Fade to blue, p.11
Fade to Blue, page 11
Sarah ran to passenger screening, handed her ticket and passport to a TSA agent, and joined a procession that crept forward. With each step, she examined her throbbing hand, checked the time, and looked for Collin or Marcel.
Nearing the security checkpoint, an agent reminded passengers to remove their shoes, belts, jewelry, and all items from their pockets before entering one of the body scanners.
Sarah followed his instructions and put her belongings in a plastic tub. She pushed it into the x-ray machine and made a successful trip through the scanner.
She saw an agent scrutinizing someone’s luggage on a monitor and worried that the money in her backpack was piquing his interest. With the final minutes ticking away before her flight’s scheduled departure, the x-ray machine spit out the gray container.
She collected her possessions, ran over to a chair, and sat down. While putting on her left shoe, she noticed a tiny, black object dangling near the heel and removed it. Her emotional roller coaster suddenly took another plunge into the depths of terror. It had three barbed legs.
She feverishly slipped on her shoes and had just tied the laces when a woman sat down beside her and placed a small shopping bag between them. It was neither gold colored nor from Neiman Marcus, but she nonetheless peeked inside: A box of Ghirardelli chocolates, a paperback novel, and a copy of The Wall Street Journal. No silver-plated handgun.
“Excuse me. May I ask where you’re going?” Sarah asked.
The woman appeared to be taken aback by her question. “I’m flying to Singapore on business. Why?”
“Just curious.”
Sarah discreetly dropped the transmitter into her bag and stood up. “Have a nice trip.”
She began running to Gate 35 but stopped to consider something: why not go to the Homeland Security office at the airport? She’d just found a second GPS transmitter, and it would soon be on its way to Singapore. But there was a potential problem. What if Marcel had planted a third transmitter on her body? If so, going to the Feds would put Paul and Rogelio in danger. It wasn’t worth the risk.
She ran all the way to deserted Gate 35, handed her ticket to the EuropeAir agent for processing, and continued down the jetway and onto the aircraft. Almost everyone was seated, so she walked unencumbered to row twenty-seven. She stuffed her backpack into an overhead storage bin and tapped a flight attendant on her shoulder.
“Excuse me. When you get a chance, could you get me some pain meds and a cup of water? I just broke my finger.” She held up her swollen hand for good measure.
The flight attendant gawked. “Ouch. That looks bad.”
“It hurts like hell.”
“I can imagine. I’ll be right back.”
“Thanks,” Sarah said and settled in between two passengers.
“Damn, I thought I was going to have an empty seat next to me,” said the man to her right.
“Sorry.”
“Just kidding. I usually get stuck next to some big fat guy, so you’re fine.”
She noticed that he was reading Essential France, and for the first time, it sunk in that she was actually on a plane bound for Paris. Of course, this was not how she envisioned her first trip. She should be bubbling over with excitement. And Rogelio should be sitting next to her. Instead, she was alone, nursing a broken finger, physically and emotionally drained, and fearing for her life.
The flight attendant returned and handed her a container of Tylenol and a bottled water. She then extended a box of gauze pads and a roll of surgical tape. “I think you should wrap your pinkie and ring finger together. It’ll help stabilize the injury.”
“Good idea. Thank you,” Sarah said, accepting the supplies. She swallowed two pills with a gulp of water, stared at the erupting bruise on her left hand, and closed her eyes.
Marcel. You low-life piece of shit.
She remembered sitting on the bathroom floor in her hotel room and injecting herself with Entoryl-XT. Marcel crouched in front of her and said words that didn’t register. The room spun, went black, and she was floating on a cloud.
And then, just like that, the hallucinogenic effect of Entoryl-XT dissipated and slapped her back to Earth. She felt discomfort at the base of her left pinkie and heard a conversation between two men. Barely cracking open her eyes, she saw that she was riding in the back seat of a car. Marcel and Jon were driving her somewhere.
