Irreparable Harm (38 page)

Attack.
At the same time, Sasha grabbed Vivian by the throat with her left hand. Vivian dropped her shoe and clawed at Sasha’s wrist.

Sasha aimed two quick straight punches at the hollow of Vivian’s throat. Followed them with a palm strike to the chin. Vivian’s mouth snapped shut and the back of her head slammed into the door.

Take
. She bent Vivian’s right wrist back and pried the gun from her hand.

She stood, feet apart, and aimed at Vivian, who slid down the door to a seated position. Sasha followed her movement with the gun.

Irwin appeared in the mud room doorway holding a cordless hand vacuum, ready to clean up the dirt. He raised his eyebrows when he saw Vivian slumped against the door, holding her throat.

He nodded to the bright red splotches of blood that dripped from Vivian’s mouth and dotted the tile.

“You’d better hope that comes up, Vivian.”

Sasha considered shooting him just for being stupid.

“Put the vacuum down and help her into a chair,” she ordered.

He hesitated, like he might argue with her, then cut his eyes toward the gun. He sighed, but dropped the hand vac and hoisted Vivian up, wrapping his arms under her armpits. He dragged her over to a wrought iron chair and propped her up in it.

“Sit down next to her,” Sasha told him, pointing at the empty chair beside Vivian.

They sat there, side by side, like kids called to the principal’s office and looked up at her, defiant and scared. Vivian was still breathing heavily, but aside from some minor damage to her throat and a bloody mouth, she’d be fine.

Sasha stood there with the gun and just looked at them for a long moment.

“Start at the beginning,” she said.

She barely got the words out before the sound of a doorbell chime floated into the kitchen from the front hallway.

“You expecting company?” she asked Irwin.

His pale face lit up. “Yes, I am. Oh, am I.”

Vivian looked over at him.

“My guys,” he told her. “They’re here with the files.” He was buzzing with excitement.

“Your guys? Gregor and Anton?” Sasha asked.

“That’s right,” he told her. “I’m surprised you survived your encounter with them. Did you enjoy it?”

Idiot
,
Sasha thought.

The doorbell chimed again, followed by hard knocking on the door.

“Well, go let them in before they break Laura’s door,” Sasha told him.

He jumped up from the chair, then froze, wondering what the catch was.

“Irwin, for Chrissake, don’t …” Vivian started.

“Quiet,” Sasha told her, waving the gun for emphasis.

The evil genius stood for a minute, trying to decide, then raced off down the hall, slipping and sliding in his socks.

Vivian just shook her head.

Sasha smiled. “No common sense, huh? I mean, it’s too good to be true, right? I’m just going to let him open the door for his reinforcements?”

“Too good to be true,” Vivian repeated, dull eyed and quiet.

Irwin reappeared a moment later, looking deflated. Followed closely by Connelly with the Sig Sauer in hand.

Connelly looked at Vivian, hunched over in the chair, blood staining her silk blouse. He nodded a greeting to Sasha.

“Didn’t I tell you to go straight back to your office?”

Sasha ignored it. “Do you know whose house this is?”

“No.”

“Noah Peterson’s.”

“That Mrs. Peterson?” he inclined his head toward Vivian, keeping the gun on Irwin.

“No. Vivian Coulter.”

Connelly raised an eyebrow. “Nice client relations your firm has. She need medical treatment?”

“No,” Sasha said at the same time Vivian mewed, “Yes.”

Connelly rolled his eyes but stepped closer to inspect Vivian’s injuries.

“You’ll live,” he told her.

Irwin stood slack-jawed and silent.

“Sit back down,” Sasha told him.

Connelly handed her his gun and reached for his phone.

She stood, feet planted, and pointed Vivian’s gun at Vivian and Connelly’s gun at Irwin.

“Hurry up,” she told him. She felt ridiculous.

Connelly ignored her and made his call. Spoke loudly over Pulaski’s complaining and gave the U.S. Marshals the address. Then, he slid the phone back in his pocket and looked at Vivian and Irwin.

“We’ve got about ten minutes. Somebody start talking.”

Sasha handed him his gun.

Vivian kept her mouth firmly shut, but Irwin began to prattle right away.

“After the RAGS links were installed on Hemisphere Air’s planes, we planned to ride it out. Vivian thought after the administration changed in D.C. we’d be better positioned to revive the pilot program with the Air Marshals Service,” he explained.

Vivian muttered, “Shut up, Jerry,” but it was futile.

“But then,” he continued, “Patriotech was approached by certain … private organizations who had an interest in acquiring the technology. But, each party only wanted it if I could guaranty exclusivity.”

“Exclusivity?” Connelly arched a brow.

“Irwin said, “Nobody wanted it if everybody else had it, too, understand? So, I organized an auction for interested bidders. They wanted to see a demonstration or two before bidding.”

