The Pact (A Sarah Roberts Thriller Book 17)

by Jonas Saul

  A Canadian.

  “Yeah. Not so bad, though.”

  She had the luxury of not fearing what other people feared. For Vivian to tell their father what flight to place Sarah on meant this flight would make it to Toronto as well as the subsequent flights to Denmark. Unless of course Sarah was supposed to endure another plane crash like the time she landed in Amsterdam just a few months ago.

  “My name’s Glenn.” He extended a hand. “They call me Splinter. I’m a jazz player. Horns.”

  “Sarah.” She shook his hand, hoping he didn’t care about her clammy palm. “They just call me crazy,” she added. “I like jazz. But the horns I’m familiar with are the ones on top of people’s heads.”

  He offered her a warm grin. “Like those bastards in Toronto.”

  A rush of warmth came to her face as she leaned closer. “What bastards?”

  “You haven’t heard what happened in Toronto this morning?” Glenn held up his iPad. “It’s all over the news.”

  Sarah gawked at the picture. A building had been destroyed. Two Toronto firefighters were in the photo, black hoses behind them, streams of water shooting out in front of them. In the scene, part of a yellow rope had cordoned off the area. Every ounce of her being knew this had to be related to her or Aaron but she refused to believe it at first glance.

  “What happened?” she asked, maintaining a modicum of control over her voice.

  Glenn leaned back in his chair and looked down at his iPad.

  “Terrorists are claiming responsibility. Some breakaway sect of the Taliban.” He faced her, eyebrows raised. “Can you believe that? In Toronto?”

  “What did they do?” She swallowed. “I mean, what building did they blow up? A government one? A newspaper?”

  “A gym.” He slapped his armrest and stared straight ahead as if in thought. “Why a gym? How is that strategic in any way? Can you believe that?” He seemed to have a habit of asking her if she believed things. Glenn added. “They interviewed a witness, too.”

  A gym? Where people workout? Or train? Like a dojo?

  Glenn kept talking. “Apparently it was a martial arts place. Some guy who remained anonymous said he was a student there. Barely escaped with his life. Left minutes before the explosion.”

  Sarah struggled to breathe.

  Martial arts place.

  It couldn’t be. Downtown Toronto. Martial arts. Aaron’s dojo was downtown.

  Turbulence shook the plane. Sarah’s stomach roiled.

  Glenn kept talking. “The owner was inside. An entire class was doing a routine when it went sky high at precisely ten in the morning.” Glenn shook his head. “So sad. They interviewed a woman who had been crossing the street.” He held up the iPad to show the picture of the woman. “Interviewed her on a stretcher. She caught a leg wound from flying debris. Saved by a red light, she claimed. I just can’t believe this is happening in Toronto. Just as our prime minister pulls all our resources out of Syria, then this.”

  Sarah had a hard time focusing. Her mouth had gone dry. She broke into a cold sweat. She needed to know but couldn’t ask if they’d offered any names in the news.

  Glenn continued talking about it, head down, staring at his iPad. She couldn’t shut him up even if she wanted to.

  “Some guy named Aaron Stevens ran the gym. The student who made it out in time named him along with several others as being inside the building when it blew. Police have not confirmed names other than to say that there were several bodies among the smoldering debris.” Glenn shook his head back and forth, a finger at his lips now. “So sad.”

  The plane bumped after hitting a rough patch of turbulence. The seatbelt light came on. An announcement followed that people were to remain in their seats until the captain turned off the seatbelt light.

  Sarah jumped from her seat, pushed past Glenn’s legs, and ran up the aisle for the toilet. Nausea had crept up fast. She was suddenly very weak and needed to vomit.

  Aaron was dead.

  They all but confirmed it on the news without reaching out to next of kin first. After all he had done in his short life, the disrespect was a travesty.

  It was her fault. Aaron died because of Sarah. How could she live with that? The weight was too much to bear.

  She wrenched open the bathroom door, slipped inside, and slammed it shut behind her.

  Before she vomited the second time, a flight attendant knocked on the door.

  “You have to return to your seat, ma’am.”

  The truth, the reality that Aaron was dead and Vivian did nothing to stop her from sending him to Toronto when she was in Vegas and still in her head made her vomit again. How could Vivian be so cruel after all they had done together? How could she be sure Aaron would receive a letter from her in time? Was this Vivian’s way of freeing up Sarah’s time? To have her all to herself?

  The flight attendant knocked again.

  Sarah ignored her and slouched on the tiny floor of the lavatory. She lowered her head into her crossed arms and waited for the shivering and the pain to stop.

  It didn’t.

  Chapter 9

  Anton Olafson woke with a splitting headache. The images from his computer screen rose to his consciousness. The nightmare crept back in and with it came a weight, pushing down on him. A weight of his own doing. And undoing.

