Seven Days to Forever (3 page)

“What’s going on at the museum?” Flynn asked.

Rafe’s voice replied. “Nothing. If the LLA is here, they’re not making any moves yet.”

Flynn leaned forward and crossed his arms on the bike’s handlebars, straining to see across the schoolyard. Miss Abigail Locke waved at a few of her departing students, then turned away. “Geez.” She gave a breathy grunt as she hitched one strap of the green backpack over her shoulder. “How many Pokémon cards can they cram into these things?”

“Abigail Locke has brown hair, brown eyes, is five feet four inches, 103 pounds…” Sarah’s voice droned in the background, describing the details of the woman who was walking across the parking lot toward a beige subcompact. “She’s the registered owner of a beige Pontiac Firefly, license number…”

Flynn’s lips quirked. Well, either this particular terrorist had established an exceptionally solid cover and was so clever that she was deliberately acting innocent for the microphone she knew was in the backpack…

Or she was exactly what Flynn hoped she was.

Wait a minute. He’d been through this already. He had no business being pleased. Her innocence was going to increase the difficulty of this mission by a factor of ten.

They had to get the money back before Abigail discovered it—along with the surveillance devices in the specially designed pack—and decided to be a law-abiding citizen and turn everything over to the police. Once that happened, it would be next to impossible to contain the damage. The secrecy of the mission would be compromised. Rumors would get started, questions would be asked and the LLA would cry “double cross” and kill the Vilyas kid.

“She’s twenty feet from her car,” Flynn said. “With this bike, I can reach her and take the backpack before she gets her keys out. Few if any witnesses. She’ll think it was a random mugging.”

“Negative,” the major said. “We can’t make a move on her in public. If the LLA did tail her and are watching, they’ll know Vilyas talked.”

And cry “double cross” and kill the kid, Flynn repeated to himself. “Tell me where she lives,” he said, easing his bike into gear. “I think it’s time we meet.”

Chapter 2

A
bbie flicked another glance at her watch as she dug her keys out of her purse. The traffic had been worse than usual. Every direct route to her apartment building had been blocked by stalled cars or minivans. Why couldn’t everyone simply follow their vehicle manufacturer’s recommended maintenance schedule? She always did, and she hadn’t had any problems with her car yet. Still, it was odd that the car trouble seemed limited to her neighborhood. It was almost as if there were some grand conspiracy out there to delay her from reaching home.

She shook her head at the ridiculous thought. Washington was undoubtedly full of enough conspiracies, but they wouldn’t be targeting her. No, she was about as ordinary and law-abiding as a person could get. She understood the value of structure. Maintenance schedules, school timetables, to-do lists, these gave a lovely framework on which to build a life.

Of course, sometimes timetables did require adjustment. She’d have to pencil in thirty-five as her next target date for the husband, family and home in the suburbs.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, fitting the key into the lock. “Get over it. Thirty is only a number.”

The phone was ringing when she opened the door. She bolted the door behind her and flicked on a light just as the answering machine picked up.

“Hi, dear.” It was her mother’s voice. “I hope everything’s all right. I thought you’d be home by now.”

Abbie hurried through the short entrance hall to her living room, dodged around the avocado plant and reached past the fig tree to grab the telephone. “Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, you’re there. How was your day, Abigail?”

“Great. The kids loved the museum.” She started to shrug off her jacket, belatedly realizing she was still holding on to the stray backpack she’d picked up. She’d meant to leave it in the car so she could take it in to school tomorrow, but in her rush to get home she must have brought it upstairs to her apartment without thinking. She was getting as absentminded as her students.

On the other hand, wasn’t forgetfulness a sign of advancing age?

She grimaced, dropped the pack and her purse beside the fig tree and sank into a chair. “How are you, Mom?”

“Just fine.” There was a spurt of conversation in the background that was quickly muffled. “Are you still going to come over tonight? You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“No, of course I didn’t forget. I was late getting in because the traffic was horrible. If I hadn’t used all my shortcuts, I’d still be sitting in it.”

“Well, I hope it clears up before you set out for our place.” The sound of a doorbell came over the line.

