The Pact (A Sarah Roberts Thriller Book 17) (7 page)

The red light changed on the street and the woman began walking.

The front window of the dojo lit up like the sun for a brief moment, then the front window and door blew out. The briefest of moments later, another concussion shot bricks and chunks of wood across the street.

Then the dojo was obliterated upwards and outwards.

Ansgar leaned back behind the post to protect himself from unwanted pieces of building entering his flesh. Someone was screaming. Car alarms blared somewhere. His ears rang from the initial explosion, but he could still hear most of the aftermath.

From where he stood behind the column, the sound of flames licking the remains of the dojo were loud.

He leaned out to get a better look. The dojo was a self-contained building with no rooms above it. Each building on either side sustained minor damage to their facade.

Ansgar was happy with this result. He wasn’t a crazed lunatic. He had been hired to destroy the dojo and do it with Aaron Stevens inside so that’s what he did. Blowing up random buildings wasn’t part of who he was. The people inside Aaron’s dojo were collateral damage. It happened in his business.

The woman who had stopped at the red light was on the sidewalk, holding her leg. Blood oozed out of a wound. She screamed for help.

A siren wailed in the distance.

The Clock was done. The contract had been completed.

Ansgar Holm grinned to himself and walked away from the carnage. He pulled out his cell phone and texted the number for the client.

Our mutual friend has left the building. The building is no more.

At the street light three blocks up, he turned back as fire trucks arrived on scene.

Movement caught his eye.

That guy who had walked out when Ansgar had been talking to Aaron—the name Alex popped into his mind—slipped into a café four doors down.

Ansgar was sure Alex had been staring right at him.

Ansgar trotted back to the café’s door, ripped it open and jumped inside.

Several customers stood by the front window, watching the carnage down the street, their coffees forgotten on three different tables.

A woman with a white apron strapped to her waist, addressed Ansgar.

“Did you see that?” she asked, then frowned. “Hey, are you okay, Mister?”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry, can I get you a coffee or maybe something stronger.”

She seemed like a genuinely nice woman. Pretty smile. Name tag read, Lisa Brown.

“Did a man slip in here less than twenty seconds ago?” he asked.

Lisa frowned again. He studied her eyes. All the tells were in the eyes. Lisa’s eyes didn’t avert. She simply looked at him, dumbfounded at the silly question.

“I was watching out the window,” Lisa said. “Didn’t see anyone. Just that.” She pointed at the razed dojo.

Ansgar checked toward the back of the café. It was empty. Everyone was at the front window.

“I’ll just use your washroom,” he said.

He started for the back without waiting for an answer. At the door to the bathroom, he turned left and entered the back room of the café.

Empty.

He ran through and pushed the back office door open.

Empty.

Could he be wrong? Did Alex enter the business next door?

When he spun around to leave through the back door, it sat ajar.

He smashed it open with his shoulder and jumped outside, his hand hovering over the holstered weapon in his waistband.

The back alleyway was empty.

It appeared that young Alex might prove to be a problem.

Whoever the hell he was.

Chapter 8

An hour into the second flight after changing planes at LAX, Sarah rested her head back and closed her eyes. A light meal had been served. She’d had one glass of wine which calmed her enough to rest.

The anticipation of landing in Toronto, clearing customs and getting downtown from the airport as soon as she could meant she wouldn’t get to Aaron for over five more hours. What did his letter from Vivian say? Did Vivian warn him in time to save his life? Did the letter even get to him in time?

Maybe that was why he was to die. The timing was off and the letter misses him.

She let out a long breath in an elongated sigh. Why did she send him home from Vegas? They had a pact. They agreed to keep nothing from the other one going forward. Their pact was one of full disclosure.

When her father called and told her to come home to Santa Rosa and tell no one, that was what she did. And now a man nicknamed The Clock—at least that’s what she thought Vivian’s note meant—was set to murder Aaron in Toronto, exactly where Sarah had sent him.

Aaron’s death would be on her head. She couldn’t take that kind of guilt. She refused to. When she called his number from the airport, she got voicemail.

Sarah rubbed the back of her neck as the plane bounced slightly in turbulence, wishing it to fly faster. Several hairs brushed her fingers. She clasped them, rolled them in a circle, then eased outward. Pulling didn’t have the same calming feel it did when she was eighteen. It used to release her internal tension, but now it seemed to annoy her.

She let go and fidgeted with the hem of her shirt as she ground her teeth.

What would she do without Aaron? She had to believe Vivian’s letter to Aaron would steer him clear of danger. That was it, wasn’t it? Vivian had something blocking her from direct contact with Sarah. Whatever was blocking her was revealed to the living Vivian all those years ago. And as always, Sarah’s sister prepared for that event by writing letters to people Sarah hadn’t even met yet.

How could she know those letters would reach the right people in time? How could she know those people would do what was asked of them? What about the time capsule? How did Vivian know that her parents would wait the full twenty-five years or open it a few months early?

There were too many variables. Too many things that could go wrong when everything had to go exactly right so the people involved remained on the surface instead of under the ground.

Her hands opened, then clenched into fists.

And why Denmark? What the hell was happening there that had anything to do with her or Aaron? Skanderborg?

What the fuck?

No one heard her except herself. Vivian was absent.

The plane bumped again. She turned to her seat mate. The row had three seats, the middle one empty. An older man with graying hair, nice suit, and shiny cuffs, sat in the aisle seat scanning his iPad.