  He rolled off the bed and sat on the edge. Six days left. Then what? The hacker would expose him? And what if he really did kill a random girl, then what? Who’s to say the hacker wouldn’t expose him anyway?

  How would he keep Clara safe? That had to be the question. The right thing to do was whatever got Clara to safety. Once she was safe, he would deal with the aftermath.

  According to the hacker, the only way to get Clara back was to commit murder and offer the hacker proof.

  He decided that if killing a random girl meant Clara could come home, then he would do it. Anton would spend a decade or two in jail for what he had already done to those boys. It would matter little to add to his arrest record if that meant Clara could come home.

  Clara’s safety had to be his focus.

  Emboldened by his decision, he got in the shower, dressed and headed for his home office. No messages from Clara. He called work and booked a week off. There were plenty of sick days to accommodate him.

  After a breakfast of rugbrød with cheese and jam, and a small wienerbrød, Anton dressed and headed out for a walk. It was time to scout areas of Skanderborg for a random girl to kill.

  Refusing to turn on his computer for fear of it being taken over in front of him, he left all electronics at home. Today was a scouting day. He would deal with the hacker tonight.

  The sun warmed his back as he walked toward the center of Skanderborg. The smell of Kvickly’s bakery wafted out to him as he walked by the store. People were headed to work. Others were shopping. Mothers pushed strollers and left some outside stores as they browsed inside. Life went on in small-town Denmark while Anton searched for someone to kill in order to save his daughter’s life.

  By the time he crossed Asylgade Street and started past the Løvbjerg grocery store, he turned around and headed back the way he had come.

  This was ridiculous. There was no way he could grab a human being off the street and murder them. The thought angered him. To be in such a position was maddening. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.

  To him, Clara’s life meant more than any stranger’s life. That was an easy deduction. But who would he kill? And in that final moment, just as he was about to do the deed, would he be able to go through with it? If not, criminal charges of kidnapping, or even attempted murder, could be leveled against him.

  It had to be all the way, or nothing. Get Clara free and turn himself in. The police would probably be waiting for him when he got home anyway. What was to stop Damien from talking?

  He passed an old neighbor. Gunter smiled and waved. Anton waved back, but kept his head down. He passed the Bog & Idé store. Books and Ideas. A lar
ge orange sign in their window announced they were having a “Slut Spurt.” Even though it translated to “Final Sale” in English, many foreigners snickered at the choice of words.

  At the Kvickly again, instead of heading home, he turned left and followed Banegårdsvej, which led to the train station. The internal conflict and frustration with the situation he found himself in didn’t allow him to go home yet. There was nothing to do there but brood alone. Clara was gone. The house was silent, empty, with only the computer to keep him company, and he didn’t want to turn the damn thing on.

  Uninterrupted all the way up Banegårdsvej, he made it to the train station, where he entered the 7-11 convenience store attached to the station and bought a coffee. The clerk was friendly but Anton wasn’t in the mood. Even with a nice car like the Tesla, he still rode the train to Aarhus frequently. People recognized him here. He was a friendly face.

  An idea began to form. In one respect, people familiar with him here was a good thing. When a girl went missing from the train station, no one would suspect him. He worked for the government. He used the trains often.

  He stepped outside the 7-11 and stood out in the sun on the platform, sipping his coffee. He would do it right here. A girl coming home from Aarhus. A girl traveling to Skanderborg from Copenhagen. Traveling by herself.

  Anton would come each day and buy a ticket and wait for the train. He would do it at least twice a day until he saw the right opportunity, the right girl. Then he would pounce. In order to do that, he would need a few things first. Chloroform. A rental car. He could never use his own. He would follow his victim into the downstairs tunnel walkway under Jernbanevej, the 445. As she exited the walkway, Anton would jump on her, wrestle her to the ground, apply chloroform.

  Once she was packed in his rental car trunk, he could easily drive her to his home, enter the garage, and in privacy take her to the spare room where everything would be prepared for her to die.

  Save Clara. That was how he needed to look at this. Save Clara at all costs.

  His new mantra: Save Clara.

  He had to forget about himself, his life. Everything he did had to be for his daughter. He had ruined his life. Taking those pictures of his trysts in Aarhus were for him and him alone. When aroused, he could use those pics, remember the time he had with his conquests. But those pictures would be his downfall now.

  Inside the small train station, Anton took a seat in a small room to the side where people ate pastries and drank coffee. He remained there long enough to drink the rest of his coffee and only stopped when the last few sips were cold. He watched people come and go. Three trains stopped and left in that time. He saw young girls, older women, people traveling alone, couples, and several groups of teens laughing and joking with each other, each with a cell phone in hand. Not a care in the world other than their homework load.

  What he didn’t see was someone as alone as he was. Someone with a similar level of torment, anguish. Denmark was often quoted as being the happiest country on Earth, but Anton wasn’t feeling much of it at the moment.

