Girl of Rage (34 page)

Dylan raised his eyebrows. It was a Tennessee driver’s license in the name of Sherman Roberts. He flipped it back and forth. It looked real enough, including a bar code on the back.

“The bar code doesn’t actually work. You don’t want to get pulled over with that, all right? But it’ll pass for hotels or whatever.”

Dylan said, “This looks good. How’s yours?”

Andrea passed hers over. It was indistinguishable from a real driver’s license. Mendoza’s
friend
had given her a couple of years, but the date on the license made her 18 rather than 21. That was good—she looked too young for that. They needed to stay as discreet as possible. He handed the card back to her without comment.

“We’ll need to get going soon,” Dylan said. “I don’t want to put you in any more danger than I already have.”

“Don’t worry about me, man.”

Andrea was already up.

Dylan said, “Let me check in with Alex real quick.” He reached for the tablet and logged into Facebook and his new account.

He had a message from Alex.

Tell Andrea to
G
oogle
Prince
George-Phillip.

Weird. He showed the message to Andrea, whose eyebrows drew together.

“Do it,” she said.

Dylan typed in the words on the screen. A moment later Google returned the Wikipedia results along with a photograph. Andrea, standing over his shoulder, cursed under her breath. Then she said, “That’s the man who was in the photos from Spain.”

Dylan looked through the Wikipedia entry. It was detailed.

“He was stationed with the Embassy in Washington, DC in the early 80s,” he said.

“What about the 90s?”

Dylan looked up at her then pointed at the screen.

Her face stiffened. “He was in China.”

“The resemblance is pretty strong,” he said. “You and Carrie both look like him.”

He scrolled down further.

She sucked in a breath and said, “Stop.”

She hunched down next to the table, her face close to the tablet. The screen had stopped on a photo. George-Phillip, in a military uniform, complete with sash and medals. At his side was a little girl in a dress with red polka dots. The little girl had raven hair and green eyes. She could easily be mistaken as Carrie or Andrea’s sister.

“I don’t get it,” Dylan said. “Your mom had an affair with this guy?”

“I guess so,” Andrea said. “And not a short one. Carrie’s twelve years older than I am.” Her face settled into a thoughtful expression. She took the tablet and typed into it.

“I don’t understand,” Mendoza said.

Dylan nodded toward Andrea, then started to explain. But he stopped when Andrea let out a string of curses in Spanish.

“What is it?” he asked.

“He’s coming to Washington,” she said. “He has a meeting with the President tomorrow.”

Dylan looked at her. “Okay, and…?” His voice trailed off.

She looked at him with calm eyes, and Dylan knew what she wanted to do.

“That’s crazy talk, Andrea.”

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“It’s still crazy.”

“Crazy or not, if he’s my father, don’t you think it’s time?”

Blaine, Washington. May 4.

Nick Larsden was frustrated.

Since early Friday morning he’d been on the road, working his way up the West Coast of California, then Oregon and Washington. A frustrating and probably futile search, he’d thought, until he stumbled on their campsite in California yesterday. Two hours after leaving the old man dead at his campsite, Nick had found the minivan. It was parked in the grocery store parking lot next to the Greyhound station in Medford, Oregon.

The license plates were a match, and more importantly, he’d found evidence in the van itself: the daughter had left piles of food wrappings, fast food bags and other garbage on the floor behind her seat. When Nick opened the glove box he found what he expected to find: the van was registered in the name of Richard Thompson. That must be the woman’s husband. She’d abandoned her van and taken a bus, sometime that morning.

Nick followed the trail. From there it wasn’t difficult to figure out. She’d probably arrived there at nine or ten am. The next buses north were to Seattle and Bellingham at ten and ten-thirty. And the Bellingham bus continued on to Blaine, on the Canadian border. He would bet anything the woman and her daughter were on that bus.

He had looked around the bus station. Medford had a tiny station and probably didn’t have more than two dozen passengers a day. He’d flashed a fake badge at the woman behind the counter, identifying himself as a State investigator, then shown her the pictures of Adelina and Jessica Thompson.

Verification. He had been eight hours behind them, but the bus would be stopping along the way. Maybe he could catch up before they tried to cross the border.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be. The bus started with an eight-hour lead, and got to Blaine ahead of him by three hours. There was no sign of the woman or her daughter.

So now he watched and waited, an unread newspaper in front of him at the cheap table in the corner of the McDonald’s. The Sumas border crossing was only two hundred yards away, several lines of cars backed up waiting to cross the border. It seemed like a lot of traffic for a Sunday morning. The day was clear and bright, but a lot cooler than the San Fernando Valley where he lived.

His phone started to vibrate. UNKNOWN CALLER. Interesting. He picked it up and answered the call.

“Hello?”

The caller had a thick, gravelly Irish accent. “Mister Larsden, this is Oz.”

“What can I do for you?” Larsden responded, his tone respectful but quick. It was a thin line—Mister Oz, who was obviously using an assumed name, had offered a million dollars for this job.
A million dollars.
Larsden wanted that place in the mountains very badly.

“Your friends assured me you’d be able to accomplish this job. But it seems you are not making any progress.”

Larsden gritted his teeth, then answered in as calm a voice as he could muster, “I’m in Blaine, Washington, I’ve traced them to the border. It looks like they’re going to make an attempt to cross into Canada.”

“Mister Larsden, they must not make it to Canada. Do you understand?”

“I may not be able to prevent that.”

“You will if you want to continue in your line of work. Or any line of work. Do I make myself clear, Larsden? Adelina Thompson and her daughter must not make it to the border alive. I don’t care what you have to do.”

“Roger that.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “And what am I supposed to do after I start killing people in sight of the border guards?”