The inexplicable pain began to increase at a worrisome rate, and she used every ounce of willpower to ignore it. She listened to Jon’s rape fantasy and heard Marcel explain that he’d broken her finger to make sure she wasn’t faking it. Having gone from mellow to homicidal in twenty seconds, she ached to sit up and rip their eyeballs out. Instead, she focused on an important fact: They believed she was brain-dead. Advantage Sarah.
With her hand screaming for attention, survival mode kicked in. She thought about victims of mass shootings who pretend to be dead—sometimes while lying in the blood and brain matter of loved ones. In comparison, her task seemed relatively easy: Don’t grimace. Don’t move. If she could tolerate this pain for a few more minutes, she’d get revenge. But how? She’d already used the syringe of Entoryl-XT. And the T-3 was in a vial.
Then she remembered the knife tucked away in a side pocket of her backpack. Yes, the knife. It was small but very sharp. And within reach. She mentally prepared for combat. Then—
“This is a nonstop flight to Paris,” came a voice over the intercom. “If Paris is not your destination, please leave the aircraft now.” The announcement was repeated in French.
Sarah opened her eyes and looked at her watch. It was 10:07 p.m.—twelve minutes past the scheduled departure time. She wrapped the injured pinkie and taped it to her ring finger.
Five additional minutes passed. The plane still hadn’t backed an inch away from the gate, and she worried that Marcel was responsible for the delay. She leaned forward and glared at a seatback, a mere two inches from her face.
Growing claustrophobic, she lifted herself up and surveyed the cabin. All passengers were settled in. Many were tinkering with their in-flight entertainment screen or some other electronic device. A few were engaged in conversation. A young, doe-eyed couple three rows back joined hands and shared a kiss. She envied—no, resented—their excitement.
She eased back down into her confined space. Her heel uncontrollably tapped the floor. A hand grabbed her shoulder, and she shrieked.
“Sorry to startle you,” her favorite flight attendant said, “but you have to fasten your seatbelt for takeoff.”
“Huh? Oh. Okay. Sure.” Sarah clipped the two ends together and pulled it snug. “Are we leaving soon?”
“The ground crew is just now finishing up. We’ll be taxiing shortly,” she replied. “How’s your finger?”
Sarah held up her left hand for an inspection. “Thanks to you, it’s stabilized. Now, if the Tylenol would kick in.”
“It will. Give it a minute.”
The flight attendant continued down the aisle, making sure all passengers were buckled up, and then returned to check on Sarah. “You doing okay? You seem a bit anxious.”
“Yeah. I guess I am.”
“Tell you what. Once we hit cruising altitude, I’ll page for a doctor.”
Sarah shook her head. “No, no. It’s okay. Really. I’m not worried about my finger. I just have a lot of stress in my life right now.”
The flight attendant offered a concerned face. “That’s not good.”
“No. It’s been a really tough week.”
“I’m so sorry. Is that why you’re going to Paris?”
“Yup.”
She broke a smile. “Good. Sometimes it helps to get away.”
Sarah nodded. “You got that right.”
chapter sixteen
Collin Smith drove into the parking lot of Lenka’s Family Restaurant, squeezed the brakes, and looked around. The rain had stopped—at least for the time being—but puddles of water covered much of the black pavement. He focused his eyes and saw in the distance two people standing near a couple of vehicles. He nudged the accelerator and proceeded in their direction. His headlamps soon illuminated two men. One was Marcel. The other was a police officer.
“You gotta be kidding me.”
He drove a bit farther, parked, and stepped out of his car.
“Thank you for coming,” Marcel said. “Officer Relei, this is my friend Collin Smith.”
He looked at Collin and laughed. “What’s with the matching suits? Were the three of you ushers at a wedding?”
Marcel ignored him and turned to Collin. “Jon was assaulted and robbed. He has a broken nose and a gash in his neck.”
“What? Is he gonna be okay?”
