The Pact (A Sarah Roberts Thriller Book 17) (6 page)

But now Clara was gone. According to the caller, she was kidnapped and going to die unless he killed a random girl and proved it on video.

There was no guarantee that Clara would be set free. If the caller was to be believed, she was in Toronto, Canada, a world away, a six-hour time difference.

Anton drank a little wine from his goblet, still standing in Clara’s bedroom door, surveying her room. He set the glass on her desk and began looking through her notebooks.

He couldn’t believe she would fly to Canada without telling him a thing. They trusted each other. They were solid together. Unless the caller—or Damien—had told Clara who her father really was. If she knew what he did on a weekly basis in Aarhus, he had no doubt she would flee Denmark, and Canada was one of the best nations to start fresh. He’d heard people say that Denmark was a smaller version of Canada.

Clara’s notebooks spoke volumes of her hobbies, her interests, and a guy she was thinking of dating. Nothing in both of the ringed pads of paper talked of a trip to Canada. Where did she get the money? Did the caller supply the money? Did the caller persuade Clara to fly to Canada just to walk into a trap? But why? What was the personal gain? It seemed a little too elaborate.

She had to have been lured to Canada. Who could kidnap someone in Denmark and successfully transport them that far?

So many questions without any answers. He had no idea who called, why his daughter was in Canada, or what would happen next. Anton couldn’t think of a single enemy who would come after him in such a way.

The one thing he knew was that he was no murderer. That left him a week to solve this mystery and save his daughter. A week? Is that all his daughter was worth?

He slammed the notepad down on the desk as he tried to control his emotions. In one large gulp, he drank half of the glass of wine.

A search for her iPad or computer turned up empty. He saw Clara with her cell phone yesterday so he didn’t expect to find that in her room, either.

Without a single thread of evidence to go on, he drank the rest of his wine in Clara’s bedroom. He thought about her demeanor on the ride to Copenhagen yesterday. Nothing whatsoever seemed amiss. Not unless being happier than usual was a crime.

That led him to believe this wasn’t about him. Clara did not know about his weekly visits in Aarhus. She couldn’t know. If she knew the truth about him, she wouldn’t have acted as jubilant in the car. But why so happy? Was it the promise of a new life that drew her? Had she met someone online?

That made the most sense. The man who called with his proposal knew things about Anton that no one else did. If that was possible, then it wasn’t a stretch that the caller knew things about Clara. Things that would endear her to him. He could sell her on the kind of man he was by appealing to her interests and tastes. In other words, the caller lured his daughter away from him to use as bait to get Anton to do what he was asked to do.

It all came back to the question of why? Who gains?

The irony of a Danish National Cyber Crime Center Director being hacked and coerced into performing crimes was not lost on him. He spent all his time hunting hackers. If that was the case, then the caller would’ve hacked Anton’s personal computer.

He jumped up from Clara’s desk and ran to his home office. Seated behind his desk, he fired up his iMac. As usual, it didn’t take long. The normal picture was still there. He opened his files and found them all there and accounted for.

Then he clicked to access his personal folder, the password-protected one with the images Damien sent to him before he made the trip to the Aarhus hotel each week. Anton took his own photos as well. Sometimes he revisited his appointments through the week by scanning those photos.

The password window opened. He typed it in and clicked enter.

Password denied.

He frowned, rubbed his chin, thought about which of his several passwords he had used, then tried again.

Password denied.

His stomach dropped. His hands shook. If he couldn’t access that file he would have to take a hammer to his computer. If Damien had been arrested in Aarhus, and if he gave up his client list in some deal for a lenient sentence, then the authorities would be barging in Anton’s door within days, if not hours.

He needed to access that personal file and delete it, or destroy the computer.

One more try with an old password didn’t work. Nothing worked. He had been locked out of his personal file. Something he thought was impossible. Although he shouldn’t have. With all the hackers out there, the best, the elite, would easily be able to see everything on his hard drive.

The familiar email notification sounded and a rectangular bar slipped into the upper right corner of his screen announcing he had just received a new email.

It seemed like the room grew darker as he brought the mouse down and clicked on his mail icon.

The message came from
[email protected]
.

Against his better judgement, Anton clicked to open the message.

Anton Olafson,

You have tried three times to access your personal folder. Why? There is nothing there for you anymore. I have all the photos, all the proof. I have changed the passwords in your computer. Do you know why? Because I am untouchable. I do this because I can. I do this because I enjoy it. I do this because I love playing God.

Stop wasting time in attempts to cover your tracks and begin thinking about murder. You have just over six days left to do as I wish or Clara will decide to never come home again. Ever.

I’m watching. From every computer, from every street corner. I’m watching. Log onto this computer when you are ready to provide me with evidence of your deed. Make it real. Clara is counting on you to pull through for her. We all are.

Yours Truly,

Pain.

Anton sat back in his office chair, gasping for air, a hand on his chest. He read the last part without breathing, then gulped air like he was eating it. He clenched his clammy hands and tried to compose himself. He stared at the screen without seeing it, dazed by what he had read, breath still bursting in and out of his mouth.

The cursor on the screen moved.

He moaned and leaned back farther, tipping the chair. The cursor headed to the delete button.

