Jensen read the passage a second time, trying to develop a sense of the man.
This is the monster who took my little girl.
Sand expanded aloud on Jensen’s unspoken thought. “Let me be sure I’ve got this straight,” he said. “This is the same man who at this moment is running around with a test tube up his ass that could kill millions. We helped him get away from the FBI so he can make a deal with the most desperate communist country on earth. And we have only one man watching over him. Have I accurately summarized the situation?”
No one responded.
Sand bowed his head. “Lord,” he said, “watch over thy sheep and thy lambs. And particularly watch over him who is known among men as Roady Kenehan.”
Chapter 46
Kenehan guided Beeman by the arm to the driver’s door and pulled it open. “You drive.” He walked around to the passenger side and slid into the car.
“Keys?”
Kenehan handed them over.
“Where are we going?”
“The pickup site. Drive by it a few times.”
Beeman started the car and pulled onto Arapahoe Road. Kenehan knew Denver. The route to the meeting place was simple. Jump onto I-25, north to Colorado Boulevard exit and then one block north on the street. Traffic was light. It took ten minutes.
“There,” Beeman pointed to the other side of the street. “That corner.”
Kenehan turned in his seat as they drove past. He could see why they had chosen this site. Once Beeman was in the car, they’d have six different routes available to them within the first two-tenths of a mile. They could go north or south on the interstate or take any of the four major surface streets heading in opposite cardinal directions of the compass. Spotting a following vehicle would be easy if it were too close.
“Turn around and come back at it from the north.”
Beeman complied. They drove past the spot and continued south on Colorado Boulevard, crossing over the highway; then Kenehan ordered him to turn around again.
“Deciding where to put your spotters,” Beeman ventured.
Kenehan nodded. Of course, there would be no others, but Beeman didn’t need to know that. The remaining Brecht personnel were all in one location now, and that spot was under surveillance. They could not risk guiding the feds to the pickup site. Kenehan would completely lose control of the situation, and with it any chance of finding the girls while they were still alive.
“I need something to eat,” Beeman groused.
“Pull into that parking lot.”
“I’ve agreed to work with you, but I’m not eating at McDonald’s. It’s not my kind of place.”
“Fine,” Kenehan conceded, looking down the block. “We’ll go to that Black-Eyed Pea, ahead on the right.”
With a groan of pain, holding a hand to his ribs, Beeman turned, parked and got out of the car; then he waited for Kenehan to escort him to the entrance. When Kenehan came around to his side of the car, Beeman handed him the keys without him asking.
Trying to build my trust, Kenehan thought. Playing me.
But if the game was called “building trust,” it was time for Kenehan to reciprocate. At Beeman’s house, Kenehan had checked his pockets and taken his hunting knife. Then he’d slipped what looked like a credit card—but was in fact a GPS location tracker—into Beeman’s fat wallet before removing the blindfold and handing over his trousers. Thomas could monitor the whereabouts of the card by satellite.
After the hostess seated them and a waitress brought water glasses, Kenehan reached under the back of his shirt, tugged Beeman’s still-sheathed hunting knife from his waistband and handed it across beneath the table.
Beeman’s face remained expressionless as he took it. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“You’ll actually be less suspicious if you have it with you.”
“How do you know I won’t use it on you?”
Kenehan gave him a grim smile. “Because I’m your guardian angel.”
“How is that?”
“You don’t know what you’re walking into. You may need us to get you out.”
“Once you have the women.”
“Only then.”
“Why help me?”
“Because you’re going to earn it.”
“I may or may not—need you to get me out, that is.”
“You have no idea, do you?”
“Point taken.”
“We’ll have you under surveillance. Hopefully you’ll get some freedom of movement along the way to wherever you’re going. If we see you with your watch on your right wrist, we’ll take that as a sign that it’s time to breach and engage, get the girls out. If they’re not in direct jeopardy, move your watch to your left wrist and go where we can see you. If you need us to pull you out, put it in your pocket. Make sure both arms are visible. If you’re in a car, put your head or hands against the glass if you can. Head means girls in danger; hands means you want out with them.”
“My watch,” Beeman’s voice carried an odd sadness. “Do you have it?”
Kenehan handed it across the table.
As Beeman strapped it on, he said, “Once you attack, my options will be limited.”
Kenehan shook his head. “We don’t plan to unless we have no choice. We want to get them out by stealth, so we need you to give us an opening from inside. If things go to hell, you’ll have to make a snap decision. You need to be ready.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you stay with those boys, that’s it. Once we have the women, we’re gone for good. No more chance of a rescue. If you decide you want out of there, you’re on your own once we’re gone.” Kenehan hoped Beeman was buying this.
“You aren’t worried about them getting their hands on my project?”
Regardless of what else might happen, Kenehan would never let the virus fall into the hands of the North Koreans. Beeman would only cooperate if he thought he could escape, so he had to believe that the girls were in fact Kenehan’s only priority. “My people have only one interest,” Kenehan said with a shrug. “We don’t care about your scientific secret. Give them whatever you want. They’ll never dare use it on America. We’d nuke them into oblivion.”
