Years later she met Donovan Nash, a pilot who had just the right amounts of flash and substance, and he was definitely charismatic. Donovan was tall, his tousled brown hair a contrast to his deep blue eyes. He carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who was in charge but didn’t flaunt the fact. She remembered how he zeroed in on her from the moment they met and she’d been swept off her feet by a man who was smart, capable, had a strong silent side and was one of the handsomest men she’d ever dated. Their chemistry clicked, and they’d begun a torrid romance in between missions flying his Eco-Watch Gulfstream jets high above the fury of Atlantic hurricanes. They were heady times, right up until she’d left him.
Her attraction to him had blinded her. Donovan had a private side, which at first seemed romantic and mysterious, but which she could never break through, let alone get invited in, and eventually the secrets, the half-truths, the evasiveness, became too much. His inability to communicate past a certain point made her decision for her, and suspecting another woman, she walked out on him. She’d been heartsick, the first month beyond miserable, but she pushed past her breakup with Donovan and put him firmly in her past, knowing it was for the best. Two weeks after that decision, she discovered she was pregnant.
Something moved in the brush to her left, and Lauren quietly raised the pistol and waited. The grass rustled again and a fawn stepped cautiously into the clearing. Round doe eyes finally spotted Lauren, and the startled deer flinched twice and then stopped and studied Lauren briefly before slinking out of sight in the overgrowth.
Abigail would have been so thrilled to see the fawn, and Lauren felt her state of mind crumble at the thought of her daughter. Abigail was so perfect, a little mixture of her intelligence and her father’s fearlessness. It was a potent combination for a five-year-old, but Abigail was also poised, articulate, and self-assured. For months, after she found out she was expecting, Lauren went back and forth as to whether to tell Donovan he was going to be a father. In the end she decided that her reasons for letting him go were valid. There was no way she was going to live with a man who was emotionally closed off and distant. Both she and Abigail deserved better. It would be in everyone’s best interest if that door remained closed.
She didn’t see him again for almost eighteen months. It was in Bermuda. There was a car wreck and she was dying, trapped upside down in an overturned car, while Hurricane Helena rolled in from the open ocean and pummeled the tiny island. Torrential rain began to fill the car with water. She remembered every detail. Trapped upside down, she called for help, as inch by inch, the water reached her head then slowly covered both her eyes and nose. She remembered thrashing frantically, trying to stretch for just one more breath, to live a few more seconds. The next thing she remembered was choking up water, looking into Donovan’s blue eyes.
Three days later, he told her he loved her and confessed his secret: that Donovan Nash was a name he’d taken from a very distant relative, that his real name was Robert Huntington. In that instant, with those two words, Lauren understood. Long-dead parents, Meredith Barnes, the murdered fiancée the world blamed him for killing. The onetime playboy with unlimited resources had staged his death and then changed, evolved into the bravest, most capable man she’d ever met. Fiercely loyal, impatient, intelligent, and one of the most loving, yet fragile and damaged, souls she’d ever met. She loved him, and no matter what happened, she would always love him, and she took great comfort in the knowledge that he felt the same way about her.
Lauren took in her immediate surroundings. The sun was low on the horizon. By now Donovan had most likely been given the news, probably by Calvin. She had no idea what the DIA knew, or what Donovan’s state of mind was, or how he was reacting. In his life he’d experienced the deaths of those closest to him, and survived, but barely. Those events had scarred him deeply. Lauren’s hope was that if she didn’t survive, Abigail would be the difference. Maybe their daughter would create a foundation that would keep Donovan grounded, stop him from retreating and spiraling into himself and the darkness that waited there.
She felt the jump drive in her pocket. Its contents needed to be seen—but how to do that quickly? She didn’t have a ready answer. The one thing she knew for sure was that the CIA wasn’t coming. She was on her own. Her thoughts returned to Donovan. Whatever he was doing, more than anything, she needed him to be on his way to her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DONOVAN SAT RIGID in the leather seat of the Gulfstream V, impatient for the pilots to start the takeoff roll. The twin turbofan engines finally spooled up and sent the airplane hurtling down the runway for the six hour and fifty-one minute flight to Vienna.
