Franklin’s plane took off from Phoenix on time.
He sat in an aisle seat near the back, his long legs cramped, and his brain crackling with anticipation. He’d waited for this chance for so long. But too many things could go wrong.
Stupid Jerry. Couldn’t do a job right. Franklin should have known better than to trust the man.
At Franklin’s gate at the airport, a TV mounted from the ceiling had been turned to CNN. Four times as he waited he’d seen footage of Rayne’s accident and Shaley leaping from her limo, screaming.
Shaley. His daughter. He knew that, even though Rayne had never told him she was pregnant. The last time he saw her, she couldn’t have known yet, he’d bet on that. August 30, 1992. A day he would never forget.
Franklin wondered how far the hospital was from the Denver airport.
He closed his eyes, chin lowered toward his chest. He needed a thorough plan, but it wouldn’t come. He needed to get there first, see the layout and the odds against him.
Sometimes you needed to case the situation before deciding what to do.
Sloppiness is what got him caught for the armed robbery. He’d held up a convenience store at night, never thinking about the security cameras. Dumb, dumb.
The stewardess came around, taking drink orders and offering a bag of peanuts. Franklin crunched his snack, barely tasting it. His thoughts whirled, imagining scenarios. If he did this thing wrong, his life could end today. Just like Jerry’s.
Franklin tipped up the bag of peanuts and shook the last ones into his mouth. He wadded the crackly container in his palm.
No. Failure was not an option. He would reach his goal. By the end of this day, he would find a way into the hospital room of Rayne O’Connor.