The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(85)

“Now there is a chance they can trace us, do you understand? Not only is Broussard alive, Al-Asaad went after him, believing he knew where his bomb was hidde And we barely managed to hijack it. What do you propose we do about him?”

Kiera snorted. “It won’t matter what Al-Asaad does now. He’s going to get what he wants, what all his terrorist buddies want, only he won’t be targeting it. The bomb will go off, the electrical grids will be disabled. Planes will fall from the sky, and he’ll take credit, you can be sure of that. And he will never be able to track us here.”

“He isn’t as stupid as you think, Kiera. I’ve often wondered if there was something more to him. He was too smart, slippery.” She shrugged. “I still can’t believe Broussard survived the missile, survived Galactus. The captain I bribed should have killed him, he had enough men.”

Kiera looked impatient. “Look, Nevaeh, I don’t know what happened and neither do you. And it’s too late to care. We’re committed.”

But Nevaeh’s mind was still squirreling about. “That bastard, Broussard, is not stupid, nor are his people. They will realize quickly enough we aren’t at the spaceport, and they will come looking for us.”

Kiera laid a hand on her arm. “Calm yourself. By then it will be too late. They think you’re in French Guiana. We are on the other side of the world. Even if they figure out where we are, no one can reach us in time. The detonation will happen well before anyone could possibly arrive. Besides, we’re about to be enveloped by a typhoon. We will be well protected here in the mountains. Even if they were able to find us, no one could penetrate the facility, especially through a storm of this magnitude.”

Nevaeh stared out the window at the relentless rain, trying to calm herself. Kiera said again, “Nevaeh, believe me. It doesn’t matter. There’s no way to stop us now.”

Kiera was right. It didn’t matter now.





CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE


T-MINUS 12 HOURS

Air Force Base Katunayake

Colombo, Sri Lanka

July 27

Once on the ground in Sri Lanka, Mike peeled herself from the seat of the jet and accepted Captain Rousseau’s hand to help her down the ladder to the tarmac.

He hadn’t been kidding, they’d made good time, just under four hours. Refueling had been an insane experience—they were hovering so close to the huge fuel jet, a Boeing KC-135 Stratotanker, according to Captain Rousseau, watching the tube snake down and attach itself—a probe-and-drogue system it was called, again supplied by Rousseau. Then, in only a minute, they were topped up and ready to fly. Doing all of this at Mach 1 was something she’d never forget as long as she lived.

And she hadn’t barfed once, even when he took her for a few barrel rolls for the fun of it, curse him. She had gotten extremely light-headed a couple of times when they pulled extreme G’s, but had managed to hold herself together, breathing deeply and shutting her eyes. She’d never felt anything so incredible as flying at 1,500 miles per hour. And the world below had not, shockingly, been a blur. No, it was stunningly beautiful, the view afforded by the Perspex bubble far-ranging, much better than riding in the window seat of a commercial airliner.

But now, it was time to refocus. They had ten hours until the lunar eclipse. And in that time they had to find Patel and Byrne, and the facility named Aquarius. And shut off a freaking bomb before part of the world turned into chaos.

Then, to her surprise, Captain Rousseau had taken her hand and asked her to dinner. When was she coming back to Lyon? Nicholas overheard this, and said in an expressionless voice, “This has been amazing, Captain Rousseau. I would be pleased to join you.” And he beamed at the captain and shook his hand.

Rousseau understood instantly. He was French, after all.

“Of all things,” Mike said, appalled, as they walked away. “Doesn’t he realize what we have to do? Talk about crappy timing. I mean look at this mess.” Rain was pouring from the gray skies. At least they’d managed to land before the worst bands arrived, but the wind was picking up, making the palms sway and bend. Even so, the crows of Sri Lanka were everywhere. Big and glossy, with blue-black feathers and cacophonous caws, so loud and pervasive Mike felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Even on the tarmac, even in the rain, they crowded around and lined up on the hangar roofs like silent gargoyles.

As they walked to the hangar, Nicholas had to bat away two who were dive-bombing his head.

Mike laughed. “They think your hair is one of their enemies from another clan. It’s almost as black as their feathers.”

“I guess there aren’t any blond crows, a pity.” He tugged on his shirt. “It’s hot and wet.”

“Really? This is exactly like New York in a heat wave, facing down an early nor’easter. High humidity, big threat of rain.”

“A threat of rain?” Sheets of water were pouring off the eaves of the hangar. “You hardly have Category Four typhoons heading into the city. And I’ve never known New York to smell like this. Do your heat waves often carry spices and curry on the breeze?”

She nodded. “In some spots. Hey, Nicholas, we’re on an adventure, remember? And here we are, of all places, in Sri Lanka. Everything’s different, everything’s new.” She shook out her ponytail, sending droplets of water to splash on him. “Just you wait to hear what I found out from Kiera Byrne’s transcriptions of Patel’s discussions in the deprivation chamber—you’re not going to believe it.”