“How’s Abigail?” Montero asked.
“She’s good,” Donovan said. “You know her, everything is an adventure.”
“Wonder who she inherited that from?” Montero said.
“I explained that Mommy had been delayed in Europe, and that I was going to go help her and would she mind if Grandpa William took her to her grandmother’s for a few days. Her only concern was that she’d be able to go to her next riding lesson. I promised her she’d not miss a single day with Halley. I packed her a bag, and she blew me a kiss from the back of William’s car. She’s fine.” Donovan didn’t want to consider how much of what he’d just described would change if something happened to Lauren.
As if reading his thoughts, Montero turned her attention out the window.
The airplane broke ground, and Donovan listened for the familiar sounds of the landing gear being pulled up into the wheel wells, the flaps being retracted, small power changes as they turned northeast. Donovan knew their route would eventually intercept one of the designated North Atlantic Tracks, invisible airways calculated to separate the traffic as well as take the best advantage of the prevailing westerly winds across the ocean. He’d done it himself hundreds of times, though for once he was happy to be in the back of the plane instead of flying.
Donovan heard a phone ring somewhere in the cabin and then someone calling his name. He turned and found Karen, their flight attendant, standing in the aisle.
“Mr. Nash, Mr. Foster is on the phone,” Karen said, as she politely gestured toward the compartment that held the satellite phone.
“Thanks,” Donovan pulled out the phone, more than a little curious why Mark would be calling so soon after takeoff. “Mark, what’s up?”
“I wanted to reach you before you tried to catch a nap. It’s about your helicopter.”
“That was quick.” Donovan reached for the pen in his pocket.
“It was quick because there are no helicopters to be had. There’s some sort of big auto race beginning this week in Vienna and everything is booked solid. The closest helicopters for charter are out of Berlin, or Geneva, and even then they only had a few days of availability. Sorry. I told them to contact me if there were any changes.”
“Thanks, Mark.” Donovan replaced the phone, threw off his seat belt, and nodded to Montero to join him in the back of the plane. Michael had a chart spread out on an open table. As Donovan approached, he knew exactly what Michael was studying, the Danube River between Bratislava and Budapest.
“What was the phone call?” Michael asked.
“I’d asked Mark to charter us a helicopter,” Donovan said. “Turns out there aren’t any available in the area. The closest one is in Geneva, and even then there was a pretty small window where we could have guaranteed access.”
Montero pulled her laptop closer and began typing. Seconds later she’d pulled up a page and spun the screen around so Donovan could see.
Donovan leaned down and saw that she’d found an aircraft broker in Europe and there were listings for thirty-seven individual helicopters. Montero may have opened the door to a solution, but now there were several other problems. “Let’s say we can talk William into fronting us the money to buy one, who do we get to fly the thing?”
“I say we call Reggie Cornell.” Michael reached for his briefcase. “R
emember him? He’s the former SAS operative in London who put together the team that extracted Lauren, Abigail, and Stephanie from Paris. I assembled all the after-action reports. He’s a solid guy.”
“Do it,” Donovan returned to his seat as Michael scrolled through his tablet and then picked up the phone and dialed.
“Is this Reggie? This is Michael Ross with Eco-Watch. I appreciate you taking my call. I’m sorry for the late hour, but we need your help. I’m going to hand you off to my boss, Donovan Nash.”
Donovan took the phone from Michael. “Mr. Cornell, Donovan Nash here, it’s nice to finally be able to thank you in person for saving my family.”
“Mr. Nash, it was my pleasure, that was one of the easy ones. How can I help you tonight?”
“I can’t say much on this line, but I need a helicopter pilot in Vienna by tomorrow.”
“Same bit of business as Paris?” Reggie asked.
“Something like that, can you help me?”
