“If I warned you, I’d warn him.”
Orr put the gun away and took a vial of crack cocaine from his pocket and put it in Forcet’s overalls. It would look like a drug-smuggling deal gone bad.
“I’ve just never seen anyone get shot before,” Crenshaw said, backing away from the fresh corpse.
“Now you have. Congratulations.”
The only heavy items left were the pieces of depleted uran ium shielding Forcet had pried away from the RTG, but Orr and Crenshaw could lift them easily. In ten minutes they had the rest of the trailer’s contents in the van, leaving nothing to link them to Forcet.
Before they got back into the van, Crenshaw used the Geiger counter again.
“What’s it reading now?” Orr asked. He wasn’t crazy about getting into a vehicle full of radioactive material.
“About two millirads per hour,” Crenshaw said. “On the drive back to the warehouse, it’ll be less than you’d get from an X-ray.”
They got in. Orr looked at the lead container. The strontium-90 pellets inside would be cooking along at 400 degrees Fahrenheit. “What do you think the reading would be if we opened the lid?”
“In the range of two thousand rads per hour.”
“Perfect.”
As he put the van into gear, Orr glanced at Forcet’s body lying next to the truck, but he felt no guilt. Radiation poisoning was a nasty way to go. The sweating and nausea were just the first signs. Vomiting, diarrhea, hair loss, and uncontrolled bleeding would have followed.
To his way of thinking, Orr had done his longtime smuggler a favor. After spending more than two hours in close proximity to the exposed capsules, Forcet would have been dead within a week anyway.
SEVENTEEN
W hen Stacy and Tyler had decided that their next step was to fly to England, she imagined heading back to Sea-Tac Airport and going through all the hassle and pain of eight hours of traveling by commercial airliner to Heathrow. Instead, barely ninety minutes after Tyler had explained to Miles why they needed a plane, she was now taking off from Seattle on her first private-jet flight, lounging in a spacious leather seat, and accompanied by only two other passengers, Tyler and Grant.
Despite the near-death experience on the ferry—or maybe because of it—Stacy reveled in the luxury. She could get used to this.
“You fly like this all the time?” she said to Tyler as the engines spooled up and the plane began its takeoff roll.
“No,” he said. “I’m usually in the cockpit.”
“You’re a pilot, too? I don’t remember that from when I prepared for my interview with you.”
He shrugged as if he thought it was no big deal. “It didn’t seem relevant.”
“Are you kidding? A handsome engineer who’s also a pilot? My viewers would love that kind of detail.”
Grant leaned toward Stacy. “He may have a PhD in mechanical engineering and be able to dispose of bombs and fly jets, but don’t let that fool you. He’s a secret Star Trek nerd.”
“What about you?” she said. “I suppose that in addition to being a former pro wrestler, an electrical engineer with a degree from the University of Washington, and an Army SEAL—”
“Hey, hey, hey. I won’t stand for that kind of insult. SEALs are Navy. I was a combat engineer, then a Ranger.”
“Pardon me. In addition to all that, I suppose you fly jets, too.”
“Me? Hell, no.”
“Thank God. I thought I was in a meeting of Overachievers Anonymous.”
“I just got my license to fly helicopters, though.”
Stacy rolled her eyes. “Maybe we should have you on the show next time.”
The jet lifted off, heading toward cruising altitude. Tyler cleared his throat. “I’d love to add to Grant’s résumé by telling you all about his addiction to trashy dating programs—”
“Hey!” Grant protested.
“—but we’d better figure out what our plan will be when we reach London and then get some shut-eye.”
The three of them unbuckled and gathered around a table. They opened a
Orr put the gun away and took a vial of crack cocaine from his pocket and put it in Forcet’s overalls. It would look like a drug-smuggling deal gone bad.
“I’ve just never seen anyone get shot before,” Crenshaw said, backing away from the fresh corpse.
“Now you have. Congratulations.”
The only heavy items left were the pieces of depleted uran ium shielding Forcet had pried away from the RTG, but Orr and Crenshaw could lift them easily. In ten minutes they had the rest of the trailer’s contents in the van, leaving nothing to link them to Forcet.
Before they got back into the van, Crenshaw used the Geiger counter again.
“What’s it reading now?” Orr asked. He wasn’t crazy about getting into a vehicle full of radioactive material.
“About two millirads per hour,” Crenshaw said. “On the drive back to the warehouse, it’ll be less than you’d get from an X-ray.”
They got in. Orr looked at the lead container. The strontium-90 pellets inside would be cooking along at 400 degrees Fahrenheit. “What do you think the reading would be if we opened the lid?”
“In the range of two thousand rads per hour.”
“Perfect.”
As he put the van into gear, Orr glanced at Forcet’s body lying next to the truck, but he felt no guilt. Radiation poisoning was a nasty way to go. The sweating and nausea were just the first signs. Vomiting, diarrhea, hair loss, and uncontrolled bleeding would have followed.
To his way of thinking, Orr had done his longtime smuggler a favor. After spending more than two hours in close proximity to the exposed capsules, Forcet would have been dead within a week anyway.
SEVENTEEN
W hen Stacy and Tyler had decided that their next step was to fly to England, she imagined heading back to Sea-Tac Airport and going through all the hassle and pain of eight hours of traveling by commercial airliner to Heathrow. Instead, barely ninety minutes after Tyler had explained to Miles why they needed a plane, she was now taking off from Seattle on her first private-jet flight, lounging in a spacious leather seat, and accompanied by only two other passengers, Tyler and Grant.
Despite the near-death experience on the ferry—or maybe because of it—Stacy reveled in the luxury. She could get used to this.
“You fly like this all the time?” she said to Tyler as the engines spooled up and the plane began its takeoff roll.
“No,” he said. “I’m usually in the cockpit.”
“You’re a pilot, too? I don’t remember that from when I prepared for my interview with you.”
He shrugged as if he thought it was no big deal. “It didn’t seem relevant.”
“Are you kidding? A handsome engineer who’s also a pilot? My viewers would love that kind of detail.”
Grant leaned toward Stacy. “He may have a PhD in mechanical engineering and be able to dispose of bombs and fly jets, but don’t let that fool you. He’s a secret Star Trek nerd.”
“What about you?” she said. “I suppose that in addition to being a former pro wrestler, an electrical engineer with a degree from the University of Washington, and an Army SEAL—”
“Hey, hey, hey. I won’t stand for that kind of insult. SEALs are Navy. I was a combat engineer, then a Ranger.”
“Pardon me. In addition to all that, I suppose you fly jets, too.”
“Me? Hell, no.”
“Thank God. I thought I was in a meeting of Overachievers Anonymous.”
“I just got my license to fly helicopters, though.”
Stacy rolled her eyes. “Maybe we should have you on the show next time.”
The jet lifted off, heading toward cruising altitude. Tyler cleared his throat. “I’d love to add to Grant’s résumé by telling you all about his addiction to trashy dating programs—”
“Hey!” Grant protested.
“—but we’d better figure out what our plan will be when we reach London and then get some shut-eye.”
The three of them unbuckled and gathered around a table. They opened a
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