“He won’t be as loquacious for a while, but he’ll recover.”
“Gentlemen, I have to file my report,” the officer said. “Take this as a lesson. Don’t carry a lot of cash. Everyone accepts plastic these days.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Marcel said, and watched him get into his car and drive off. “Quick. Get your tablet and come with me.”
He got behind the wheel of his BMW and started the engine. Collin hopped in the passenger seat and Marcel accelerated through the parking lot.
“Don’t tell me,” Collin said as he fired up his iPad, “Sarah attacked Jon and escaped.”
“Yes.”
“How the hell did that happen?”
“I don’t know. I was in the restaurant getting carryout. When I returned, Jon was lying on the ground. He was bleeding and in shock.”
“Holy shit,” Collin exclaimed. “She really fucked him up.”
“Yes.”
“That’s crazy. I mean, Jon’s a big boy.”
“Apparently Sarah is very strong.”
“And not real happy,” Collin added.
“She also left behind a substantial amount of money. A mocking ‘thank you’ tip, I presume.”
Collin looked at his iPad screen. “She’s on Highway 101, six miles north of here.”
“That would seem right. She escaped about ten minutes ago.”
“You saw her get away?”
“She was in a car with two men. Unfortunately, I could do nothing to stop her.”
Collin scrunched his eyebrows. “Wait a minute. How could she escape? She injected herself with T-3.”
“Or so we thought,” Marcel said. He made a left turn onto the highway entrance ramp. “It was probably an anesthetic that temporarily knocked her out.”
“An anesthetic?”
“That’s my guess. It would explain why she wanted me to drop her off at a hospital.”
Collin nodded. “Now that’s ingenious.”
“Yes, it is. She’s extremely intelligent.”
“Intelligent, strong, and pissed off.”
“Underestimate her at your peril,” Marcel said.
They drove north on Highway 101, listening to raindrops and windshield wipers. Collin rechecked his screen. “I think she’s going to the San Jose airport.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but the car she’s in is headed in that direction.”
“Then we don’t have much time,” Marcel said and upped his speed. He passed one car, moved over into the right-hand lane to pass two more cars, and then swerved back into the left lane.
“Hey!” Collin protested. “You keep driving like that, and this car will last us a lifetime.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was a joke. But seriously, you’re doing eighty-one miles an hour. And you’re weaving in and out of traffic on a wet road. You keep it up, and we’re both going to die.”
Marcel didn’t respond but eased up on the accelerator and slowed down to seventy-five.
“She’s almost at the airport,” Collin said. He turned to his partner. “I’m guessing you want to stop her before she gets on a plane.”
“Yes.”
“How do you plan to get past security?”
“I’ll use my badge.”
“Mmm, I wouldn’t try it. It’s one thing to bullshit a manager at some sleazy motel. But now you’re going into an international airport that’s crawling with security. And you speak with an accent. Someone’s bound to check your credentials. You’ll get busted.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Buy a plane ticket, get through security, and hopefully you can find her. If not, don’t worry about it. She isn’t a threat right now anyway.”
Collin gave Marcel directions to the San Jose airport, and within a few minutes they approached an impressive glass and steel structure.
“Where is she now?” Marcel asked.
“Terminal B.”
They reached the terminal, and Marcel screeched to a stop behind an SUV unloading passengers and their suitcases. “I’ll meet you back here.”
“Good luck. And be careful.”
Both men exited the car. Collin circled around the front and got into the driver’s seat. Marcel ran inside Terminal B and saw a ticket agent standing behind a counter with no waiting line.
Jamee Kough processed her final customer—the woman who didn’t care where she was going—and saw a Southwest agent. “Excuse me. You got a second?”
“Sure,” the agent said and came over to her counter.
“A woman just asked me if she could buy a one-way ticket. To anywhere. Didn’t matter. And she wanted to pay in cash. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I sold her a ticket to Paris. Do you think I should call security?”
“Yes.”
