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He said as he dialed, “First thing to do is call Ben Raven.” When he disconnected a minute later, he said, “A BOLO’s going out right now on the rented limo. We have to hope they haven’t ditched it already. Ben knew the rental company with the red logos. He’ll try M. J. Pederson first, the name one of the men used to rent the Lexus they spotted at Kennedy Center.”
He continued, “I don’t believe whoever took Sherlock and Molly are from Washington. Since it isn’t their turf, I doubt they’d want to stay here and try to hide.”
Mason said, “Agreed. If I were in their shoes, I’d want to get them out of here as fast as I could.”
Ramsey said, “But not on a commercial flight or Amtrak. I can’t see them driving the rented limo any distance. Wouldn’t they realize we’d figure out Molly and Sherlock were gone pretty quickly? They’d have to know they might have been seen at the hotel, that there might be a BOLO out on the limo fast.”
Mason said, “Ramsey, Savich, it seems most likely that like me, they’d fly private. And not a rental service, no, they’d have to have their own jet, their own pilot, so there’d be no one to wonder why they were holding two women prisoner.”
Savich nodded. “That means a private airfield. Where would a private plane large enough to hold them all fly out from around here, Mason?”
“The main venue is the private airfield facility at Dulles. I’m hangared at Jet Aeronautics. They’re the best—a helpful staff, excellent facilities if you need to wait, maintenance people you can count on. That’s where I’d go.”
Savich checked his Mickey Mouse watch. “I’ll call Jet Aeronautics. If they’re there, there might be time to stop them.”
Mason said, “They won’t tell you, Savich. They’ll cite client confidentiality and demand a warrant. I’ll call them.”
Savich didn’t doubt for a second Mason would get all the information he asked for. “Yes, go ahead. I’ll call Ben Raven back, get his officers out there.”
Mason ended a short conversation with the manager. He punched off his cell phone. “You were right, Savich, they used the name M. J. Pederson to hangar a Gulfstream 500 overnight. They took off only minutes ago. Five passengers, two men and three women, two pilots in the cockpit, their own pilots, of course. No surprise here—their flight plan shows their destination as Las Vegas.”
Ramsey was shaking his head. “Las Vegas. It’s hard to believe. Does Rule Shaker think we’re stupid?”
Savich said, “Don’t jump yet, Ramsey. Now, we’ll have them met by federal agents when they land. I’ll alert them to avoid a possible hostage situation. And I want to get there as soon as we can. My Porsche is too small. We’ll take a taxi. Mason, can you get your jet ready for us?”
Mason said, “It already is. I’ll call Elizabeth Beatrice and have them hurry down to the limo and meet us at Jet Aeronautics.”
C. J. Clooney himself whistled in a taxi for them. Mason sat in the front seat next to the driver, a young Latina with a glossy ponytail. “I’ll give you an extra hundred if you can get us there in forty-five minutes.”
She grinned at him. “Make it one fifty and I’ll get you there in thirty-five minutes. Name’s Chili.”
“You’re on, Chili,” Mason said and strapped his seat belt. He turned in his seat, one hand on the chicken stick as she scooted around a corner. “They’ll have over an hour on us by the time we’re airborne. Do you think you can beat their time to the airport, Chili?”
Chili said, “Hang on, fellows, we’re taking a little shortcut,” and she swerved onto Beltson Avenue.
Savich stared out the taxi window, wishing he could tell Sherlock he’d find her, that he loved her. He thought of Sean and called his mother, asked her to keep him for a couple of days, saying only something urgent had come up and he and Sherlock had to go out of town.
He closed his eyes, concentrated on what might come next. I’ll find you, Sherlock, I swear.