“I’ll be over as soon as I can. Is someone at your door, Mom?”

“Oh, that’s nothing. Just your dad fidgeting with the bell again.”

“Mmm.” She was sure she heard more muffled conversation in the background. It sounded like her older sister’s voice. “Are you sure you aren’t expecting any visitors?”

“Now, why would we be expecting anyone but you, dear?”

“I don’t know. Are you making fried chicken?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. How did you guess?”

Fried chicken, potato salad, egg sandwiches without crusts, just like every year. The surprise party was on. “I could smell it from here, Mom.”

“Oh, you.” She laughed. “We’ll see you in a little while, then. Drive safely, dear.”

Abbie put the phone down and leaned her head against the back of the chair. She had to try to think positively about this birthday, she thought as she studied the ceiling. Apart from a different digit at the start of her age, it was the same as all the others.

She looked at her watch and did a quick calculation of how much time she would need to drive to her parents’ house if the traffic didn’t improve, then pushed to her feet and hurried toward the shower. She’d better get moving or she was going to be late for her own party. She just hoped she would be able to act surprised. It was going to be tough. She had never liked surprises.

* * *

“Twenty-nine years old,” Sarah said. “No, make that thirty. Birthday today. Single. Has worked at Cherry Hill School for the past seven years. Four hundred and sixty-one dollars in her savings account, seven thousand dollars in government bonds. Want her credit card balances?”

Flynn buckled on the electrician’s tool belt as he swung around another turn in the stairwell. Sarah was on the radio, feeding him information about Abigail Locke as it came in. He was thinking on his feet now, making up the action plan as he went along; so, any fact, even a date of birth might prove to be useful. “Does she have a debt problem?”

“No, she has a good credit rating. No debts apart from a car loan. She’s a nonsmoker, according to her insurance records,” Sarah continued. “No outstanding traffic fines. Three library books on loan. History texts, judging by the titles.”

Flynn wasn’t surprised at the depth of detail Sarah could obtain on such short notice—all it took was a little know-how, and nothing that had ever been entered into a computer was secret. If the public became aware of how easily the privacy of a private citizen could be breached, the conspiracy theorists would have a field day.

One detail that hadn’t shown up on the records, though, was the fact that Abigail could drive like a New York City cabbie. If Flynn hadn’t seen it for himself, he never would have believed what she could make that little beige Firefly do. She’d gotten past every one of the obstacles they’d set up. It was a good thing he’d been on his bike, or she would have lost him back at Sarah’s “stalled” van.

He clipped a fake power-company ID card to his shirt pocket. “What about boyfriends?”

“No data about that so far. I could get into her prescription records and find out if she’s gone to a doctor for birth control.”

“No,” Flynn said immediately. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t like the idea of Intelligence digging quite that deeply into Abigail’s life. “I only wanted to know whether she might have company with her at her apartment.”

“Sorry, prescription records wouldn’t help you there. She has her mother, Clara Locke, listed as her next of kin. Parents live in Maryland. One older sister named Martha, a younger one named Eleanor, both married with kids.” Sarah paused. “Abigail and her sisters are named after first ladies. Seems like she’s not the only history buff in the family.”

Flynn reached the next landing just as the lights went out. The power failure didn’t startle him—evidently Specialist Gonzalez had located the main breakers in the basement and had done his job right on schedule. This was the reason Flynn was using the stairs to get to the seventeenth floor instead of the elevator. He waited where he was until the emergency light clicked on, then continued climbing.

“Vilyas has just received word from the LLA.” Redinger’s voice replaced Sarah’s. His words were even lower and more clipped than earlier—definitely a very bad sign. “They claim they were double-crossed, that he never left the ransom as he had agreed.”

“What did he tell them?” Flynn asked.

“Vilyas said he left the money but it was picked up by a schoolteacher.”

Flynn increased his pace, taking the stairs three at a time. Great. If the terrorists hadn’t followed Abigail from the museum, they’d be able to find her for sure, anyway, now that Vilyas had told them the ransom was picked up by a schoolteacher. They wouldn’t need the resources of Delta Force to be able to trace which schools had field trips at the museum today, all they’d need would be a telephone. It was only a matter of time before they narrowed it down and decided to come after Abigail and the money themselves.

