Chapter 39: The countdown

They stood there in the gray morning light, holding each other, while somewhere in Seattle a bomb squad examined a package that might or might not explode, and somewhere in Montana the Vales planned their next move, and somewhere in between, a nine-year-old girl waited for her parents to make everything okay again.

Jonah's phone rang. Miller again.

"It's not a bomb," Miller said without preamble. "Bomb squad just cleared it. No explosives. No chemical agents. No biological threats."

Relief crashed over Jonah. "What was in it?"

"Photos."

"What?"

"Photos of Rachel and Lily. Taken over the past two days. At their apartment. At the Science Center. At Pike Place Market. At the airport." Miller's voice was grim. "Dozens of them. Showing every place they went, every moment they thought they were safe. And at the bottom of the box, a note."

"What did it say?"

"'Smile for the camera.'"

Jonah felt sick. "They were documenting their movements. Building a pattern. Learning their routine so they'd know exactly where to—"

"Yeah." Miller cut him off before he could finish the thought. "FBI's analyzing the photos now. Looking for reflection in windows, trying to identify the photographer. But Jonah, this changes things. This isn't just threats anymore. This is surveillance. This is planning. This is—"

"This is a countdown to something worse," Jonah finished.

"That's what we're afraid of. Which is why I'm calling." Miller took a breath. "We're not using commercial flights to get Rachel and Lily to Montana. Too public. Too many variables. Too easy for the Vales to—to do something."

Jonah's blood went cold. The text from yesterday. Flight 342. Seat 14A. They'll never see it coming.

"What are you using instead?" he asked.

"Private plane. Small aircraft. Flying out of a private airfield south of Seattle. No passenger manifests. No public records. Just Rachel, Lily, two federal agents, and a pilot."

"When?"

"As soon as we can arrange it. Hopefully within the next few hours."

Jonah looked at Wren. She was watching him, reading his face, already knowing this was about Lily.

"Let me talk to the pilot," Jonah said. "Before they take off. I want to verify—I need to make sure—"

"The pilot's already been vetted," Miller interrupted. "Background check. Security clearance. FAA records. He's clean."

"Check again."

"Jonah—"

"Please." The word came out rougher than he meant it to. "Please. Just humor me. Check again. Verify everything. I can't—I need to know my daughter's going to be safe."

Silence on the other end. Then: "Okay. I'll have them run another background check. Full workup. I'll call you back."

He hung up.

Wren moved to his side. "What's happening?"

"They're moving Rachel and Lily. Private plane instead of commercial. Safer that way."

"When?"

"Soon. Maybe a few hours." He pulled her close again. "It's going to be okay. Private plane means fewer people involved. Fewer chances for something to go wrong."

"Or more chances." Wren's voice was muffled against his chest. "What if the pilot's been paid off? What if the plane's been sabotaged? What if—"

"Stop." He tilted her face up to his. "You can't think like that. You'll drive yourself crazy with what-ifs."

"I'm already crazy with what-ifs."

"Then be crazy with me. We'll be crazy together." He kissed her forehead. "But we're going to trust Miller. We're going to trust the FBI. We're going to trust that the people protecting Rachel and Lily know what they're doing."

"And if they don't?"

He didn't have an answer for that.

His phone rang again. Forty minutes had passed. Jonah had spent them drinking bad coffee from the safe house's generic coffee maker while Wren stared at her phone like she could will it to ring with good news.

"Miller."

"We have a problem." Miller's voice was tight. "The pilot. The one we hired for the private flight."

Jonah's stomach dropped. "What about him?"

"Background check came back clean at first. But when we dug deeper, when we really dug—turns out his sister-in-law works for Vale Industries. Has for twelve years. Accounting department."

"Jesus Christ."

"Could be nothing. Could be a coincidence. But—"

"But we can't take that chance." Jonah was already moving, pacing the kitchen. "Find another pilot. Someone with zero connection to the Vales. Zero connection to anyone they might know."

"We're on it. But it's going to take time. Most private pilots in the Seattle area are going to have some connection to Vale Industries—it's one of the biggest employers in the state. Six degrees of separation and all that."

"Then find someone from outside Seattle. From Portland. From Vancouver. From wherever. Just find someone clean."

"I'm trying, Jonah. But you need to understand—the longer we wait, the more exposed Rachel and Lily are. They can't stay in that building forever. Eventually they need to move, and moving during daylight with this much heat on them—"

"I know." Jonah forced himself to stop pacing. To think. "What about military transport? Can we get them on a military plane?"

"Not without jumping through bureaucratic hoops that'll take days. And we don't have days."

"Then what do we have?"

Miller was quiet for a moment. "I might have something. Old air force buddy of mine. Retired. Flies medical transports now. Based in Tacoma. I can vouch for him personally. No connection to the Vales. No connection to anything except his job and his family."

"Can he fly today?"

"I'll call him. See if he can clear his schedule."

"Do it. Whatever it costs, I'll pay. Just get Rachel and Lily on a plane with someone we can trust."

"I'll call you back."

Miller hung up.