Donovan ducked out of the salon, stepped back onto the pier, and headed back to the parking lot. They’d elected to leave the majority of their luggage in the rental car, reducing their load to a duffel bag and a daypack. Whatever happened, they’d have to come back and retrieve the car. When he returned to the Irish Wake, he tossed their belongings in the salon, then returned to the Cherokee.
They’d discussed their options and decided that instead of leaving the rental car in the parking lot of the marina where they’d stolen a boat, they’d move it to the lot of a nearby fitness center. Donovan backed the SUV into an unobtrusive slot between two buildings, parked the Cherokee, stepped out, and locked the car.
He stopped for a moment and looked at the March Point refinery complex situated across the bay. When he was at the helm of Huntington Oil, years ago, he’d been here several times. Donovan marveled at the improvements that had been made to the waterfront. A mill that at one time had churned out paper and noxious fumes was completely gone. Where it once stood the ground was graded flat and it looked like some basic utilities had been installed underground in preparation for the next phase. He shook off the visit to his former life, turned away, and began the short walk back to the marina.
As he neared the slip, he could hear the soft rumble of a diesel engine and the subtle gurgle of water being pumped overboard. He made his way to the starboard side and saw the soft glow from the instrument panel illuminating Erica’s face. She was seated in the captain’s chair, head down, studying a chart.
At hearing him return, she turned and smiled. “We’re ready. I’ve cast off every line except the one on the stern. Can you get it and we’ll be on our way?”
Donovan went back out, climbed onto the dock, and found the remaining line fixed tightly to the cleat. He undid the line, tossed the rope aboard, and boarded the trawler. He stood in the night air as Erica slipped the boat into gear and eased away from the dock. He heard the brief whine of the bow thruster as she used it to swing them around so they could maneuver down the row of boats toward the exit. With little noise and seemingly no effort, they glided free of the marina and Donovan secured the fenders.
“All set,” he said as he entered the salon and stood next to her. They were just clearing the breakwater. She’d switched on the running lights. Straight ahead was the deep-water terminal that offloaded the crude oil from the tankers. Huge pipes pumped the cargo from the ships to holding tanks at the refinery. Donovan felt a pang of nostalgia for his parents and the family business begun by his great-grandfather. He watched Erica switch the radio to an automated weather forecast, and they both listened intently to what they already knew. One front was moving through and another was on the way. Nothing had changed.
Donovan leaned over the chart table, located their position, and brought the chart over to Erica. “How exactly are we going to do this? Show me what you have in mind. Once we get to Vancouver Island, is there a specific place for us to go ashore, or do we make it up as we go?”
“You’re not a very good passenger, are you?”
“Yachting is like flying, the safest, most effective crews talk and plan.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I suck as a passenger. I suck even more committing felonies while operating completely in the dark.”
“Would you relax? I’ve never seen you when you didn’t believe you were in complete control and I’m rather enjoying the spectacle.” Erica moved the map under the light. “We’re right here between Guemes and Fidalgo islands. We’re going to go west between Blakely and Decatur Islands and then maneuver just north of Lopez, south of Orcas Island. From there we’ll cruise north of San Juan Island itself, cross into Canadian territory, and head for a little marina I know of just outside Sidney.”
Donovan estimated the distances involved. “How long is it going to take us?”
“The tide and currents are working against us, so it’ll be right at seven hours.”
“What about fuel? Will we have enough to get there and get back without having to refuel?”
“We’ve got five hundred gallons onboard. We’re burning less than three gallons per hour, so I figure we’ve got a range of about a thousand miles.”
Donovan surveyed the galley and salon, then turned his attention back to the instrumentation. Erica had a moving map generated by GPS, radar, sonar, and enough radio equipment to make him feel like he was aboard a jet airplane. In the dim light it was easy to imagine that the entire world was just the two of them.
“I love it out here.” Erica took a deep breath. “Smell the salt air mixed with the fir and pine trees. The Puget Sound and the waters north of here are so beautiful. In the summer you can see orcas, humpback whales, dolphins, seals, and a million seabirds. I still remember on clear days being able to see the Cascade Mountains to the east and the Olympic Mountains to the west. One day I’d love to live here full time and just cruise in my boat. Sometimes I think I must have been a mariner in a past life.”
Donovan couldn’t imagine anything more awful than a life at sea.
“How are you doing?” Erica looked up at him.
Donovan had been so caught up in the conversation that he hadn’t noticed that they’d moved out into open water. The waves weren’t large, but the boat was rising and falling. The knot in his stomach was there, but it wasn’t debilitating.
“With what?” he replied.
“I was referring to you being out here on the water.” Erica cocked her head to one side. “Why, is there something else on your mind?”
“Not at all,” Donovan turned his attention back to the chart.
Erica went up on her tiptoes and kissed him, then pulled away without breaking eye contact. “About earlier, I can’t explain why. Part of me is appalled. I mean you’re married. I couldn’t help but notice from the pictures I saw in Laguna that you have a beautiful wife and daughter. I told myself after Germany, I’d never do that again.”
“And the other part?”