He must have detected her staring because he looked up.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hi.” He smiled. A George Clooney smile. It offered warmth and understanding. “Bit bumpy, eh?”

A Canadian.

“Yeah. Not so bad, though.”

She had the luxury of not fearing what other people feared. For Vivian to tell their father what flight to place Sarah on meant this flight would make it to Toronto as well as the subsequent flights to Denmark. Unless of course Sarah was supposed to endure another plane crash like the time she landed in Amsterdam just a few months ago.

“My name’s Glenn.” He extended a hand. “They call me Splinter. I’m a jazz player. Horns.”

“Sarah.” She shook his hand, hoping he didn’t care about her clammy palm. “They just call me crazy,” she added. “I like jazz. But the horns I’m familiar with are the ones on top of people’s heads.”

He offered her a warm grin. “Like those bastards in Toronto.”

A rush of warmth came to her face as she leaned closer. “What bastards?”

“You haven’t heard what happened in Toronto this morning?” Glenn held up his iPad. “It’s all over the news.”

Sarah gawked at the picture. A building had been destroyed. Two Toronto firefighters were in the photo, black hoses behind them, streams of water shooting out in front of them. In the scene, part of a yellow rope had cordoned off the area. Every ounce of her being knew this had to be related to her or Aaron but she refused to believe it at first glance.

“What happened?” she asked, maintaining a modicum of control over her voice.

Glenn leaned back in his chair and looked down at his iPad.

“Terrorists are claiming responsibility. Some breakaway sect of the Taliban.” He faced her, eyebrows raised. “Can you believe that? In Toronto?”

“What did they do?” She swallowed. “I mean, what building did they blow up? A government one? A newspaper?”

“A gym.” He slapped his armrest and stared straight ahead as if in thought. “Why a gym? How is that strategic in any way? Can you believe that?” He seemed to have a habit of asking her if she believed things. Glenn added. “They interviewed a witness, too.”

A gym? Where people workout? Or train? Like a dojo?

Glenn kept talking. “Apparently it was a martial arts place. Some guy who remained anonymous said he was a student there. Barely escaped with his life. Left minutes before the explosion.”

Sarah struggled to breathe.

Martial arts place.

It couldn’t be. Downtown Toronto. Martial arts. Aaron’s dojo was downtown.

Turbulence shook the plane. Sarah’s stomach roiled.

Glenn kept talking. “The owner was inside. An entire class was doing a routine when it went sky high at precisely ten in the morning.” Glenn shook his head. “So sad. They interviewed a woman who had been crossing the street.” He held up the iPad to show the picture of the woman. “Interviewed her on a stretcher. She caught a leg wound from flying debris. Saved by a red light, she claimed. I just can’t believe this is happening in Toronto. Just as our prime minister pulls all our resources out of Syria, then this.”

Sarah had a hard time focusing. Her mouth had gone dry. She broke into a cold sweat. She needed to know but couldn’t ask if they’d offered any names in the news.

Glenn continued talking about it, head down, staring at his iPad. She couldn’t shut him up even if she wanted to.

“Some guy named Aaron Stevens ran the gym. The student who made it out in time named him along with several others as being inside the building when it blew. Police have not confirmed names other than to say that there were several bodies among the smoldering debris.” Glenn shook his head back and forth, a finger at his lips now. “So sad.”

The plane bumped after hitting a rough patch of turbulence. The seatbelt light came on. An announcement followed that people were to remain in their seats until the captain turned off the seatbelt light.

Sarah jumped from her seat, pushed past Glenn’s legs, and ran up the aisle for the toilet. Nausea had crept up fast. She was suddenly very weak and needed to vomit.

Aaron was dead.

They all but confirmed it on the news without reaching out to next of kin first. After all he had done in his short life, the disrespect was a travesty.

It was her fault. Aaron died because of Sarah. How could she live with that? The weight was too much to bear.

She wrenched open the bathroom door, slipped inside, and slammed it shut behind her.

Before she vomited the second time, a flight attendant knocked on the door.

“You have to return to your seat, ma’am.”

The truth, the reality that Aaron was dead and Vivian did nothing to stop her from sending him to Toronto when she was in Vegas and still in her head made her vomit again. How could Vivian be so cruel after all they had done together? How could she be sure Aaron would receive a
letter
from her in time? Was this Vivian’s way of freeing up Sarah’s time? To have her all to herself?

The flight attendant knocked again.

Sarah ignored her and slouched on the tiny floor of the lavatory. She lowered her head into her crossed arms and waited for the shivering and the pain to stop.

It didn’t.

Chapter 9

Anton Olafson woke with a splitting headache. The images from his computer screen rose to his consciousness. The nightmare crept back in and with it came a weight, pushing down on him. A weight of his own doing. And undoing.

He rolled off the bed and sat on the edge. Six days left. Then what? The hacker would expose him? And what if he really did kill a random girl, then what? Who’s to say the hacker wouldn’t expose him anyway?

How would he keep Clara safe? That had to be the question. The right thing to do was whatever got Clara to safety. Once she was safe, he would deal with the aftermath.

According to the hacker, the only way to get Clara back was to commit murder and offer the hacker proof.

He decided that if killing a random girl meant Clara could come home, then he would do it. Anton would spend a decade or two in jail for what he had already done to those boys. It would matter little to add to his arrest record if that meant Clara could come home.