Fade to Blue, page 9
Jon completed his search. “I don’t see one.”
Marcel placed a call. “We have her. . . . Enter her house if you think it’s safe to do so. . . . Yes, it would be useful to know how she escaped. . . . Okay, goodbye.”
He walked over to Sarah and looked down at her. “Your rebellious nature is trying my patience. But, on the other hand, I admire your compétence sous le feu.”
He strode back to the bureau, raised the bottle of wine, and examined its label. “I also admire your taste in wines. If I’m forced to choose a California vintner, Caymus is a worthy selection. Would you care for some more?”
“Yes.”
He poured a few ounces of wine into the plastic cup and held it out for her. She looked at Jon. “He told me I couldn’t take my hands off the armrests.”
Marcel smiled. “It’s okay.”
Sarah took the cup in her trembling right hand and sipped. “How did you find me?”
He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned toward her. “I thought I’d made it quite clear; we’re very good at what we do. You’re a decent runner, but you’re no match for my surveillance team. I suspected you might remove the anklet, so we were more than prepared to follow you if you escaped.”
“I had no choice. You were going to kill me.”
Marcel chuckled. “Such a vivid imagination.”
“You accosted me. I didn’t imagine that,” Sarah said. “And I still don’t know who you are, or why you want my T-3.”
“Okay. I suppose we owe you an explanation,” he said. “I’m going to tell you the truth. I live in Paris and work for the Direction du renseignement militaire. I’m here to help your government carry out a mission.”
“A mission?”
“Yes. I’m sure you’ve heard of the terrorist organization Jaysh Allah. We know of an underground bunker where its central leadership resides. Unfortunately, the bunker is in an urban area—approximately seven meters beneath a neighborhood where thousands of people live. So, bombing it is out of the question.
“We considered pumping carbon monoxide or a poisonous gas into the compound, but they’ve installed air monitors and would be alerted. Besides, we’d have no control over a gas once it’s released. We could kill civilians.
“We even considered a ground assault,” Marcel continued. “Unfortunately, the compound is heavily guarded and booby-trapped, so an attack would prove costly. And the men we’re after could escape through a network of tunnels. So, while we’ve wanted to destroy this terrorist command center for some time, we had no plan.
“Then we learned of your drug.”
Marcel stood and began pacing. “Sarah, do you realize how much bottled water they carry into that compound? What if we could inject T-3 into those bottles? It’s possible that most of the leadership could be wiped out without firing a single shot. Without dropping one bomb. With no soldier or civilian casualties. That’s why we contacted you.”
Sarah looked up. “Then why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”
“Because we wanted to protect you.”
She exhaled derisively.
“It’s true,” Marcel said. “Let’s assume this mission is successful. We’d do our best to conceal your identity, but it could be leaked. If so, terrorists the world over would long to kidnap you. And if they succeeded? They’d grab you by your beautiful braids and saw off your head. Or throw you into a cage and set it alight.
“So, we chose a different ploy, albeit one more complicated. Now if our mission succeeds and your name is leaked, everyone will know you were coerced. You had no idea of the intended target. It could save your life.”
Sarah shot him disdainful eyes. “You threatened to kill me, but I’m supposed to believe you wanted to save my life.”
“I never aimed a rifle at your head. We just had to make sure you didn’t inform anyone. Without absolute secrecy, this mission could be jeopardized. You must believe me.”
“Then let me talk to someone at Homeland Security and see if they can vouch for you.”
Marcel shook his head. “They couldn’t do it. Neither Jon nor Collin is employed by your DHS. They work for a special, anti-terrorist task force that was created for this job.”
“Bullshit,” Sarah said.
Marcel shrugged. “Well, I guess I don’t know what else to tell you.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed, and his phone rang. He answered it and listened for several seconds before responding. “I agree. Jon and I will take her in my car. We should be there in four to five hours. Goodbye.”
He reached down, picked up her shoes, and dropped them at her feet. “Put them on. We’re leaving soon.”
“Where are you taking me?”
He ignored her question and looked at Jon. “I’ll be back shortly. I must speak with Collin.” He walked to the hotel room door, hesitated, and turned to his partner. “Oh, and she may have all the wine she wants,” he said and left the room.
Sarah took deep breaths and tried to convince herself that Marcel and his cohorts were anti-terrorist agents working for her government. But as she began to calm down, she considered the unthinkable: what if they were the terrorists?
She decided she had no choice but to attempt another escape. Of course, the odds of escaping a second time in one day were minuscule. Her physical and mental capacities were drained. And a man was holding her hostage.
Sarah looked at the door and figured she could reach it in three seconds. But three seconds seemed an eternity. She then remembered the syringe of Entoryl-XT. Was it still on the bureau?
She watched Jon walk over to the window. He parted the shades and looked outside. She put on her shoes, stood up, and took slow, deliberate steps toward the bureau. Jon whipped around. “Hey, I told you to stay in that chair.”
She stopped and raised her empty cup. “I’m just getting some more wine. Marcel said it was okay.”
Jon nodded an uneasy approval. “Okay. But if you run to the door or scream for help, those last four seconds of your life will be excruciatingly painful. Comprende?”