He nodded in agreement.
“Now,” Kenehan said, changing the subject. “Tell me what you did to them—I want to know everything.”
“While we had them? Nothing. We hadn’t gotten that far.”
“What were you planning to do?”
Beeman held back on his answer as a waitress arrived with their plates. She asked them if they needed refills on their drinks. Both men shook their heads impatiently. She asked them if there was anything else they needed. They said no. She said she would check back in a few minutes. She took her time moving away from the table.
“The waitress finds you attractive,” Beeman said.
“Answer my question.”
Beeman nodded and shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth, washing it down with a long pull from his iced tea. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin before speaking.
“My associate was going to torture, rape and kill them.”
“Just for fun, huh?”
“There was more to it than that.”
“And ransom was never a part of it?”
“Not at all.”
“Did you know who they were?”
“We learned their names, but that was all. The other man chose them at random.”
“Antonio Pessoa.”
“Yes.”
“You knew nothing about them? Or their families?”
“Nothing. Do you want to tell me?”
“No.”
“How did you find us?”
“Surveillance video.”
Beeman tipped his head back, looking thoughtfully down his nose at Kenehan. “Which family hired you?”
“Who do you think?”
“You obviously work for the Jensen family.”
“What makes you say that?�
��
“She comes from better stock than the Dawson girl. Who would unleash a private army for that one?”
Kenehan chewed his food. You have no idea, asshole.
“The ironic thing,” Beeman continued, “is that Pessoa almost decided not to take those two. He started out looking for only one woman.”
“If you had taken some other women, you’d be spending the rest of your life in jail. I wouldn’t be here to help you. The government would still have you under surveillance. Once things passed a certain point, they’d arrest you. The irony is, with us involved you’ll probably walk away. Picking those girls was the luckiest thing you ever did. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“A different tune than you sang last night.”
During the next seven hours, most of which they spent in the car driving aimlessly, Kenehan traded updates with Thomas a few more times. They had traced the name Wallie to the Korean term for intelligence officer, confirming Sand’s theory.
Thomas told him Brecht had promised Fitch that the Group was standing down, preparing to demobilize and return home to Florida, and that the Jensens would be going back to California in their private jet. To make the story convincing, Jensen had called the Denver Jet Center and had them tow his plane to the ramp while his pilots remained on standby in their hotel. One of the coaches pulled away and headed east on Interstate 70. They returned two of the team’s rental cars. Three other cars went separate ways. The Blackhawk took off and repositioned to a general aviation ramp at Denver International Airport, where it was still close enough to be useful.
The team’s dispersal hopefully would tax the FBI’s surveillance resources enough to allow Kenehan and his team to interdict without unwanted law enforcement on their asses.
Throughout the afternoon, Partridge and Sand spoke for hours in muted tones while Jennifer comforted Janet. Jensen paced. Brecht napped on a fold-down sofa in the rear of the coach.
Kenehan looked at his watch. “Eight minutes to go,” he said into his phone, watching Beeman from his car, parked in a lot on the opposite side of the boulevard.
“GPS tracking is active,” Thomas responded. “Is Doctor Evil standing a few feet south of a bus stop?”
“Confirmed.”
“Where are his hands?”
“Loose at his sides.”
“We’ve got a clear marker on him.”
The minutes ticked by. At exactly eight o’clock, a white Lexus pulled slowly to the side of the road, blocking Kenehan’s view.
When it pulled away, Beeman was gone.
“They’ve got him,” Kenehan said, putting the car into gear. “Two Asians with Beeman in the car. White Lexus. They’re turning onto the interstate.”
“We see it. They’re heading north on I-25.”
Kenehan let several cars pass in front of him before he took the on-ramp. He’d lost sight of the Lexus, but that made for a safer tail.
“Visual contact lost,” he said.
“They are coming up on University,” Thomas replied.
“Taking the exit?”
“Negative. Stay on the highway.”
Kenehan followed them from a mile behind as they drove past the bright lights and skyscrapers of downtown Denver. They exited onto US Highway 36 and then onto US Highway 287. When he came to an intersection, Kenehan asked for an update. There was no reply. He repeated his request.
“Stand by, Tomahawk.”
Kenehan’s pulse jumped. “Have you lost them?”
“No. Stand by,” Thomas repeated.
Kenehan pressed the phone tightly to his ear. He could make out voices in the background but not what they were saying. Several long seconds passed before Thomas spoke again.
“Tomahawk,” Thomas said urgently, “break off. Return to Centennial.”
Kenehan was perplexed. “Say again, Grayhound?”
“They’re headed for another airport. Could be airborne in a matter of minutes. Get back here! Meet us at the Jet Center. Come in through the south gate. Key code is 1776. Park on the ramp. You’ll have to follow them in the air. Only chance.”
Things were spinning out of control. “Grayhound, they have the package. This is no time to be gambling on hunches. I should intercept—”
“Negative, Tomahawk. No time for discussion. You can’t make your move until you actually have eyes on the girls. We’re spread too thin here. You’re about to lose them. We need you airborne, pronto.”
