“How did you know about those men, Bettany?”
“Daddy said they might come. He said, ‘If I saw men in dark suits watching us after he left, I should tell you we need to leave right away.’” Her voice was barely audible over the ambient noise of the airport. A chill ran through me.
Robert, my practical, rational son, who worked as a financial director at Global Meridian Investments, had never been prone to paranoia or melodrama. If he had warned his daughter about potential watchers, he must have had serious reasons.
The parking garage was half empty. Our sedan parked in a row of vehicles on the third level. As we approached, I casually scanned the area, spotting a dark SUV with tinted windows idling two rows over. The driver appeared to be speaking into a phone or radio.
“Bettany,” I said quietly. “Did your father tell you anything else? Anything I should know?”
She nodded solemnly. “He said if the bad men came, I should give you Mr. Carrots. He has something special inside.” She hesitated. “And daddy said not to use our phones. They can listen.”
I unlocked the car, helping Bettany into the back seat and securing her seat belt before walking around to the driver’s side. Through the rear view mirror, I saw the elevator doors open, revealing the two men from the terminal.
Decades of teaching high school history hadn’t prepared me for this moment. But the years I’d spent as a single mother after my husband’s early death had taught me one crucial lesson. When protecting family, hesitation is your worst enemy.
I started the engine and pulled out of the parking space, driving normally toward the exit. The SUV I’d noticed earlier also began moving, falling into position several cars behind us.
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