“The other part of me wants you regardless of your situation. I mean, we may die tomorrow or the day after that. I get that now. So please don’t start talking about what we should or shouldn’t do or what anything means. I don’t want to deal with anything except the here and now.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me about your wife.”
“We’re separated.”
“For real? Or are you making that up?”
“It’s the truth. She left me and took our daughter with her.”
“Your daughter is so cute. How old is she? What’s her name?”
“Her name is Abigail and she’s three going on four. And I can already tell she’s going to be a handful one day.”
“I was like that once.” Erica smiled at some distant memory. “It only gets worse.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Cute. Why did your wife leave you?”
“I work too much. She felt neglected.” Donovan didn’t mind her asking the questions, but, as always, he went on heightened alert for fear of saying something that would threaten to unravel the tightly woven web of lies and deceit surrounding his past. “You know, it’s rarely one thing.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate your honesty. How long ago did she leave?”
“Seven months ago.”
“Did she leave you before or after the terrorist tried to kill you?”
“Just after. In fact, she left me right after I came out of surgery.”
“That’s a little harsh.”
“It had been a long time in coming, and to be honest, I deserved it. The stress leading up to that day was enormous. Not just for me, but for her as well. Stopping the terrorists and being injured was the catalyst, not the cause.”
“You were pretty heroic that day.”
“Not really. The FBI agent I was with did all the hard work. I landed the plane—I’m a pilot, that’s what we do.”
�
�I remember those images on television. The plane was pretty much destroyed.”
“In my defense, by the time we reached the airport, there wasn’t much of a plane left to land.”
“Still, for her to leave you while you were still in the hospital, she had to be pretty upset with you, or it could have been a response to the stress event. I’ve seen it before, kind of like post-traumatic stress disorder. She removed herself from a setting that was too unbearable to contemplate losing. It makes no sense, but it happens, especially to people who are unaware of the triggers.”
“My wife is one of the smartest and most analytical people I’ve ever met. She has a Ph.D from MIT. She works as an analyst for the Defense Intelligence Agency. I doubt that her leaving me was a spur-of-the-moment decision based on a whim, or anything triggered by a sudden event. She’s nothing if not deliberate, so I’m pretty sure that she’d been thinking about it for quite some time, and my behavior that day set it all into motion.”
“That says quite a bit.”
“About her?”
“No, about you.” Erica reached out, entwined her fingers with his, raised his hand to her lips, and kissed the back of his hand. “I know how you got the other scars. How did you get this one?”
“That one came from the same guy.”
“It’s not a knife wound.”
“It’s from a screwdriver. Why all the questions, and what is it you think you’ve learned?”
“I think you’re stronger than I thought you were and that you’re far more honest and forthright than most men. I’m your rebound, aren’t I? Figures you would find a woman who does things impulsively. I’m the exact opposite of your wife.”
It was the element that he found the most compelling about Erica. Lauren was many things, but she wasn’t spontaneous or whimsical and never would be.
“It’s okay. You’re my rebound of sorts, and you’re not anything like he was. You have a backbone. I like that in a man. Now, can you take over while I make some coffee? It’s going to be a long night for me, but I suggest you try to get some sleep.”
Erica pointed out the dark spot between the distant lights that he was to navigate toward, kissed him on the lips, and then disappeared down into the forward stateroom. Donovan moved over, sat in the chair, and felt the warmth she’d left behind. The vessel was on autopilot, but Donovan gripped the wheel anyway. All alone, he felt his fingers tighten and his breathing begin to accelerate. He battled his fear as it rose and fell in the moment, as if each swell were a distinct obstacle to try to live through. The uneasy sensation of being exposed to the ocean was familiar, but his thoughts of Erica and the comfort she generated—that feeling was completely foreign.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lauren felt the jet come to a stop. All she could think about was a hot bath and cool sheets. The flight attendant opened the door and a female customs inspector joined them in the cabin. Lauren handed her their passports and general declaration cards and hoped this would be over quickly. Even though there’d been a brief fuel stop in Goose Bay, Labrador, they’d spent nearly twelve hours aboard since they departed London. Thankfully the flight attendant had given Lauren a clean blouse to wear so she could dispose of the one stained with blood.
The official studied the paperwork, but when she saw Stephanie’s diplomatic passport, she skimmed over the rest and thanked them for their patience.
“Your car is pulling up to the plane now,” the captain said. “The local time is ten thirty. Have a good rest of your evening.”
“No one knows we’re here, how can we have a car?” Lauren said to Stephanie, her concern evident.
When Lauren saw William VanGelder stepping out of the backseat, her heart sunk. She thought she’d have a chance for some meaningful sleep before she had to face William.
“It’s Uncle William,” Stephanie said. “I wonder how he knew we were landing.”
“He’s William,” Lauren replied, as she wondered about that as well. If he’d found them, who else knew they were in Southern California?
Lauren let Stephanie go first. She and her uncle embraced at the foot of the airstair. Lauren trailed behind, having to contain Abigail when she saw the man she knew as Grandpa. Abigail squealed with unrestrained joy as William swept her into a gigantic hug.