“Wasn’t anyone with him when he took the call?” Flynn muttered. “Couldn’t they have stopped him from talking?”

“He was advised not to say anything, but the LLA put his son on the line and then struck the child. When Vilyas heard his son scream, he disregarded our instructions.”

Flynn felt a surge of adrenaline. The LLA had abused a helpless child. They would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. They wouldn’t care how many innocent people were hurt or how much collateral damage they did in the process.

Miss Abigail Locke, who turned thirty today, with her three library books and her little beige car was a sitting duck. He had to get the money away from her—or get her away from the ransom—as soon as possible.

“Is the kid okay?” Flynn asked.

“We have no way of knowing,” Redinger replied. “All we know is that he was alive and conscious ten minutes ago.”

“How long do you estimate I have before the LLA gets here?”

“We’re keeping our units in place to gridlock the traffic in the immediate area, so best-case scenario, you’ll have thirty minutes.”

He didn’t need to ask what the worst-case scenario was, Flynn thought, hearing footsteps in the stairwell below him. He waited until he could be sure the footsteps were retreating—probably one of the building’s tenants, nervous about the power failure. He placed his hand on the door to the seventeenth floor. “What’s the latest from the electronics in the pack?”

“The pack is stationary, somewhere in her apartment.”

“Has she opened it?”

“Unlikely. The mike didn’t pick up any sound to indicate the buckle was being unfastened.”

“Did it pick up anything?”

“Only a phone call from her mother. They’re expecting her for dinner.”

“Maybe I should wait until she goes out.”

“The LLA won’t wait if they find her first.”

“Right. What’s she doing now?”

“Nothing on the mike except some shuffling sounds. Probably trying to find her way around in the dark.”

“Okay. Keep me posted. I’m going in.”

* * *

Abbie balanced on one foot to put on her shoe as she peered through the peephole in the door. She tried to make out the features of the man who stood there, but the beam from the emergency light at the end of the corridor didn’t reach this far. All she could see was a tall, broad-shouldered figure with some kind of tool belt strapped around his hips.

“Who is it?” she called through the door.

“I’m with the power company, ma’am.”

She buttoned her blouse and tucked it into her skirt, thankful that she’d finished her shower before the lights had gone out. The bathroom had no window, so it had been pitch-black, but at least there had been enough light from the dusk filtering through the other windows for her to find some clothes. “That was fast,” she said.

“There’s a problem with the wiring in the building. We’ve traced it to a circuit in your apartment. I need to check it out.”

Water dripped from the ends of her hair onto her shoulders. “What?”

“Do you mind letting me in?”

She opened the door to the limit of the security bar. “Do you have any identification?”

There was a rustle of fabric as he reached for something on his chest. “Here’s my I.D. card.”

She squinted at the card, but all she could make out was a pale rectangular blur. “Sorry, I can’t—”

“Hang on.” He took a flashlight from his belt, clicked it on and directed it toward the card. “This should help.”

The suddenly bright beam made her blink. She looked at the printing on the card. Flynn O’Toole. Sure enough, he was an employee of the power company. She glanced at the small color photo in the corner. Her grip on the door tightened.

Who had ID photos that turned out like that? Even the stark head-on flash couldn’t hurt that square jaw and those high cheekbones. A picture like that should be gracing an ad for designer cologne, not an identification card for the electric company. She raised her gaze to his face.

The photo wasn’t that good after all. He looked far better in the flesh.

Good Lord, but he was gorgeous. Not in a pretty, cover-boy way, but like a man. All man. Those deep-set, thick-lashed blue eyes gleamed with quiet male confidence. His nose was bold and straight, his lips framed by twin lines that etched their way down from the hollows of his cheeks. His hair was black, curling over the tips of his ears and the back of his collar in a way that invited a tousling. In his plaid flannel shirt and his snug-fitting jeans, he looked rugged but approachable, a natural-born heartbreaker.