Zero Separation (24 page)

“Can ROMEO cut through the metal and reach them?” Montero asked.

“Doubtful,” Mary replied. “We'll, of course, have to confer with both the NTSB and Boeing, but my best guess is we'll end up raising this entire section to the surface.”

A phone next to Mary rang and she answered immediately. “Yes, Captain. I understand. They're both right here. I'll pass the message along to her.”

“What's going on?” Donovan asked.

“Captain Pittman just received an urgent message for Special Agent Montero from a Mr. Hamilton Burgess at the FBI,” Mary
replied. “He's requested a video conference. The two of you need to go to the computer lab.”

“Follow me,” Donovan said.

They went down the passageway, up two flights, and into a long, narrow room lined with computer workstations. At the end of the space was a glassed-off room with a large flat screen on one wall.

“Right in there,” the computer tech said as the two of them drew closer.

Donovan trailed Montero and walked into the room and was greeting by a life-sized image of Montero's boss. He didn't look happy, but then Donovan didn't think he'd ever seen the man when he didn't have a scowl on his face.

“Mr. Nash, I invited you to this meeting since it pertains to you as well as Special Agent Montero.” Burgess cleared his throat. “Earlier today we were called to a crime scene. Ricky Lee Vaughn, one of your confidential informants, was killed in his gun shop. We know from the time stamp on the security footage that he was killed last night at 8:25 p.m.”

“Ricky,” Montero said. She lowered her head for a moment before she looked up at Burgess. “You have whoever did this on video?”

“Seems Vaughn was kind of a computer nut and the whole place was wired. There's no audio, but I have some video to show you.” Burgess nodded to someone off camera. “Watch this and then we'll talk.”

The image jumped from color to black-and-white, and Donovan realized he was looking at the inside of the gun shop he and Montero had been in yesterday afternoon. Ricky was behind the counter when a customer wearing a baseball cap, the visor pulled low, entered the front door. Despite being slightly pixelated, Donovan instantly recognized Nathan Strauss. With no wasted motion, Strauss drew his weapon and pointed it at Ricky's forehead. Words were exchanged, and Ricky reluctantly removed the pistol from a
holster on his hip and placed it on the countertop and raised his hands in the air. Strauss motioned for Ricky to lead the way into the back room.

The picture jumped as the feed from a different camera came into view. Ricky was seated at a laptop and Strauss was standing behind him. The gun was pressed into the folds of Ricky's neck. The camera was mounted high enough that over Ricky's shoulder Donovan could see the computer screen. It looked like Ricky was fast-forwarding through recorded video of some kind, maybe searching for something. Ricky clicked the mouse and the image froze, then he backed it up slowly until two people were shown coming into the gun shop. Donovan didn't need audio to know what was being said. He'd been there—Montero was doing the talking while laying down one hundred dollar bills.

Ricky turned and said something to Strauss. Then Donovan saw the carnage that had been exacted on Ricky. Momentarily confused, Donovan's eyes darted to the time stamp; thirty minutes had elapsed since Strauss had walked into the shop. Ricky's bloody and swollen face told of a half hour of savage violence at the hands of Strauss. The silent, one-sided conversation went on for another sixty seconds and then without flourish Strauss pulled the trigger. Ricky's blood splattered on the computer screen and the big man toppled sideways out of his chair and collapsed to the floor. Strauss turned and glanced up briefly for the first time, though his features were still mostly obscured by his cap and beard. He studied the camera installation momentarily, reached for the connections, and then the screen went black.

“Care to elaborate?” Burgess asked as his face once again materialized. We edited out the beating, but I can tell you that the assailant knew what he was doing. According to our experts, he's been trained by professionals.”

“I gather he walked off with Ricky's hard drive. How is it we have these images?” Montero asked.

“All of Vaughn's security feeds were sent to the hard drive that
was stolen, but the stream was also sent in real-time to an off-site server. The local police located the security firm that did the work and they surrendered the files.”

“Did anyone figure out what Ricky said at the end?” Montero asked.

