Seven Days To Forever

Rafe’s voice replied. “Nothing. If the LLA is here, they’re not making any moves yet.”

Flynn leaned forward and crossed his arms on the bike’s handlebars, straining to see across the schoolyard. Miss Abigail Locke waved at a few of her departing students, then turned away. “Geez.” She gave a breathy grunt as she hitched one strap of the green backpack over her shoulder. “How many Pokеmon cards can they cram into these things?”

“Abigail Locke has brown hair, brown eyes, is five feet four inches, 103 pounds…” Sarah’s voice droned in the background, describing the details of the woman who was walking across the parking lot toward a beige subcompact. “She’s the registered owner of a beige Pontiac Firefly, license number…”

Flynn’s lips quirked. Well, either this particular terrorist had established an exceptionally solid cover and was so clever that she was deliberately acting innocent for the microphone she knew was in the backpack…

Or she was exactly what Flynn hoped she was.

Wait a minute. He’d been through this already. He had no business being pleased. Her innocence was going to increase the difficulty of this mission by a factor of ten.

They had to get the money back before Abigail discovered it—along with the surveillance devices in the specially designed pack—and decided to be a law-abiding citizen and turn everything over to the police. Once that happened, it would be next to impossible to contain the damage. The secrecy of the mission would be compromised. Rumors would get started, questions would be asked and the LLA would cry “double cross” and kill the Vilyas kid.

“She’s twenty feet from her car,” Flynn said. “With this bike, I can reach her and take the backpack before she gets her keys out. Few if any witnesses. She’ll think it was a random mugging.”

“Negative,” the major said. “We can’t make a move on her in public. If the LLA did tail her and are watching, they’ll know Vilyas talked.”

And cry “double cross” and kill the kid, Flynn repeated to himself. “Tell me where she lives,” he said, easing his bike into gear. “I think it’s time we meet.”

Chapter 2

Abbie flicked another glance at her watch as she dug her keys out of her purse. The traffic had been worse than usual. Every direct route to her apartment building had been blocked by stalled cars or minivans. Why couldn’t everyone simply follow their vehicle manufacturer’s recommended maintenance schedule? She always did, and she hadn’t had any problems with her car yet. Still, it was odd that the car trouble seemed limited to her neighborhood. It was almost as if there were some grand conspiracy out there to delay her from reaching home.

She shook her head at the ridiculous thought. Washington was undoubtedly full of enough conspiracies, but they wouldn’t be targeting her. No, she was about as ordinary and law-abiding as a person could get. She understood the value of structure. Maintenance schedules, school timetables, to-do lists, these gave a lovely framework on which to build a life.

Of course, sometimes timetables did require adjustment. She’d have to pencil in thirty-five as her next target date for the husband, family and home in the suburbs.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, fitting the key into the lock. “Get over it. Thirty is only a number.”

The phone was ringing when she opened the door. She bolted the door behind her and flicked on a light just as the answering machine picked up.

“Hi, dear.” It was her mother’s voice. “I hope everything’s all right. I thought you’d be home by now.”

Abbie hurried through the short entrance hall to her living room, dodged around the avocado plant and reached past the fig tree to grab the telephone. “Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, you’re there. How was your day, Abigail?”

“Great. The kids loved the museum.” She started to shrug off her jacket, belatedly realizing she was still holding on to the stray backpack she’d picked up. She’d meant to leave it in the car so she could take it in to school tomorrow, but in her rush to get home she must have brought it upstairs to her apartment without thinking. She was getting as absentminded as her students.

On the other hand, wasn’t forgetfulness a sign of advancing age?

She grimaced, dropped the pack and her purse beside the fig tree and sank into a chair. “How are you, Mom?”

“Just fine.” There was a spurt of conversation in the background that was quickly muffled. “Are you still going to come over tonight? You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“No, of course I didn’t forget. I was late getting in because the traffic was horrible. If I hadn’t used all my shortcuts, I’d still be sitting in it.”

“Well, I hope it clears up before you set out for our place.” The sound of a doorbell came over the line.

“I’ll be over as soon as I can. Is someone at your door, Mom?”

“Oh, that’s nothing. Just your dad fidgeting with the bell again.”