“Wait.” Sasha was confused. “Isn’t this a limited use application? Once you run out of planes that have RAGS links installed, then the winning bidder would just have a useless technology, right?”

“Yes and no,” Irwin said. “I had a plan. I wasn’t going to implement it, but I would license it to the winning bidder.”

“License what?

Vivian tried again. “Jerry, stop talking.”

He plowed ahead. “A second-generation RAGS. No link needed. No need to be on the plane. With the new version, you can crash a plane from the terminal.”

“What do you need to make it work?”

“Someone on the inside.”

“Inside what, the cockpit—a pilot?”

Irwin shook his head, “Pilot, flight attendant, air marshal, cleaning crew, baggage crew. Whoever. You just need someone to read you the model number on the transponder in the cabin so you know what frequency to set the RAGS to.”

Sasha flicked her eyes to Connelly and saw his grip on the gun tighten.

“Did you line up anyone on the inside?” Connelly asked, his voice careful.

“No, that’s on the buyer,” Irwin said.

“Then why even use the RAGS-linked planes for your demonstrations?”

“Because I wanted to be certain the demonstrations were repeatable. The new system
should
work. I
know
the old one works.”

“So, it’s fraud. The technology you’re selling isn’t the one you’re demonstrating,” Sasha said.

Irwin shrugged. “Caveat emptor, baby.”

Vivian shifted in her seat. “I think you bruised my larynx,” she said to Sasha.

“Who lined up Calvaruso and Jones?” Sasha asked, ignoring Vivian’s complaint.

“Who’s Jones?” Connelly asked.

“Harold Jones. Martyr Number 2.”

“You found something in Warner’s papers?”

She nodded. “Yeah, Jones is booked on Bob Metz’s flight back from Seattle tomorrow night, carrying a Patriotech-issued smartphone.”

Vivian glared at Irwin. “Good job getting the files back, Jerry,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Actually, Sasha figured out which planes were modified before we ever got Warner’s files.” Connelly told her. “Using your files.”

Sasha repeated her question, waving the gun for emphasis. “Who lined up Calvaruso and Jones?”

“I did,” Irwin said. “Vivian used her connection with Laura …”

“Laura Peterson?”

“Yes, she’s on the board of the cancer center. Vivian told Laura I was a philanthropist, looking to start a fund for terminal cancer patients. Laura set up interviews with several gentlemen, and I picked the two who seemed most desperate. They both agreed to carry a phone on a plane, knowing it was dangerous and they could die. In exchange, I paid them each twelve thousand, five hundred dollars and purchased life insurance policies for them.”

“Did they know they were going to take down planes full of innocent people?”

Irwin made a motion with his hands, as if to say
who knows?

“Jones didn’t ask a lot of questions. Calvaruso did. He might have known. Probably he did.”

“Jesus,” Connelly breathed.

“I have a question. Where are Gregor and Anton? Why do you have their car? And who the fuck
are
you?” Irwin fired his questions at Connelly.

“That’s three questions,” Connelly informed him. “Gregor is in the custody of the United States Marshals Service. Anton is at UPMC having reconstructive surgery courtesy of Ms. McCandless. And I am Special Agent Leo Connelly. I’m a federal air marshal.”

Irwin hung his head.

“Where are your boys?” Sasha asked Connelly.

“They’re still a couple minutes away,” Connelly said, checking the clock over the double wall oven. He seemed to take in his surroundings for the first time. “Why are we here anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” Sasha said, “but Vivian has Noah’s …” Sasha stopped as Laura appeared on the doorstep outside the kitchen door, a Whole Foods Market bag and a bouquet of cut flowers in her arms. She turned the doorknob and filled the doorway.

“Jerry?” she called, as she walked in, “is Vivian here?” She looked back at the SUV in her driveway then stepped into the foyer. She stopped.

Her pale blue eyes searched the four faces in her kitchen and her knees buckled under her. “Jerry? What’s going on? The groceries tumbled to the floor, followed by flowers. Connelly hurried over to catch her.

“Ma’am,” he said, steadying her on her feet, “I’m Special Agent Leo Connelly, we have a situation here.”

“Situation? Sasha? What are you doing?” She eyed the gun in Sasha’s hand.

Sasha half-turned to Laura, keeping one eye on Vivian and Irwin.

“Laura, I’m so sorry. Agent Connelly will explain everything later, but you need to turn around and leave right now.” She worked to keep her voice calm.

“Leave? I’m not leaving Jerry here. Honey, what’s going on?” Laura was wild-eyed and getting loud.

Honey?
Sasha saw the question mark in Connelly’s eyes and shrugged.

Vivian saw it, too. She barked out a laugh. “The Widow Peterson didn’t waste any time taking a lover. Although, I do have to question her taste.”