“Yes.”
Sarah reached the bureau, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the syringe. There it was. And within reach. But she sensed Jon’s stare and decided to let it be. Instead, she grabbed the wine bottle and poured a small amount into her cup. On her way back to the chair, she spotted her black hoodie at the foot of the bed and picked it up.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” Jon barked.
“I’m cold.”
He snatched it from her, searched the front pocket, and tossed it back.
“Thanks,” she said and pulled it down over her head. She sat in the chair, raised the cup of wine to her lips, and pretended to sip.
Jon picked up his phone and began a texting session with someone. She noticed a pattern. He’d type a few words, look at her, type a few more words, send his text, and watch her until he received a reply. Then he’d begin a new message.
While Jon was preoccupied with his phone, she poured the wine between the arm of her chair and the seat cushion and got up for another trip to the bureau. Jon watched as she refilled her cup and went back to his phone. She set the bottle down, scooped up the syringe, and slid it into the front pocket of her hoodie. Jon typed a few characters and shot her another glance. He saw nothing that concerned him. She walked back to her seat.
Marcel returned a few minutes later and spoke indiscernible words to Jon. Whatever he said triggered a discussion—or more accurately, an argument—conducted in hushed voices. From her ringside seat, Sarah watched them go at it. With each back and forth, Marcel and Jon grew more agitated, and she could only hope their exchange of barbs would escalate into an exchange of bullets. Their slugfest continued but remained verbal and never reached decibel levels unsuitable for a library.
“Excuse me,” she interjected.
They stopped jawing and looked at her.
“I need to use the restroom.”
“Wait,” Marcel said. He walked into the bathroom and searched for any weapons or hazardous materials she might have hidden. He reappeared, brushed away dust that had collected on his pants while kneeling on the bathroom floor, and checked his watch. “Okay. You have five minutes.”
Sarah walked into the bathroom, closed, and locked the door, and removed the syringe of Entoryl-XT from her hoodie pocket. While debating what to do next, she heard Marcel speak in an angry voice: “No, I didn’t take it. I left it on the bureau.” Jon’s response was inaudible. She placed an ear against the bathroom door and listened.
“You let her get up and walk?”
“Don’t blame me,” Jon replied. “If you’d gotten rid of the syringe after—”
“No, no,” Marcel snapped. “If you kept her confined to the chair, as you were supposed to do, we wouldn’t have this problem.”
“You said she could have all the wine she wanted.”
“Yes. But I never implied she could get up and walk around.”
A knock on the bathroom door startled her. “Sarah. I know you have the syringe,” Marcel said. “I want you to place it on the floor and come out.”
He backed away from the door and drew his gun. “You have ten seconds to come out.”
“Why don’t you come in?” Sarah replied dispassionately. “The door’s unlocked.”
“No, I’m not coming in.”
“That’s okay. I’m in no hurry. I’ll just wait.”
“Open the door, place the syringe on the floor, and come out now.”
The door creaked open just enough to allow a fine outline of light on three sides. Marcel looked at Jon. “Get me a long stick or a broom,” he whispered.
Jon left and returned with an ironing board. Marcel scoffed. “I don’t need to press my trousers.”
“This is a hotel room, not a fucking Home Depot. You find something better.”
Marcel put his gun away and grabbed the ironing board. He extended it and prodded the door open another inch.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m sitting on the floor against the wall,” Sarah said.
Marcel coaxed the door open wide enough to confirm her statement. She was indeed sitting on the floor and leaning against a wall. The syringe was in her right hand and pointed at her left forearm.
“We’re even. You have my T-3, and I have your two million dollars. Let me go.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said. “Now, put down the syringe and slide it across the floor to me.”
“Let me go, or I’ll inject myself. I swear to God I will.”
“Sarah, listen to me. We’re working for your government. We’re not the enemy.”
“Then why won’t you let me call Homeland Security?”
“Because this is a classified operation. No one at the DHS—or, for that matter, the FBI or the CIA—knows anything about our mission.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well then, what can I say?”
“Promise that if I inject myself, you’ll drop me off at a hospital.”
Marcel raised his hands in a conciliatory position. “You have my word.”
“Then say it. I want to hear you say it.”
“Okay. I promise that if you inject yourself, I’ll take you to a hospital. But please don’t do it. We need your help.”
At that moment, Sarah jabbed the needle into her forearm and pushed the plunger. Marcel flung the ironing board and took two steps toward her. She removed the needle from her arm and dropped the empty syringe to the floor. Her head fell back against the wall, and her eyes lazily searched the ceiling before closing.
He crouched in front of her and shook her upper body. “Sarah.”
Jon snickered. “That’s a trip.”
“Shut up, you fool,” Marcel said. He studied Sarah’s face and then grabbed her left wrist. He squeezed his other hand around her baby finger and bent it back until it was at a right angle. He bent it a few degrees more and heard a pop. Her expression didn’t change.
“What are you doing?” Jon asked.
“I had to make sure she’s not faking it,” Marcel replied. He laid her hand down, walked out of the bathroom, and placed a call. “I have good news. Sarah injected herself with T-3. We’re bringing her in.” He turned to his partner. “You stay with her. I’m going to speak with Collin.”