“What kind of machine are we dealing with? Is this an urban job, open terrain, over water?”
“No open water, probably urban. Let’s call it an Eastern European theatre of operation,” Donovan glanced at the screen of Montero’s computer. “As to what machine, find me the best pilot you can, and then ask him what he prefers, and it’ll be made available.”
“Same pay schedule as before?” Reggie asked.
Donovan had no idea what the rate had been, and he didn’t care. “If you can put this together, and the pilot can be in Vienna by noon tomorrow, I’ll double the rate.”
“You sound like a man going to war. Are you sure you don’t need the services of more than just a single pilot? I have a team I can assemble on short notice.”
“I’ll keep you in mind, but for now, one pilot is all I need.”
“I have someone I trust. Call me back in ten minutes,” Reggie said and promptly hung up.
“What did he say?” Michael asked. “Can he help us?”
“He said he’s got a guy in mind. We’re to call him back in ten minutes.”
Montero spun her computer around. “I’m going to separate these helicopters geographically, and then by type. Once we know what the pilot prefers, we can make an offer on the best available helicopter within a workable distance in relation to Vienna.”
Michael’s eyes shot back to the screen of his tablet. “If the deal with Reggie falls through, then our next option might be to contact Airbus Helicopters, they’d love to sell a helicopter to Eco-Watch.”
“That’s the problem, we’re not Eco-Watch,” Donovan said. “Officially, we’re friends of Lauren McKenna, who is currently presumed missing while traveling in Slovakia. Technically, we’re mercenaries on a rescue mission.”
“Are you carrying a gun?” Michael asked Donovan.
“I’m in charge of the guns, among other things, and we’re all going to carry them,” Montero said without looking up. “We all know how to defend ourselves, so it makes sense we should have the tools. Once we’re on the ground, I’ll issue firearms, and there will be a briefing.”
“Wow,” Michael said. “No hesitation there.”
Montero stopped writing and looked up. “What’s the one thing you’d like to have if you find yourself in a gunfight? Exactly—a gun. As someone who’ll likely be in the same gunfight, I want you to have one as well. Okay, I think I’ve narrowed this down. These are all of the helicopters that are available in Europe within a three-hour ferry flight to Vienna. There are eleven. I’ve listed them by type and location.”
“Nice work.” Donovan scanned the list. “What are these numbers?”
“Prices,” Montero said, “I converted them all to U.S. dollar amounts.”
“I see,” Donovan nodded his understanding. She’d included that information purely for Michael’s benefit. She knew as well as he did that money wasn’t an object.
“It’s about time to call Reggie back,” Michael said.
Donovan studied the satellite phone momentarily and then pressed redial.
“Right on time,” Reggie said as a way of greeting. “His name is Trevor Emerson, former SAS, none better. I have a phone number. Are you ready to copy?”
Donovan wrote down the number, read it back, and then thanked Reggie and severed the connection. Using his thumb, Donovan punched in Trevor’s number and then waited for the call to go through.
“Hello,” a man’s voice answered.
“Trevor, my name is Donovan. Reggie said to call.”
“How’s the missus and the little one? Doing well, I hope?”
“You were there?” Donovan asked.
“I’m always Reggie’s first choice, so, yeah, I was flying that one.”
“Thank you so much, you saved lives that day.”
“Very good, then, how can I help you?”
“We have a missing persons case. Their last known whereabouts are not certain, but we believe it could be Slovakia. Right now I’m on a jet flying to Vienna, and I want to add a helicopter to the operation to be used for possible extraction. You pick the machine, I’ll make it available.”
“How many missing persons are there?”
“I’m not certain, no more than two.”
“How large is your team?”
“Three.”
“Lean and mean, eh?” Trevor replied. “My preference would be a Eurocopter EC-130. There are plenty around, so it won’t draw all that much attention. It’s the right size and can take some punishment, if you know what I mean.”