  In fact, depression settled over him. And this depression was the kind only murder could solve.

  He got up from the bench after an hour and headed home, confident now that within two to three days he would kill a lonely girl to save his daughter.

  For Clara, he would kill a dozen if tasked to do so.

  She was all he had left in the world and he wouldn’t let her go quietly.

  “Save Clara,” he whispered. “Save Clara.”

  Chapter 10

  Ansgar Holm, AKA The Clock, kept what he knew about the man named Alex to himself. The client didn’t need to know about Alex, the student who followed him up the street after the dojo blew up. As far as The Clock was concerned, no one needed to know about Alex. It was an error. A minor mistake that led to nothing. Alex would die and the error would be resolved.

  The media reported a witness—one of Aaron’s students—who got out minutes before the bomb exploded. This witness wanted to remain anonymous. That could be for a plethora of reasons. One in particular was to remain anonymous to The Clock. Alex didn’t want Ansgar learning his name. If Alex truly believed Ansgar razed the dojo, he was staying mum about it with the authorities or the police were keeping it from the media.

  Ansgar turned on his blinker and turned into the Travel Inn Airport Hotel by the Toronto Airport. Clara Olafson had checked in yesterday after flying in from Denmark. The client had tasked Ansgar to keep her company in her room. Keep her quiet, feed her. Don’t let her leave. Then escort her out of the room five days later and discard the body.

  After parking, Ansgar reread the text from the client. Subject must be responsive and available for a phone call for the entire five days.

  Not a problem.

  He collected his backpack and started for the hotel’s front desk.

  The client was thoughtful. It was one of the reasons Ansgar enjoyed working with this particular client. He had arranged two rooms side by side on the tenth floor. At the end of the hall, room 1032 was Clara’s. Across the hall, room 1034 was his. They were reserved for the week. Prepaid and arranged in Ansgar’s alias.

  As far as the client understood, Clara was in her room at that moment, waiting for a man to show up and drive her to meet a prospective boyfriend. Although that would not be happening. Clara wasn’t going anywhere and there was no boyfriend, just a fake account on a dating website.

  Several people milled around the lobby of the hotel, but there was no one in line to check in. A family of four sat by their suitcases, staring at a TV suspended from the wall as a newscaster relayed the day’s notable events. The sound trickled out of the TV, barely noticeable.

  Ansgar walked up to the check-in counter and placed his Canadian driver’s license and credit card in the name of Peter Ford on the desk.

  “Checkin’ in,” he said. When he was Peter, an entirely different image emerged from his character. He was chipper, seemed permanently elated about something, and smiled wide at everybody. Nothing you would expect from an ex-Navy Seal hitman.

  “Name, sir?” the clerk asked.

  “Ford, Peter Ford.” He gestured at the computer. “You probably have me in the system.” He clucked his tongue. “Ford. Like in Rob Ford. Ex-Mayor. Rest his soul.”

  The clerk—Karen by the name tag—squinted at the screen at the mention of Rob Ford. She used her finger to follow something, then stopped.

  “Here it is. Got it. You’re in room 1034.”

  “Oh, how perfect.” He offered her a wide grin. “Is that facing the airport?” he asked, knowing full well it was.

  Karen smiled back, probably relieved they weren’t talking about Rob Ford anymore. “It does,” she said. “Now, if I could just get your credit card—”

  “Go ahead.” Ansgar pushed the card toward her. “Your tag says Karen but the last name is scratched off.” He squinted and leaned in. “It looks like Karen Dove.” He stood up straight. “I have to ask.” He reared back in glee. “Is your last name Dove?”

  Color rose to her cheeks at his odd attempt at merriment. She tilted her head sideways, eyebrows raised, an embarrassed smile on her lips.

  “It is.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” he said. He clapped his hands together once. “I just love doves.”

  She handed him back his credit card and a paper to sign. All business.

  “I put a preauthorization on your card for the room.” She moved back to her computer screen and typed something. “Will you be parking a car with us?”

  “Yes ma’am. I have a rental out back.”

  “There’s a ten dollar a day parking fee.”

  “That’s no problem. Just add it to my bill.”

  As she placed a room key card on the counter, the TV in the lobby rose in volume. The family of four waiting with luggage for a ride to the airport had turned up the TV. The screen was filled with firemen in their gear as the anchor spoke of terrorism on the streets of Toronto. The fa
ther of the family shook his head slowly, a worried look on the mother’s face.

  “Here’s your ID and your room key, sir.” Karen Dove moved everything across the top of the counter toward him. “Is there anything else you’ll be needing?”

  “Dinner and wine sent up to the room would be great.” He offered her a final grin that could not be contained. One fueled by how perfect he was. To kill as easily as he did. To blow buildings up and have everyone running around panicking as they thought a terrorist had done it was hilarious. He danced from one foot to the other.

  “The restaurant is just down the hall and they do room service.”