Thomas was right. If they had a plane waiting, ready to take off, he might not be able to intercept them at all. The Blackhawk couldn’t keep up with a fast private plane, particularly if it were a light jet. It didn’t have the range or the airspeed to justify the risk. They would need Jensen’s fast mover. Even if he could get to the men in the Lexus before they boarded, it was too soon to send up a warning flare. If they were planning to fly Beeman to a hideout where they were holding the girls, and he made his move now, his chances of success were poor. They would likely see him coming, and they outnumbered him. On top of that, they could signal their colleagues to flee—if only by failing to arrive on time.
In that case, they would likely kill and dump Christie and Jackie.
“They’re pulling onto the ramp at Jefferson County Airport as we speak.”
“Are Jensen’s pilots ready to go?”
“On their way to us now,” Thomas responded. “The jet is fueled and ready.”
“Taking the exit,” Kenehan said. He would use the overpass to double back the way he had come. “Pedal to the metal.”
“Don’t get pulled over. We’d have to send Sodbuster alone. Better for you to be there when the party starts.”
Chapter 47
As it turned out, Kenehan wasn’t the one pulled over.
Jensen paced the Denver Jet Center lobby with his phone pressed to his ear. “Anything?” he asked.
“These dickheads are taking their time,” Adkins said.
“How fast were you going?”
“The speed limit. Maybe a couple over. No more. We were specifically trying to avoid something like this.”
“What exactly did the cop say?”
“He said be patient. There’s an issue with our rental agreement, some kind of computer flag, so he hasn’t been able to treat it as if it were registration on the vehicle. He said it’s just red tape, but his hands are tied. Procedure.”
Jensen didn’t think so, but who knew?
Thomas approached him with an iPad. “You were right,” he said. “The GPS chip collocates with a blip on FlightAware.” FlightAware was a web service that provided real-time tracking of all flights with instrument flight rules—IFR transponder codes. “The flight plan lists VNY as their destination.”
“That’s Van Nuys.”
“The plane is an old Beech, a King Air C90.”
“Time enroute?”
Thomas looked at the iPad. “Three-oh-five at flight level two-four-zero, direct. No remarks. Three aboard.”
“Fuel?” Jensen asked.
“Fuel on board is booked as four and thirty. Plenty for IFR reserve or to divert to another destination that could be some distance from Van Nuys. But I doubt they’ll deviate from the flight plan; they don’t want to draw attention. Last thing they need is a fighter escort.” He tapped the iPad screen. “So if they do divert, they’ll amend their flight plan en route, and we should know about it immediately.”
“Rick?” Jensen said into the phone.
“I heard all of that,” Adkins replied.
“What are we showing as the estimated time en route for Van Nuys?”
“Stand by … The Phenom can do it in about two and twenty. Forty-five minutes faster. You blast off right now, you can be on the ground at least fifteen minutes before they land.”
Jensen heard voices at the entrance. Kenehan had arrived and was walking toward him, flanked by Partridge, Sand, Thomas and Brecht.
“Gotta go,” Jensen said, slipping the phone into his pocket.
“Ready
when you are,” Kenehan said. “Pilots in the plane?”
“No pilots,” Thomas said. “Cop pulled them over. He’s making them cool their heels. It’ll be at least another twenty minutes before they can get here, even if the cop turns them loose this minute, which I doubt is going to happen.”
Partridge clamped his eyes shut and tipped his head backward in frustration. “God fucking damnit!”
“Wonder if it was a real cop, or an FBI spook,” Kenehan said.
“It’s okay,” Jensen said. “Let’s go.”
“You can fly?” Partridge asked.
“No, but the plane can,” Jensen said out of habit—an old, stale joke. “Went to a school called USAF.”
Thomas and Partridge stepped a few paces away and hoisted nylon bags with shoulder straps. Partridge had two and handed one to Kenehan.
“Just the three of you?” Janet asked in a worried tone.
“No ma’am,” Sand answered. “Four.” He lifted two nylon cases of his own. One was a canvas satchel; the other looked like a carrying case for a disassembled pool cue, only it was curved.
Brecht, Thomas and Janet walked them to the plane, which waited on the ramp with its door open.
When Jensen slipped into the cockpit of an airplane, he became a different man. Gone was the bold legal strategist, the performer, the negotiator. He reverted to his earlier days as a professional fighter pilot as if he’d never had any other career or interest. He was a master aviator who had flown combat missions in Iraq.
Working his way carefully through a laminated checklist, Jensen threw switch after switch. Indicator lights and computer screens came alive on the instrument panel.
Kenehan sat at Jensen’s right in the copilot’s seat. A soft hissing came through their headsets as the avionics powered up. Jensen started the engines one at a time. A satisfying whine reverberated faintly through the soundproofed bulkheads. He turned in his seat, craning his neck to peer back into the cabin. Partridge sat with a cell phone pressed to his ear, with Sand diagonally opposite him. Their bags lay in a pile on the floor. He gestured for them to don the headsets clipped to the bulkheads beside their seats.
Black Sunrise Page 31