Once Lauren and William locked eyes, whatever anger and imagined recrimination she thought she might find after all these months was absent. His eyes were warm and welcoming and he shifted Abigail to one arm and used the other to draw Lauren close enough to kiss her on the cheek.
“Welcome home,” William said. “You’ve been missed.”
“It’s good to see you too.” Lauren replied, touched by William’s words.
“I understand you have no luggage, so I suggest we get in the car,” William said, showing no intention of releasing Abigail. “It’s probably not wise to stand out here in the open like this. Get in.”
They all slipped into the rear club seating of the limo. The driver whisked them off the ramp and through the gate, and soon they were rolling south on the freeway.
“Where are we going?” Lauren asked. “And how did you know we were arriving?”
“I got a courtesy call from a friend in Ottawa. I unofficially flagged Stephanie’s diplomatic passport after rumors began to float out of Paris about a shootout and escape. He passed along that you were in Goose Bay headed to Los Angeles and gave me the tail number of the aircraft. The rest was easy.” William opened a compartment at his elbow and pulled out a box of juice and a straw for Abigail. He helped her insert the straw, and she happily took the drink. “As to where we’re going, I thought it best to rent a house in Laguna Beach near John and Beverly’s. The memorial service is day after tomorrow, and I’m still tied up with matters of their estate. I took the liberty of arranging clothes and toiletries for the three of you, to tide you over until you get some rest and can go shopping for yourselves.”
“William, that’s all well and good, and we appreciate everything you’ve done but—” Lauren hesitated as she shot a worrisome glance at Abigail. “You do understand there are people who might try and find us?”
“Steps have already been taken,” William replied. “I’ve spoken at length with Buck. He’s rented us a house on the recommendation of someone familiar with protection requirements. He also rounded up a security team from his acquaintances in the military. You’ll not be disturbed.”
“Where’s Donovan?” Lauren asked point-blank.
“Honestly, I have no idea,” William matched her tone.
“Is he with Erica Covington?”
“Yes. They’re hunting Garrick.”
“Does Donovan know about Paris?” Lauren asked.
“If he does, it’s only from the media.”
“Michael?”
“Same.”
“I have no idea what’s being said on television.” Lauren sat back and put her hand to her forehead, feeling her exhaustion. “Do we know about the people in my protection detail?”
“I’m sorry, they all died,” William said.
They were on the Pacific Coast Highway, and Lauren turned and stared out the window at the darkness she knew was the Pacific Ocean. She felt immensely sad and silently thanked Henri, Philippe, Giselle, and Fredrick. They’d died keeping her, Abigail, and Stephanie safe. She wished she could stop everything and weep for them. They’d become her friends, but that would have to come later.
“How much trouble are we in?” Stephanie asked.
“It’s containable. The French authorities are furious, of course, assassins chasing American agents and diplomats with Israeli bodyguards, border incursions by foreign helicopters. The list goes on and on, but they’re focused on the shooters and no footage of the two of you has been released to the media. The CIA is in a quiet uproar over the death of one of their own. They’re calling for your head, but they’ve quieted down for now.”
“How much of that is your doing?” Lauren asked.
�
�I made some calls,” William replied. “The woman assassin has been positively identified as Nikolett Kovarik, but we already knew that. She’s tied in with Garrick, though we’re not sure how or when their alliance began. She escaped Paris, but not before she killed an innocent bystander whose car she used to flee the scene. There was no shortage of witnesses who attested to the fact that Nikolett was clearly the predator. Bottom line: both you and Stephanie are wanted for questioning by Paris authorities. So for the time being, I wouldn’t hurry back to France.”
“Can you pass along to the CIA that Fredrick died trying to protect us? His actions the day before tipped us off that something was wrong. That saved our lives.”
“I can do that, but at some point you’re going to have to be debriefed by Langley.”
“They can wait. Any idea where Nikolett is now?” Lauren asked.
“None, but I can promise you, she’s not in France. She’s too smart to hang around. Besides her target isn’t in Europe anymore.”
“How much time did I buy?” Lauren asked.
“By doing what you did, you probably have a twenty-four-hour window before she catches up with you.”
“I won’t make it easy for her. I don’t plan to stay in one place.”
“What do you mean? The best place is here in Laguna Beach surrounded by Buck’s handpicked team.”
Lauren leaned forward toward William as if to emphasize how serious she was.
“I was surrounded by Aaron’s handpicked team, as well as a CIA operative, and Nikolett made quick work of them. From here on out, I’m the one in charge of my security.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Through the early morning fog, Donovan spotted the indistinct images of the other ships tied to mooring balls. Erica had the Irish Wake barely moving, using the radar to ease her way into the harbor. When he pointed to an empty mooring buoy, Erica nodded that she saw it as well. They’d discussed the maneuver, and Donovan was on the bow with the boat hook.
Erica followed Donovan’s hand signals and swung the bow twenty degrees starboard, shifted into forward for ten seconds, then eased it back into neutral to bring the boat to a gentle stop.
Deadly Echoes Page 14
