The pilot whose car Rye had asked to borrow had repeated his words back to him: “Fuck off.”
Rye had to call for a car. It had arrived in under four minutes, which had seemed like hours. The drive to the address Brynn had given him earlier had also seemed unending, and then, when he arrived, he wondered just where the hell the police were. He’d expected the area around the Griffins’ house to look like an armed camp with Timmy in custody for kidnaping Lambert.
But apparently Wilson and Rawlins had dropped the ball. They hadn’t notified their local cohorts.
Instead of a huge police presence, Rye had been met by a terrifying tableau that had almost caused his own heart to burst. He and God hadn’t been on speaking terms for a long time, and Brady White’s death had all but severed the fragile connection. Nevertheless, Rye found himself praying that Brynn would somehow get through this unharmed.
It was a lot to pray for, considering that Timmy was the threat. He overcompensated for his meager physicality with meanness and spontaneity. He had remembered Rye’s Glock and had made him produce it and drop it into the street drain, discreetly, so not to draw the notice of the crowd of gawkers in the Griffins’ yard.
There had been an instant, when the pistol was in his hand, that Rye had considered aiming it at the center of Timmy’s forehead and pulling the trigger, but he wasn’t sure he could do that before Timmy poked Brynn. With reluctance, he’d dropped the handgun through the grate.
Now they were all in Lambert’s car, en route to the airport, where Jake’s plane awaited. Lambert was driving, Rye was in the front passenger seat, Timmy and his knives were in the back seat with Brynn.
“How long is the flight?” Lambert asked.
“Around an hour. Depending.”
“On what?”
“Weather. Air traffic around Hartsfield. Atlanta control may keep us in a holding pattern for—”
Nate interrupted. “We can use the Hunts’ airstrip.”
“Private airstrip?”
“It’s in a pasture behind their house,” Timmy offered. “Goliad showed me.”
“How long is it?”
“How should I know? Long.”
“Well, depending on the type of aircraft, the length of the runway is rather important to making a safe landing.”
Timmy laughed. “You know all about how wrong that can go, don’t you?”
Rye wondered if it was just his imagination, or if Timmy’s laugh had sounded forced, uneasy.
Nate said, “The runway accommodates their private jet.”
“Then we’ll be okay,” Rye said.
“But if you don’t even know where the runway is, how will you know where to fly?” Timmy asked.
“GPS. All I need to program it is the airstrip’s identifier.”
“I’ll call Richard and Delores from the airport,” Nate said. “They’ll give you whatever you need. They’ll probably roll out a red carpet for us when we get there.”
He smiled across at Rye as though all was right with the world again. Rye could barely restrain himself from decking him.
He looked out the passenger window into the side mirror and angled his head so he could see Brynn through the back seat window. She was staring out at the waterlogged landscape, looking deep in thought. He and she hadn’t had an opportunity to exchange a single word privately.
He wanted to tell her he was sorry for letting her go to the Griffins’ alone. No, for forcing her to go alone. If he’d been with her, she wouldn’t be in danger for her life, and Violet might even now be getting the infusion.
He had a lot to make retribution for. That seemed to be the pattern of his life these days.
When they reached the airfield, Jake’s plane was the only one on the tarmac. “That’s the plane?” Timmy said.
“That’s it.”
“It looks old.”
“It is. Has a new engine, though.”
“What happened to the old one?”
“Flamed out, I guess.”
Timmy must have realized that Rye was baiting him. He instructed Nate to let him and Brynn out at the entrance. “Don’t want the lady to have to walk through the rain.” As he claimed Brynn’s arm and propelled her forward, he looked over his shoulder and taunted Rye with a wink.
Brynn kept her head forward.
Nate parked in the visitors’ parking lot. Looking around, he said, “I hate to leave my car here. I hope it will be all right.”
“I don’t think you need to worry about it.”
“It could get stolen.”
“I don’t think you need to worry about it,” Rye repeated. “Once you give the senator that drug, you’re dispensable. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
Rye could tell by Nate’s whey-faced expression that the prospect hadn’t occurred to him, but Rye figured it would preoccupy him from now on. He got out and ran through the rain toward the building. Nate came along behind.
Everyone who’d been there earlier had cleared out except for the older man working the desk. Recognizing Rye, he waved him over. “You’re not thinking of taking off in this, are you?” He pointed to his television screen where a Doppler radar map showed a wide band of red.
Rye swore.
“They’ve been doing weather bulletins, one after another,” the man told him. “Better wait it out.”
Rye didn’t see a way to communicate to him the trouble they were in without endangering all of them, the older man included. If he raised an alarm, called 911, some or all could be dead or injured long before the police arrived.
Brynn would be the first casualty. Timmy kept her at his side. His knife was no longer visible, but Rye didn’t trust that. Timmy could access it in a flash.
Not only was she Timmy’s hostage, so was the vial of GX-42. In any kind of altercation, it could be damaged or destroyed.
Rye walked over to the group. “We’re going to have to wait out a line of storms.”
Naturally, Nate argued. “But the whole point of flying was to beat the clock.”
Rye motioned for him to look out the wall of windows. Just since they’d entered the building, conditions had worsened. Jake’s plane was being slashed by rain and buffeted by high winds.
“If you want to drive through this,” Rye said, “you’d better get going. Tack on an extra hour to the trip.”
Nate gnawed his lower lip with indecision. “How long do you think this weather will last?”
“Let’s look.”
Rye led them into a room where a counter held an array of computers, all tuned to weather-reporting stations. He sat down in front of one. “We’re here, and we’re going there,” he said, pointing out the two spots on the map. “This line of storms stretches between those two points, almost solid. Red means bad. Purple’s worse. There’s hail in this,” he said, touching another spot on the screen.
“I’ve flown in worse,” he said, speaking over his shoulder at Nate, who was hovering. “I’d willingly take off with you and him,” he said, inclining his head toward Timmy. “But Brynn would stay. I don’t care if you die. I don’t care if I do. But I wouldn’t risk her life, especially to benefit yours.” Lambert puffed up, but Rye ignored that and said, “So what’s it to be, Lambert? Your call.”
“It’s my call,” Timmy said. “We wait it out.”
He pushed Brynn down into one of the folding chairs lined up against the wall, sat in the one beside it, and linked their arms together.
12:13 p.m.
Brynn resented the cheerfulness with which Nate phoned the Hunts.
In a chipper voice, he said into his phone, “I have good news and bad news.” In carefully guarded language he informed them that the rather drastic measure Timmy had proposed proved to be unnecessary.
“Dr. O’Neal surrendered what we came after. She is returning with us. Mr. Mallett is flying all of us back, landing on your airstrip. The bad news? We’re waiting out a rainstorm before taking off.” He listened, then said, “Yes, it was a coin toss, but we all agreed that flying there would take less time.”
Nate listened, occasionally murmuring splendid or a synonym of it. “Perfect. Mr. Mallett needs the…what was it?”
“Identifier,” Rye said.