dock, and tied the dingy to a cleat. Donovan stepped onto the immovable dock and immediately felt a sense of relief wash over him. Only when the stress and tension were lessening did he realize how much fear had built up in his body. He shook it off, found his land legs, and together they walked toward shore.

“It's early. We might be the only ones around,” Erica whispered.

“Which way is the main parking lot?”

“Up this path to the left. Do you have any idea how to steal a car?”

“Yeah, it's a small town, you find the one with the keys inside.”

On their third try they found an unlocked twenty-year-old Ford pickup with the keys stashed in the overhead sun visor. Once a light blue, the truck's rundown appearance made it impossible to tell if it had been there a month or an hour. All Donovan cared
about was that it ran. The engine turned over and started on the second try. When the radio blared to life, Erica cranked the knob to a lower level. Donovan put the Ford into gear, switched on the windshield wipers and headlights, and drove out of the parking lot. The first street they approached looked like it would take them south toward Sidney and the Victoria airport.

They didn't have to go far before Donovan turned the truck onto a road that fed into the airport property. They followed the road as it curved around the perimeter fence off the end of runway two-seven. In the distance, Donovan saw a collection of hangars, both large and small. The ramp held a few scattered airplanes. As they slowly cruised past the different buildings, Donovan spotted a parking lot down a side road. He made the turn, pulled into the small lot, and shut off the engine.

“This weather doesn't look like it's getting much better. Are you sure it's going to clear up enough to fly?” Erica asked. “Or should we be thinking about driving?”

“The edge of the system shouldn't be far away. The coordinates are at least a seven-hour drive each way, maybe more, plus we're on an island in a stolen vehicle. We can't afford that much exposure.”

“How do you think Garrick got up there?”

“I've been thinking about that. Garrick must have found someone who knew all of the details about the transportation part of the operation. I'm thinking Garrick and his men flew in on a bush plane, one that was expected. Otherwise, there's no way Garrick gets the upper hand with armed poachers.”

“Listen,” Erica said as she turned up the volume on the radio.

“Recapping today's top story out of Vancouver. Police have released more information about the five people found murdered downtown. It's unknown yet exactly when the murders took place, but witnesses at the scene said the smell coming from the apartment was what prompted a call to the police. The identities of the four men and one woman have yet to be confirmed. The five were found shot in an upscale loft in the Yaletown section of downtown.
There have been no official reports of suspects or that any arrests have been made. Detectives on the scene did acknowledge that they couldn't rule out a connection to this crime and a recently released video of black bear poachers being murdered for their alleged crimes against the environment by the global organization Eco-Watch. One unnamed source from the Ministry of Environment was quoted as saying that they're still looking for the location in the video, and that evidence at the Yaletown murder scene may aid in that search. We'll have more on this story at the top of the hour. Now stay tuned for today's financial news.”

“Garrick murdered those people, didn't he?” Erica said as she turned the volume down.

“Yeah, it sounds like they've been dead for a while. They're probably the ones who knew where the poachers were and how to get to them. Garrick or someone working for him killed them.”

“Are we too late? Do you think the authorities have the same coordinates we do?”

“I don't know, but we don't have any choice but to find out.”

“What if the place is crawling with police?”

“Then we turn around and get the hell out of there.”

“A judicious retreat might work, but first things first, how do we steal an airplane?”

“Hand me the binoculars.” Donovan spotted some activity and wanted a closer look. He held out his hand as Erica reached into the duffel bag.

Donovan adjusted the focus as he surveyed a hangar that was about a hundred yards away. The doors had just opened, and two men on a tug were getting ready to pull an airplane from the hangar. As Donovan inspected the equipment, he could tell it was a maintenance bay, various airplanes inside were in different stages of disassembly. The airplane they were about to wheel out was a Cessna 185, a rugged, high-winged tail dragger favored by many a bush pilot. Donovan estimated he had logged nearly five hundred hours in the 185 during his time in Africa. The Cessna would be perfect.

The linemen pulled the red-and-white Cessna away from the hangar and parked it at the edge of the ramp. A mechanic ambled out and checked all the cowling fasteners. Then he did a slow careful walk-around before hauling himself up into the cockpit and starting the engine.

As Donovan waited, the mechanic finished his run-up and shut down the Cessna. He climbed out, gave it one last walk around, then clipboard in hand, headed back toward the hangar. Next to the hangar sat several fuel trucks, Donovan memorized the operator's information painted on the side.

“Erica, give me your disposable phone. We need to make a call.” The moment the phone powered up, Donovan dialed the number.

“Good morning, Victoria Aerocentre. How can I help you?”

“Good morning,” Donovan said smoothly. “Is this operations?”

“I'll connect you, one moment.”

“Operations. This is Brandy.”

“Hello, Brandy, I hope you can help me. My boss's Cessna is in for maintenance, and it's scheduled to be finished this morning. He plans to fly later today, and wanted me to check on it for him, a Cessna 185, foxtrot-tango-papa-mike.”

“Sure, let me check.”

Donovan kept up a steady scan of their surroundings while he waited.

“Hello, sir,” Brandy came back on the line. “It looks like they've just finished running the airplane. Once they complete the paperwork, it should be ready to go.”

“Oh, perfect,” Donovan replied. “Can you make sure they top off both wing tanks and add that to the bill?”

“Will do.”

Donovan ended the call, powered the phone down, and turned to Erica. “One problem solved. Once they fuel the plane, we need to be ready to make our move.”

Erica pointed to the north. “I'm starting to see some blue sky.”

Donovan studied the horizon and through the patchy ground fog, he could see the sharply defined edge of the higher overcast,
which meant as soon as the Cessna was fueled the weather may have moved far enough southeastward. He heard the heavy fuel truck growling through its gears before he saw it, but moments later the red-and-white Esso truck motored into view and eased to a stop in front of the Cessna.

“I guess I should ask if you can fly that thing?”

Donovan turned and gave her a look of disbelief, slightly annoyed that she'd bothered to even ask the question. He didn't think she was really concerned, more like nervous chatter. She didn't like giving up control any more than he did. “Keep in mind we've gone to a lot of trouble to get here. Do you really think I'd jeopardize everything by screwing up the part I do for a living?”

“I know, it's just that I thought the plane we'd steal would somehow be—bigger.”