“Holding at thirty thousand. Let’s see what you’ve got, Ian.”
“One sec. Captain, Callendar, we’re going green.”
“Gotcher back,” Callendar told him. “Cap?”
“Right there. Count it down.”
Roarke gave them the ninety seconds, the sixty, and at thirty, McNab tapped a series of keys on his portable. “Calling that echo in ten, nine, eight …”
“There he is,” Roarke murmured. “Nicely done, very nice indeed. Let’s hold that. Just hold that.”
He did something with the instruments that made things flash and beep—and Eve’s stomach drop again.
“Go green!” McNab shouted.
Eve didn’t know what she expected. Maybe an explosion. Because couldn’t another bat-shit crazy person flying thousands of feet above the ocean just crash right into them?
Or those air pockets in the sky that made everything wobble and shake. They could shake something loose.
Or—
“Ten more seconds,” Roarke muttered. “Give me ten more bloody seconds.”
“We’ve got it. Lock it up, Roarke. Lock the bastard.”
“I will, by Christ. Just …”
He twisted some dial, and for some reason, McNab hooted again.
So did Feeney and Callendar.
“Locked. He’s locked,” Roarke said.
She heard it—a slow, steady beep—and when Roarke tapped an instrument, she saw that blip—slow and steady.
“That’s him?”
“That’s him. And we’ve got a solid signal. This course, his longitude and latitude, it’s likely Ireland. Add the rest in—his mother, his contacts—it’s most likely.”
“Do you think he’ll actually try to land in Dublin?”
Roarke shook his head. “He’d know somewhere outside the city, a private strip, a smuggler’s way. Now he’s shifted course a time or two, but that’s for evasion—and it’s wasted speed and fuel. We’ll get wherever he’s going ahead of him. I just have to pin that down, and Ireland, Dublin’s the best I have at this moment.”
“Well, it’s better than the whole freaking world. What’s the flight time from here?”
“For us, to near around Dublin? A bit under two hours. If I go back up, less.”
“Why less?”
He glanced back at her. “It’s physics, darling Eve. The air’s thinner, so we’ll have more speed. I can cut our time to about ninety minutes. And in his slower shuttle, even pushing it, and at the lower altitude? He’s about three hours or a bit more out.”
“That’s a big advantage.”
She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll let the others know.”
When she turned, Peabody gave her a head-jerk signal, then walked back to the galley—cleared out now, as cops either chowed down or got some sleep.
“What?”
“EDD got into the comp, decrypted what was there. Cobbe used it to do searches on the Lannigans, the Brodys, on Tulla.”
“Oh Christ.” She flew down to the cockpit. “He’s not going to Dublin.”
“Odds are he—”
“He’s going after your family. He’s going to the farm.”
He didn’t ask how she knew, just increased altitude and speed. “Keep an eye on that signal, Ian. I’ve some people to contact.”
“Give me an ETA,” she snapped at Roarke.
“To Clare—fifty-five minutes.”
“Plenty of time to get them away from the farm, to a safe location.”
“I’ll have it,” he told her. “I need to arrange it now.”
She felt the increased pressure as her ears popped, her stomach did that slow, sick roll. But she turned at the cockpit door, raised her voice.
“Listen up, Cobbe’s heading for western Ireland, most specifically as close as he can manage to the Brody farm.”
Feeney’s sleepy eyes hardened. “Roarke’s family?”
“Cobbe’s behind us, a good two hours. We’re having the family moved to another location. When that asshole gets there, he’s going to find a bunch of New York City cops instead of a family of farmers.”
“We have officers in that location,” Abernathy said. “I’ll have them mobilized.”
“Low-key, and not yet. We’re not going to scare him off. We’re going to box him in. Peabody, get the locals. They can help transport Roarke’s family, but they have to move fast. I don’t want any obvious police presence at that farm when Cobbe tries to move in.
“Callendar, I need a map of the Tulla area—the farm’s a couple miles outside the town—village—whatever. Things are different there. Get me a map on-screen.”
Trueheart tentatively raised his hand while Callendar got to work. “Is there some sort of landing strip?”
“No. Roarke will figure that out. So will Cobbe.”
She thought of the first time she’d landed there—in a jet-copter, in a field with cows. Lots of cows.
“Cobbe won’t land too close, so that adds to our time. He’ll need to ditch the shuttle, steal some sort of transpo or hoof it. He’ll move as fast as he can. He can’t risk us figuring out where he landed and putting it together. Right now he thinks he’s got time.”
“Got your map. I’m going to pull up a satellite image if you can give me where the farm is in relation to the town.”
“East, about two miles. You’ve got narrow roads—like snake-skinny winding roads, bushes—hedges flanking them. Some woods. That’s good cover for Cobbe. Low traffic, and fairly remote. They don’t lock the damn doors,” she murmured.
“Abernathy, any Interpol presence is backup, and remains out of sight. You can have the goddamn collar,” she snapped when he started to object. “You can have the credit, the notch in your fucking belt, but I’m in charge of this. This is family, and I’m at the wheel, do you get me?”
“Yes. Very well. And the credit doesn’t matter a tinker’s damn to me.”
“Good.” She started to turn back to the screen and her gaze passed over Whitney. She’d simply forgotten him. “Commander—”
“Continue, Lieutenant. You have the wheel.”
“Sir.”
“Bringing up the satellite image. Give me a second,” Callendar said. “I’ve got the area, I think. There’s more than one farm-type place so—”
“There. That’s it, bring it up some. The house—three stories, about a dozen rooms. Front facing that narrow road. You’ve got multiple outbuildings. The barn, like a silo, stable.”
“There’s a difference between a barn and a stable?” Jenkinson asked.
“Apparently. Sheds, chicken place, pig place, lots of fields. Lots of cows. They’re bigger than you think. Some sheep, those low stone walls, some trees. A couple of big trees, a little stream.”
“It looks really pretty. Locals informed, Dallas,” Peabody added. “And on their way to the Brody farm.”
“Solid. If you go slightly west, there’s another house, and slightly north another. The main house is occupied by Sinead Lannigan and her husband, Robbie—Robert. Their youngest son should be in Dublin, at college, like grad school or whatever. Older son, wife, kids—I think three kids—in the house to the west. Her daughter, daughter’s husband, a couple of kids in the one to the north. Her parents, a couple of brothers—Jesus, there are so many of them—scattered in the area. But he’s going to hit the farm, that main house. That’s the heart, and he’d know it.”