Someone’s in my computer right now!
The thought screamed inside his head.

He lunged forward to grab the mouse, but it was no use. Whoever had taken over his screen—commandeered by remote screen-sharing—had full control.

The email got deleted.

The icon closed his email window. Then clicked on his personal file.

The password was entered from somewhere else, each letter or digit represented by an asterisk.

The file opened in front of him. Each and every picture of him with underage boys as he defiled them.

Even though he was sure he had blanched, heat rose to his face and his hands numbed.

Am I having a heart attack?

The hacker scrolled through the pictures, stopping on the most explicit ones. He enlarged one, zoomed in, then took a screen shot. Anton’s face was quite clear in the photo. So was the young boy’s face.

Damien had assured him none of the boys were under the age of fifteen, but Anton remembered this particular boy. Anton could’ve sworn he was younger than that, but didn’t debate it at the time.

And now the image filled his screen.

While someone else, somewhere in the world, stared at it, too.

He was ruined. As good as dead. He would never survive in prison.

The options were lose Clara forever and go to jail for sleeping with underage prostitutes, or kill a random woman and go to jail for murder. Those were his only two options because whoever had hacked into his home computer was good, better than good.

He was ruined.

His computer shut down remotely.

The room darkened as the screen clicked off.

Anton wept as he decided he would rather kill a random girl, someone who lived on the streets, than lose Clara.

He just hoped it would stop there.

But somehow he doubted it.

Chapter 7

Aaron moved behind a desk and produced a brochure. The Clock took it from him, his smile widening.

“I’m Aaron Stevens.” Aaron held out his hand. “This is my dojo. And you are?”

The Clock thrust out his hand and gave Aaron his real name. There was no harm in that as Aaron had less than twelve minutes to live.

“I’m Ansgar Holm.”

“Ansgar? Interesting name. Is that Finnish?”

“Danish. My last name, Holm, is derived from Old Norse, meaning small island. My parents lived on the Island of Fanø before I was born.”

“So you’re Danish, living in Canada.”

Ansgar eyed him for a brief moment wondering if Aaron knew more than he should.

“Danish background,” he said, his tone deeper. “American now, spending time in Canada.”

“Enough time to be interested in a class?” Aaron asked, his smile widening in return.

“That’s about it,” Ansgar said.

Aaron is on to me. I can feel it.

“We’ve got plenty of classes,” Aaron said. “Ones to suit all levels from beginners to avid street fighters to simple self-defense courses.”

Aaron went on for another minute detailing what one would benefit from joining his dojo. He seemed like a nice enough man. When meeting his kills before termination, Ansgar often wondered what that person did to warrant the hit. What could Aaron have done to make the client angry enough to not only want him dead, but to also blow up his business?

“Can I take this?” Ansgar held up the brochure. There were less than eight minutes left until the bombs he planted the previous evening decided to make their presence known.

“Of course.” Aaron stepped around the desk and stood in front of Ansgar. One on one, without martial art training, Ansgar was sure he could take Aaron in a fight. Although that was contingent on how good Aaron was. If he was Jet Li good, then maybe not. But as a Navy Seal, Ansgar had done serious hand-to-hand combat and was quite confident in his skill.

“How long are you in Canada?” Aaron asked.

“Six month contract,” Ansgar lied. “Plenty of time to work something out.”

A door opened along the side wall. The sound of students training increased in volume momentarily as a young man with a gym bag slung over his shoulder stepped into the main office. Skinny, small in stature, the man slipped past Ansgar, waved at Aaron, and opened the door to the street.

“Nice training in there today, Alex,” Aaron said. “Thanks.”

Ansgar watched Alex lope by until he was past the windows.

Ansgar checked his watch.

9:55 a.m.

Aaron’s got five minutes to live.

“Well, I must be going. Thanks for this.” He held up the brochure and backed toward the door.

“We’re here if you decide to come back and sign up.” Aaron moved behind the desk and dropped in his seat.

“Will do.”

Ansgar stepped outside where he waited until the door closed.

9:56 a.m.

Four minutes to fireworks. He wanted to be across the street and up a city block before his little friends did their deed.

One last turn to wave at Aaron, and then Ansgar started up the street. At the corner, he crossed with the light. While doing so, he glanced over his shoulder. No one had exited the dojo. It would blow in two minutes, killing everyone inside. Unfortunate for the students. How were they to know Aaron had pissed off someone important? Someone with money. Someone who could remain anonymous and murder so easily.

Ansgar assessed his distance to be enough, but to avoid a random piece of shrapnel, he moved down another ten feet and leaned against a building’s column. If anything flew his way, it would make contact with the column first.

9:59 a.m.

No one had left the building.

Ansgar watched a Toronto taxi drive by. A woman in a business skirt hustled down the sidewalk toward the dojo.

“Don’t walk so fast, my pretty,” he mumbled to himself.

She made the street light where he had just crossed moments before and had to stop for the red light.

It was funny how fate worked. Fate was a fickle bitch at best. One day soon that woman will realize that her life was saved by a red light.

He checked his watch.

Ten seconds left.

He closed his eyes and counted them down in his head. On the third to last second, Ansgar opened his eyes and peered down at the entrance to the dojo.