“I was going to, but then I thought: if she’s a terrorist, she’s not going to draw attention to herself.”
“What if she’s not a terrorist? What if she’s mentally ill? Or suicidal?”
Jamee pursed her lips. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I think you should call security. They might want to ask her a few questions.”
“Good idea.”
“It’s probably nothing, but you never know.”
The Southwest agent smiled and walked away. As Jamee reached for the phone, a voice startled her: “Can you sell me a ticket?”
She snapped her head toward a man who’d just appeared at her counter. He was an older gentleman wearing a three-piece suit.
“Maybe,” she replied. “That all depends on where you want to go.”
Marcel shrugged. “I don’t care. Anywhere is fine.”
Jamee laughed. “Okay, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“A woman came by here a few minutes ago and said the same thing.”
“Interesting. Was she approximately thirty years old? Long braids?”
“That’s her.”
Marcel smiled.
She gave him a sly look. “Are the two of you playing some kind of a game?”
“It’s a competition,” he replied.
“Well, that would explain it.” She looked at her monitor. “Unfortunately, you’re too late for the Paris flight. Boarding closes in a few minutes.”
“Just my luck. Thank you.”
Marcel left Terminal B and searched a steady stream of vehicles for his rental car. In less than a minute, he saw the silver BMW and waved a hand in the air. Collin pulled over to the curb, and he got into the front passenger seat.
“That was quick,” Collin said as he maneuvered past an idling van.
“I decided not to pursue her inside the airport. Too many cameras. Too much security.”
“I agree. And she’s not spilling her guts to anyone, so what’s the rush?” Collin pointed out. “Besides, she’s flying to Singapore. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
Marcel gave him a confused look. “What are you talking about? She’s flying to Paris.”
“Au contraire, mon chaud papillon. Check out my tablet—Sarah’s at Gate 26. And if you scroll to the next page, you’ll see a 10:05 departure. It’s going to Singapore.”
“I don’t care what your tablet is showing,” Marcel countered. “I just spoke to an agent who sold her a ticket to Paris.”
“Singapore. Paris. Whatever. Right now, I just want to know where I’m driving.”
“Let’s go back to the parking lot and retrieve your car,” Marcel said. He pulled out his phone and made a call.
“Good morning. Are you enjoying retirement? . . . I apologize for waking you up, but I need your assistance. A EuropeAir flight from San Jose, California, to Paris should be departing soon. I want you to be at CDG when it arrives. Can you do that? . . . I’m looking for a woman who might be on the flight. . . . Great, I’ll email her photo. . . . Thank you, Carlos. . . . Yes, I promise you a bottle of Henri IV Dudognon.”
Marcel ended the call. “That was a former colleague of mine. He’ll go to the airport and follow her if she arrives in Paris.”
Collin drove into the parking lot of Lenka’s Family Restaurant and spotted his car. “Unbelievable. It’s still there. And I count four tires.”
Marcel looked at his watch. “I don’t know about you, but I’m a bit peckish. We have a long drive ahead, and it’s getting late. Perhaps we should eat now.”
“Sounds good to me,” Collin said and parked the car.
They entered the restaurant, picked out a booth, and sat down. Marcel remembered coming here earlier to get a cup of coffee. At the time, he never would have imagined the events that had just unfolded.
A middle-aged waitress came by with two menus. After careful consideration, they each placed an order. She scribbled on a notepad, and Marcel gazed up at her.
“Are you closing soon?”
“No. We’re open until one.”
He flashed a charming smile. “Good. I want to enjoy my dining experience at your lovely salle à manger.”
The waitress blushed and seemed at a loss for words. “I . . . sure. Thank you.” She collected their menus and sashayed away.
“I have no idea what you just said, but you definitely made her day,” Collin said.
The sky opened up, and Marcel watched torrents of water pummel the parking lot on the other side of the window. “I’ve rarely seen such a violent storm. I’m inclined to get a room and wait this out.”