“He gave the gunman two names, Sasha and Roberto. Mr. Nash, I gather that Roberto is the name you use when you're out playing cop?”

Donovan said nothing and waited for Burgess to continue.

“We know who Sasha is; she was killed within hours of this murder. What I don't understand is why the gunman didn't ask what your name was, Special Agent Montero.”

“I don't have the slightest idea,” Montero said. “Maybe Ricky told him when his back was turned to the camera.”

“Possible,” Burgess nodded. “I don't happen to think so. I think you're holding out on me, Veronica. The only way I even heard about this debacle was the local cops recognized you on the tape and called me. Do either of you know who this killer is and why he was interested in the two of you?”

Donovan knew that Montero wasn't going to give up Strauss's name. She wanted the guy all to herself.

“I've never seen the guy,” Montero said. “I take it you didn't get anything when you ran him through facial recognition?”

“We're still working on it, but preliminary reports are we don't have enough to go on.”

“Is there any footage of the parking lot? Was this guy driving a Lexus?” Montero asked. “He finds out about Sasha, kills Ricky, and thinks he's removed all the evidence by taking Ricky's computer.”

“No camera coverage of the parking lot. Police are going door to door in the area. But so far no witnesses have been found.”

“Sir, might I suggest I be brought back to Florida to assist in finding the man who killed my informant. I have other sources that I might be able to lean on. Maybe we can use my presence to draw this son of a bitch out from hiding.”

“Officially, you're still on administrative leave, but for the moment I'd rather have you back here even if it is behind a desk. Mr. Nash, I've been entrusted with your safety. Do you feel like you're secure on your ship or shall I make some other security arrangements?”

“I'll be fine,” Donovan replied.

“Veronica, make the necessary travel plans and let me know the minute you're back home. Good luck out there, Mr. Nash.” Burgess drew a finger across his throat and the picture went black.

Donovan turned to Montero. “Strauss isn't after us. He saw us at the club after he killed Ricky and did nothing.”

“I know that, and you know that, but Burgess doesn't know anything. There's still a chance we can find Strauss before anyone else. That's all I need. Pack your stuff. We're out of here.”

“What are you thinking?” Donovan snapped. “You heard your boss. You won't be able to do anything from your office.”

“That's why I have you. We'll let Burgess believe you're still out here on this ship, when, in fact, you'll be my eyes and ears on the street. I'll be plugged into the investigation again, that's the only way we're going to be able to find Strauss before anyone else does. Now, how soon before we can be airborne?”

Despite being strong-armed by Montero, Donovan was thrilled to be off the ship. After telling the crew of the
Atlantic Titan
that Montero urgently needed to return to West Palm Beach, they were in the helicopter, flying back to Kingston. He and Montero had been in such a scramble to depart the ship that he hadn't had time to call Lauren. As soon as they were airborne in the
da Vinci
, he'd try to reach her.

Montero had once again elected to ride up front with Eric. Donovan switched on a small overhead reading lamp and pulled out the flight plan that had been faxed to him just as they were leaving the ship. He studied the route, which would take them north over Jamaica, across one of the designated corridors over Cuba, then up the eastern seaboard into West Palm Beach where they'd land and clear customs. The weather in Florida was nearly perfect, mid-seventies with clear skies and light winds out of the west. When he switched off the light, he discovered the glow from Kingston low on the horizon and silently urged Eric to fly faster.

“I just radioed the handler,” Eric reported. “He's aware of your departure and wants to know if you need fuel.”

“Yeah, have the truck meet us.” Donovan replied. “But you get your fuel first.”

“I'm good,” Eric replied. “I topped off onboard ship. If you don't mind, I'll drop you two and head straight back.”

“By all means, and I appreciate the last-minute lift.”

Eric descended toward the same open area where he'd landed earlier in the day. Donovan surveyed the airport and discovered
that the news trucks were gone. Good, their late-night departure would go unnoticed and unreported.