“I suggest that you make sure you are unseen.”

Christ.

“Make it three million.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. When this job started you just wanted them caught. Now you’ve changed it to murder. If it’s that important, then you pay.”

Hesitation at the other end of the line. Then the response: “Fine.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Larsden said, his voice back at a normal tone. Then he hung up the phone and stood up. No one in the dining room appeared to notice anything unusual. Now the only question was when would Adelina and Jessica Thompson show up? Or had they already crossed the border? He didn’t have any way of knowing.

For now, he needed to find a good vantage point where he could take a concealed position with his rifle. It wasn’t ideal, but he had few other options. He walked out into the parking lot, the below forty breeze raising goose bumps on his skin. He checked his watch. It was 11 am.

The cars were backing up Cherry Street, away from the border crossing. Across the street was the pedestrian lane. A scattering of people walked up the pedestrian lane toward the metal turnstiles, which marked the border. Once they crossed through, there was no immediate re-entry to the United States. Instead, the next stop was Canada’s Customs station.

Nick paced the parking lot for a moment in frustration. They might have walked right out of the bus station and directly to the border. They might already be in Canada.

He didn’t know why
Oz
, his unnamed benefactor, wanted to ensure they didn’t make it across the border. But the job had come to him through Marky Lovecchio, an old Army buddy. When Nick got out of the army, Marky had gone on to a career in Special Forces. In 2006 he’d left the military for a private military contractor—the pay was a hell of a lot better, he said, and you got to pick your own weapons. Marky had a lot of contacts, and vouched for
Oz
and his ability to pay astronomical sums.

“I worked for him befoah,” Marky had said. Even after fifteen years away from East Boston, Marky still couldn’t pronounce his Rs. “He goes by
Oz
—I don’t know his real name—but the cash is real enough. I did a couple jobs for him last year.”

“Any idea who he is?” Nick had asked.

“Nah. I think he’s some mucky muck in England. Or the IRA. I don’t care who he is, his money’s green.”

That was all nice, but now Nick was stuck with a job that would pay well if he could complete it, and threats if he didn’t. And there was no guarantee the two women had even come this way—

Wait.

His eyes followed Cherry Street back up the block. A turn next to the gas station led off to a couple of commercial buildings. Beyond that, some houses and woods. He took out his phone and pulled up the maps application. Harrison Avenue on this side of the border dead-ended into a farm, less than a hundred yards from Boundary Road on the Canadian side of the border.

There was nothing but a field there.
Was there even a fence?
No way to know from what he could see. But he imagined himself in the shoes of Adelina Thompson, running, fast. Trying to hide from the cops and from whoever was after her. To her, wouldn’t it make a lot more sense to cross
anywhere
other than an official border crossing where she might be stopped and questioned?

As quickly as he could, Nick got into the car and started it up. He drove to the exit of the McDonald’s. Traffic—way too much traffic. Cars backed up from the border station right into the intersection. He nosed his Hummer into the intersection, provoking a series of wild honks from cars. He pushed forward, slightly bumping a rusted antique Oldsmobile.

In the distance, way down at the end of Harrison, he saw what he was afraid of.

Two women, one of them anorexic, walking in the shade of the trees as if they were just out for a stroll.

He laid on the horn.

Dylan. May 4.

Dylan turned toward Andrea, easing his hands on the wheel a little. His knuckles were white.

“Once you get out, I want you to walk leisurely. Wait until you hear the horn honking before you do anything. Once you hear that, you’ll have sixty seconds, tops, to make it over the fence. Then it’s up to you.”

She nodded, her face grim. She was wearing a tough pair of jeans and a heavy hooded sweatshirt labeled “George Mason University.”

“Once you get in there, you look for the residence.”

“Right. It’s the two-story brick building. We looked at the satellite photos, Dylan. I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re anything but. But we’re attempting something stupidly reckless, Andrea. You only get one shot.”

She nodded. “All right.”

“What do you do if the guards catch you?”

“Throw up my arms and yell that I’m seeking political asylum. Then tell everyone, loudly, that I’m Prince George-Phillip’s daughter.”

Dylan nodded. Traffic began to move and he hit the gas. Mendoza’s old green Oldsmobile shuddered, spitting out a cloud of black smoke as it lurched forward. He glanced over at Andrea. She looked terrified.

“I’ll be praying for you,” he said.

She shook her head. “Bullshit you will. But I’ll take it anyway.”

“I can always try,” he replied. “I don’t
think
I’ll get struck by lightning.”

She chuckled. “I’m sure you won’t.” She craned her neck.

He followed the direction of her gaze.

On the other side of the street, headed Southeast on Massachusetts Avenue, traffic had slowed to a crawl, snaking slowly around a grouping of three police cars with lights flashing. Dylan kept his face impassive as he scanned the police cars. Two of them were District of Columbia police, and the third had a smaller logo on the door. As they got closer, he saw it clearly: Diplomatic Security Services. They were parked in front of the Embassy of Japan, and several uniformed police stood in front of the fence, blocking a group of twenty or so protesters from the front of the building. Ranging from their teens to an old lady in a wheelchair, they waved signs reading, “Stop the slaughter,” and “Honk if you love dolphins.”

A huge banner waved in the air, held up by two young men. The banner was full color, displaying a bloody beach strewn with the carcasses of dozens of dolphins.

Dylan flinched at the blood. He hated the sight of killing.

“You okay?” Andrea asked.

“Yeah. Fuckers.” He honked the horn and waved at the protesters. “Almost there,” he said. They were crossing a bridge now, heavy trees on both sides of the road. Dylan turned on his right hand turn signal then pulled to a stop just after 30
^th
Street.