“Mmm.” She was sure she heard more muffled conversation in the background. It sounded like her older sister’s voice. “Are you sure you aren’t expecting any visitors?”

“Now, why would we be expecting anyone but you, dear?”

“I don’t know. Are you making fried chicken?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. How did you guess?”

Fried chicken, potato salad, egg sandwiches without crusts, just like every year. The surprise party was on. “I could smell it from here, Mom.”

“Oh, you.” She laughed. “We’ll see you in a little while, then. Drive safely, dear.”

Abbie put the phone down and leaned her head against the back of the chair. She had to try to think positively about this birthday, she thought as she studied the ceiling. Apart from a different digit at the start of her age, it was the same as all the others.

She looked at her watch and did a quick calculation of how much time she would need to drive to her parents’ house if the traffic didn’t improve, then pushed to her feet and hurried toward the shower. She’d better get moving or she was going to be late for her own party. She just hoped she would be able to act surprised. It was going to be tough. She had never liked surprises.

“Twenty-nine years old,” Sarah said. “No, make that thirty. Birthday today. Single. Has worked at Cherry Hill School for the past seven years. Four hundred and sixty-one dollars in her savings account, seven thousand dollars in government bonds. Want her credit card balances?”

Flynn buckled on the electrician’s tool belt as he swung around another turn in the stairwell. Sarah was on the radio, feeding him information about Abigail Locke as it came in. He was thinking on his feet now, making up the action plan as he went along; so, any fact, even a date of birth might prove to be useful. “Does she have a debt problem?”

“No, she has a good credit rating. No debts apart from a car loan. She’s a nonsmoker, according to her insurance records,” Sarah continued. “No outstanding traffic fines. Three library books on loan. History texts, judging by the titles.”

Flynn wasn’t surprised at the depth of detail Sarah could obtain on such short notice—all it took was a little know-how, and nothing that had ever been entered into a computer was secret. If the public became aware of how easily the privacy of a private citizen could be breached, the conspiracy theorists would have a field day.

One detail that hadn’t shown up on the records, though, was the fact that Abigail could drive like a New York City cabbie. If Flynn hadn’t seen it for himself, he never would have believed what she could make that little beige Firefly do. She’d gotten past every one of the obstacles they’d set up. It was a good thing he’d been on his bike, or she would have lost him back at Sarah’s “stalled” van.

He clipped a fake power-company ID card to his shirt pocket. “What about boyfriends?”

“No data about that so far. I could get into her prescription records and find out if she’s gone to a doctor for birth control.”

“No,” Flynn said immediately. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t like the idea of Intelligence digging quite that deeply into Abigail’s life. “I only wanted to know whether she might have company with her at her apartment.”

“Sorry, prescription records wouldn’t help you there. She has her mother, Clara Locke, listed as her next of kin. Parents live in Maryland. One older sister named Martha, a younger one named Eleanor, both married with kids.” Sarah paused. “Abigail and her sisters are named after first ladies. Seems like she’s not the only history buff in the family.”

Flynn reached the next landing just as the lights went out. The power failure didn’t startle him—evidently Specialist Gonzalez had located the main breakers in the basement and had done his job right on schedule. This was the reason Flynn was using the stairs to get to the seventeenth floor instead of the elevator. He waited where he was until the emergency light clicked on, then continued climbing.

“Vilyas has just received word from the LLA.” Redinger’s voice replaced Sarah’s. His words were even lower and more clipped than earlier—definitely a very bad sign. “They claim they were double-crossed, that he never left the ransom as he had agreed.”

“What did he tell them?” Flynn asked.

“Vilyas said he left the money but it was picked up by a schoolteacher.”

Flynn increased his pace, taking the stairs three at a time. Great. If the terrorists hadn’t followed Abigail from the museum, they’d be able to find her for sure, anyway, now that Vilyas had told them the ransom was picked up by a schoolteacher. They wouldn’t need the resources of Delta Force to be able to trace which schools had field trips at the museum today, all they’d need would be a telephone. It was only a matter of time before they narrowed it down and decided to come after Abigail and the money themselves.

“Wasn’t anyone with him when he took the call?” Flynn muttered. “Couldn’t they have stopped him from talking?”