Donovan scanned the list Montero had prepared. “There’s a three-year-old EC-130 T2 listed for sale in Salzburg, Austria. Would that work?”
Montero clicked on the link that pulled up the entire listing, complete with photographs, and turned the screen toward Donovan.
“Salzburg? Is it red with gold stripes?” Trevor asked.
“Yeah. Are you familiar with this machine?”
“I delivered it to the owner and did a bit of training for his crew. Rich bloke, another one of his odd toys, I suppose. I’m not surprised he’s selling. I heard he’d buggered up his fortune in the market. Yeah, it’s a nice machine, it’ll do nicely.”
“I’m going to put this in motion. Can my people reach you at this number?”
“Yeah, text me the information when you have it, as well as how I can reach you,” Trevor said. “How soon were you thinking?”
“I’m hoping we’ll close on this helicopter in the morning,” Donovan said. “Where are you now?”
“London, West side.”
“We’re going to charter a jet to get you to Salzburg. Would Farnborough Airport work?”
“Um yeah, sure, Farnborough’s fine.”
“Perfect, we’ll make the arrangements through TAG Aviation.”
“Mr. Nash, you’re in an awfully big hurry and spending a great deal of money,” Trevor said. “May I inquire exactly who it is that’s missing, and how messy this could end up being?”
“It’s my wife, and it could end up being very messy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I appreciate the candor,” Trevor said. “I’ll see you soon.”
Donovan was pleased with Trevor. The former SAS pilot hadn’t hesitated for a second about flying into a fight. Donovan exhaled slowly to clear his mind and then dialed William.
“William, it’s me. Are you somewhere you can talk?”
“Yes, I just delivered Abigail to Lauren’s mother, and I’m home now. Is there any news?”
“Nothing, though I do need to ask a few favors, and maybe borrow some money.”
“I’m listening,” William said, his voice letting Donovan know that he understood that Michael must be close.
“I need to buy a helicopter. Montero is sending you all the information as we speak. I need it as fast as humanly possible.”
“Let me walk to my computer,” William replied. “Okay, I’m opening her email. Got it. Salzburg, Austria? A Eurocopter E-130 for two point three million dollars?�
��
“That’s the one.”
“Shall I buy it through one of the Swiss companies?”
“Yes.” Donovan had layers upon layers of corporations, trusts, and financial entities that were used to keep his Huntington Oil fortune separate from Donovan Nash, who, as far as the world knew, was a salaried employee for a nonprofit organization.
“Okay, what else?” William asked.
“Can you set up a charter through TAG Aviation out of their Farnborough, England, facility? There’s a man by the name of Trevor Emerson, we’ll designate him as our agent in the purchase. He needs to get to Salzburg in time to coincide with the closing of the helicopter. All of his contact information should be in your inbox by now.”
“I’m assuming this is our helicopter pilot?”
“Yes, we got lucky. Have you heard any news from your Eastern European connections?”
“I made a few calls, nothing yet. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Not that I can think of. I’ll keep you posted.”
Donovan hung up, then turned toward the galley and caught Karen’s eye.
“How can I help you?” she said as she joined them in the rear of the plane.
“Do you have any Canadian whiskey aboard?” Donovan asked.
“Of course,” Karen smiled. “I believe you prefer McLoughlin & Steele?”
“Nice. Can you bring us three of those on the rocks?”
“Right away. When would you like me to serve dinner?”
Donovan had very little appetite, so he looked at Michael and Montero, who both shrugged indifference. He turned back to Karen. “Let’s eat early, and then maybe we’ll try and get some sleep.”
Moments later, Karen appeared at Donovan’s elbow with three whiskeys on a tray.
“Let’s take a short break,” Donovan said, passing out the drinks. “I want to thank you both for being here. I can’t imagine going at this alone.” They clinked glasses and then drank. Donovan savored the smooth whiskey and relished its satisfying heat in his chest.
Pegasus Down: A Donovan Nash Thriller (Donovan Nash Thrillers) Page 6