Marcel left, and Jon went over to the bed. He unzipped Sarah’s backpack, grabbed one of the stacks of hundred dollar bills, and stuffed it into a suit jacket pocket.
He was standing just outside the bathroom door and looking at Sarah when Marcel returned.
“Collin is moving my car. Are you ready?”
“Yeah, let’s do it,” he replied, and slung Sarah’s backpack over his shoulder. The two men hoisted Sarah off the bathroom floor and maneuvered her past the bed. Collin appeared at the door. “It’s clear. Hurry.”
They carried Sarah down the hallway, out a rear exit, and placed her in the back seat of Marcel’s rental car. Jon tossed the backpack next to her, closed the door, and got into the front passenger seat.
Marcel saw Collin backing up his car and called out to him. Collin lowered his window. “Yeah?”
“I want you to follow us back.”
“Why?”
“It’s best we stick together.”
chapter fourteen
An offshore storm was headed for Northern California. Marcel had heard that the first offerings of the rainy season made for slick roads and increased car accidents. A car accident could be their undoing, so he wanted to get to his destination before the atmospheric river unleashed its fury. But he stuck to the speed limit. He couldn’t risk a ticket or any questions a nosy highway patrol officer might ask about the unresponsive woman in the back seat.
Jon, who’d been surprisingly quiet since they left the Breezeway Motel, turned around and eyed Sarah. “So, what’s the deal with this drug?”
Marcel checked the speedometer again.
“Talk to me. Is she brain-dead?”
“Her drug destroys everything but the most basic functions necessary to sustain life.”
“Wow,” Jon said. “Do you realize that when I went into her room, she was locked and loaded? She was going to inject me with that shit.”
Yes. And it’s a shame she didn’t, Marcel thought but didn’t verbalize. His phone rang, and he answered the call. He listened for several seconds before speaking.
“Interesting. . . . Good. . . . Yes, it’s imperative you leave the letter she wrote to her boyfriend. He’s coming over to her house Friday evening. If he doesn’t see it, he might go to the police. . . . I agree. . . . Okay, goodbye.”
He slid his phone back into a suit jacket pocket and drove on without saying a word. Jon’s curiosity got the better of him, as Marcel knew it would. “Okay, so who called?”
“Sam. He led the entry into Sarah’s home. They discovered how she was able to escape. They also found two notes she left behind. One to her boyfriend and one to me.”
“Ooh, a perfumed note just for you. What did it say?”
“She feared we would kill her, so she decided to take the two million dollars and run. She wasn’t going to tell the authorities and, in exchange, asked that we leave her alone.”
“That’s it? Nothing about how she has the hots for you?”
Marcel ignored his partner and checked the rearview mirror. Headlights from passing cars illuminated Sarah’s face. She was motionless. Expressionless.
The two men, mindful of their caustic relationship and the long drive ahead, went several minutes without speaking. Eventually, Jon broke the silence. “Shit!” he blurted out.
Marcel flinched. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m missing the damn game. Do you mind if I listen to it?” Jon asked. He turned on the radio before getting a response and tapped through the FM spectrum until he found what he was searching for:
“Swing, and there’s a high fly ball to medium center field. Perez barely has to move. He makes the catch, and Elsberry is retired for the second out. That will bring up . . .”
Jon lowered the radio volume. “Hey, old man, do you like baseball?”
“No.”
“This is Giants and Padres. They’re tied for first place in the NL West.”
The designated hitter struck out to end the inning, and an animated voice began trumpeting the bargains at Toyota of Fremont.
Jon again turned to the back seat. This time he ogled Sarah for several seconds. “Hey, you know what I’m thinking. How about we stop at a motel for an hour. Wouldn’t that be cool? I mean, she’s not bad looking. Nice body. It would be like one of those date-rape drugs. Nobody will know. What do you say?”
He waited in vain for a response. “C’mon, what do you say?”
“You’re a despicable human being.”
Jon laughed. “Really? You practically ripped her finger off, but I’m despicable?”
“Again, I had to make sure she wasn’t faking it.”
“And obviously, she isn’t. Let’s take her to a motel and have some fun.”
“You disgust me.”
“Don’t give me that self-righteous bullshit. You know you’d like to do her. Hell, I’ll even let you go first.”
They drove on without further words until passing a sign that promised gas, food, and lodging in one mile. Jon eyed Marcel expectantly. “Let’s do it. It’s not like she’s going to tell anyone.”
Marcel flipped the turn signal, and a green dashboard light and clicking sound pulsated in unison. He took the exit and came to a stop at the bottom of the off-ramp. A right turn onto Mason Road delivered them to what Jon thought was their destination: the Best Western Motel. His eager anticipation gave way to puzzlement as Marcel drove past the motel and through an Exxon station before pulling into a remote spot in the parking lot of Lenka’s Family Restaurant.
“Why’d you park here?” Jon asked.
Marcel turned and looked out the back window. “I thought Collin was following us.”
“Okay, I’ll try again. Why’d you park here?”
“I need a cup of coffee, and I want her away from public view.”