The skids touched firmly and Donovan stepped onto solid ground. He breathed a small sigh of relief. It was a little cooler than earlier, but the humidity was still oppressive. He pulled their bags out and secured the door. Montero joined him and they both ducked under the rotor blades and moved to a safe distance. The rotor wash buffeted them as the helicopter clawed at the air, lifted off, and headed east.

Donovan heard the low growl of a diesel engine in the distance and he saw the fuel truck headed toward them, its gears grinding as it rumbled across the tarmac. Once they fueled, all they needed was for Kyle to arrive and they could get underway.

Donovan ducked under the nose and set their bags on the ground. He fished in his pants pocket for his keys and thumbed the correct key just as the fuel truck swung into position.

“Tell him I'll have an exact amount for him in a second,” Donovan called out to Montero. “Once he's hooked up, he can start pumping.”

Donovan turned his attention back to the door of the Gulfstream and hesitated. It was unlocked. He tried to remember if he'd just unlocked it before he spoke to Montero. He shrugged it off, it was such an automatic action. He must have done it without thinking.

Once the door was unlatched, he pulled it over-center and allowed it to swing out and extend all the way down to the ground. He grabbed their bags and took the steps two at a time up into the cabin. He reached into the cockpit and switched on the valves that would allow the fueling to begin. Halfway to the back of the plane, he stopped—he sensed them before he saw them. He dropped the bags just as someone drove a fist into his stomach. He doubled over and something solid hit him on the back of the neck and he went down on his hands and knees. A kick to his ribs flipped him over and Donovan landed on his back, straining to draw a breath.

“Don't make a sound or you will die.”

Donovan was stunned into silence. He felt the cold circle of steel as a gun barrel was pressed against his forehead. He couldn't see the face of the man who'd spoken, but in the dim light he could see a finger on the trigger.

“Take care of the woman quickly and quietly,” the man said to his accomplice.

Donovan heard Montero call out to him as she came up the steps. The next thing he heard was Montero giving out a surprised groan, then the sound of a body hitting the floor.

“Get up,” the man said to Donovan.

Donovan winced as he did what he was told. He felt the gun leave his head, followed by the distinct pressure of the barrel pressed against the small of his back.

“How much fuel is onboard?”

“Four thousand pounds.”

“I want you to stand in the doorway. When the man fueling the airplane comes, I want you to tell him to pump six thousand liters. After he's finished, you sign the ticket, smile, thank him, and wave goodbye. If you fail to do this, then not only will he die, but she will as well.”

Donovan was prodded forward. Montero had been dragged down the aisle and tossed on the floor near one of the science stations. He let the rough hands jostle him into position at the top of the stairs. As predicted, the lineman appeared at the foot of the stairs. Donovan called down that he wanted six thousand liters.

“Very good. Now we'll stand here and wait for him to bring the paperwork.”

Donovan turned his head slightly; there was just enough light coming in the door to catch a glimpse of the man standing behind him. The white hair and beard made it easy—it was Nathan Strauss.

“I'm not going to fly you off this island,” Donovan said, trying to get some kind of read on the situation—trying to stave off his fear at what he knew about the man holding a gun to his spine.

“Don't talk. I don't need you to fly me anywhere. I only need you to stand here and wait for the lineman to come back with the ticket.”

Donovan could hear the pump on the fuel truck slow and then finally disengage. The lineman appeared on the tarmac at the foot of the steps. Donovan motioned him up, but blocked him from entering the cabin. He signed the receipt, smiled, and waved—exactly as ordered. Moments later the engine growled, gears ground together, and the truck pulled away from the
da Vinci
.

With his back to Strauss, Donovan never heard the sound of the arm swinging. All that registered was the momentary shock of being slammed in the back of his head. His knees buckled and he put out an arm to break his fall, but his world dissolved into darkness before he ever hit the floor.

Lauren opened her eyes with a start, confused, not sure what had woken her. She listened to the baby monitor, but it remained silent. She threw on her robe and went into Abigail's room and checked on her daughter anyway.