The road shook and shuddered, making the Range Rover slide toward the cliff.
65
* * *
FRIDAY, MIDNIGHT
Lucy woke up with a throbbing head and a roiling stomach. Automatically her hand went to her belly and she prayed she hadn’t hurt the baby. She waited a couple of moments, pressed lightly, but there was no pain, no cramps. She closed her eyes, said a prayer of thanks. She turned her head toward a narrow beam of moonlight coming through a small window with half-drawn blinds. The window was set high in the wall, not where it should be. She realized she was lying on a single bed in a room lit only by the moonlight from that small window. She had no idea where she was.
She sat up slowly, fell back again at a wave of nausea and dizziness. She lay perfectly still and tried to think. She saw a gas station on a frontage road, saw herself following Bexholt off the exit. She remembered wondering where Bexholt was, then a hit of pain and she’d been gone. Nikki Bexholt, or someone she’d arranged to meet at that gas station. Lucy couldn’t believe it. A fricking civilian had struck her down, which meant Bexholt had spotted her and set a fine little trap and Lucy had walked right into it. She squeezed her eyes closed at the humiliation of it. She’d been so careful, but not careful enough. Dillon had trusted her to do something important, and she’d screwed it sideways.
And now she was paying for it. She raised her fingers and touched the back of her head. She found the small wound, still bleeding sluggishly, and pressed down hard on it. She tried to concentrate. So what now? Where was she? Then she remembered being dragged into a room, barely conscious, a different room, not this one. She had been about to say something, to move, but then she saw two people walk briskly back toward her—two women?—maybe, the light was very dim and she couldn’t be sure. She’d felt the weight of their eyes on her. Were they going to kill her? Her baby, Coop— She’d gone perfectly limp, hoped they’d believe she was still unconscious.
There had been more talk above her head and she’d strained to listen. She’d felt hands move her hair, then she’d felt a needle slide into her neck. She’d nearly flinched, but managed to keep still. Their words quickly became nothing more than jumbled sounds, with no meaning at all. She’d slitted her eyes open to try to see them, but they were blurred. Everything was blurred. She’d had the oddest feeling she was falling down a hole and the voices were a thousand miles away. Then there was nothing at all.
She’d awakened here, so they’d only knocked her out, hadn’t killed her. Of course, if they had killed her, she wouldn’t be thinking about it now.
Concentrate, Lucy. So after they’d drugged her, they’d brought her here, where she’d awakened, alone, in this strange dark room with only a single bed and a high window to let in a little of the bright moonlight. She lightly laid her hand on her belly again. Think, Lucy. All right, no bedroom had a single high window. She had to be in a basement. They hadn’t tied her down. Why? Because they hadn’t expected her to wake up so soon? Slowly, she swung her feet to the floor, held herself perfectly still to let the pain in her head and a wave of dizziness pass. She stilled, waited for her brain to clear.
When the world righted itself again, Lucy slowly rose and walked to the door. It was locked. To her relief, there was a small half bathroom off the room. She used the facilities and walked carefully back toward the bed, thankful for the sliver of bright moonlight since there weren’t any lamps. She saw a light fixture in the ceiling, flipped the switch on the wall, but nothing happened, they’d taken out the light bulb.
She felt for her cell phone, but it wasn’t in her pants pocket. Had they found her wallet with her ID tucked under the passenger seat? Did they know she was FBI? Bexholt had to have guessed who she was. Was that good or bad?
Relief swept through her and her brain fired sharp when she remembered—she reached down to the watch Dillon had requisitioned for everyone in the unit six months before, the watch with its own GPS. Ollie knew where she was, even if she didn’t, and he would have called Dillon. He’d come for her very soon. There had to be something she could do. She felt strong enough now, her head clearing from the effects of the drug. She walked a fairly straight line to the door, called out, “Who’s there? Come let me out, let’s talk this over. I have no idea what’s going on.”
There was no answer, no movement she could hear. She called out again, trying to sound scared, voice trembling a bit.
Still nothing. Had they simply locked her in and left?
Did they intend to come back and kill her? If they’d wanted to kill her, they could have given her an overdose and dumped her in some woods somewhere, no muss, no fuss. No, Bexholt had to know if Lucy was found dead, she’d be the main suspect and Dillon would hound her to the gates of hell. So, they hadn’t killed her. Not right away. They had to think of something less obvious. An accident of some kind or simply make her disappear. Did Bexholt, and her group, really think getting rid of her would make any difference? Did they believe she saw or heard at that house that made Bexholt desperate enough to attack her?
Lucy sat down on the edge of the bed, let her brain continue to settle and sort things out. She looked at her watch—midnight. What could she do? There wasn’t any furniture she could pull over to that window, maybe jump up, see if she could escape. The bed was too heavy. She eyed the window again. She could squeeze through it, but no way would she take the chance of hurting the baby. No, she had to sit like a fricking damsel in distress and wait for the prince to come rescue her. It was mortifying, everything about this night was mortifying.
66
* * *
Savich, Sherlock, Ollie, and Ruth made their way quietly to the small single-story house set a bit apart from its middle-class neighbors in a quiet neighborhood in McLean, Virginia, the address Lucy’s GPS signal had led them to. It wasn’t more than two miles from Alan Besserman’s house. It was as dark as all its neighbors. There were no streetlights. A single black SUV sat in the driveway. They paused twenty feet away, behind a thick maple.
Savich pulled out his cell, pressed in a number, said quietly, “Savich here. I have a license plate. Let me know who owns it. It’s urgent.”
Not a minute later Savich’s cell vibrated. He answered, listened, then, “You’ve got to be kidding me. Well, it’s not a complete surprise,” and he punched off, looked at the three of them. “It’s a company car, assigned to Mr. Lance Armstrong, Ms. Claire Farriger’s admin.”
Ollie stared. “The fricking CIA is holding Lucy?”
Ruth said, “Someone’s got to have gone round the bend to kidnap an FBI agent. It’s crazy.”
“There’s a lot more to this than any of us know yet. But I do know it’s one specific person with the CIA—Claire Farriger. Armstrong not only works officially for her, it now seems he’s also her accomplice. Whatever rogue operation Claire Farriger and Nikki Bexholt are involved in, we know getting Justice Cummings out of the way was crucial. To make him the goat.”
Ollie said, “Did it come from Farriger or from Bexholt?”
Sherlock said, “Let’s find out. I guess it’s probably not the best idea to knock on the front door and identify ourselves.”
Savich grinned. “Probably not. Sherlock and I will go around to the back, see what we can see. Ollie, you and Ruth stay here out front. We don’t have our comms units, so if anyone comes or goes, call me.”
Sherlock suddenly saw herself again hugging an insanely happy Lucy McKnight, in the CAU, laughing, congratulating her. Lucy was smiling a jaw-splitting smile. She’d just told Sherlock she was pregnant.
“What?” Savich whispered against her hair as they walked around to the back of the house.
She shook her head. “Another flash, of Lucy. I’m sorry. Dillon, I’m wondering how deep this goes in the CIA, or does it begin and end with Farriger and Armstrong? It has to mean Farriger had to have met Nikki Bexholt when the CIA hired Bexholt for a project.” She stopped, grabbed his hand, listened. They waited. She whispered, “For
a minute I thought I heard footsteps inside.”
“Keep listening.”
“Is being an FBI agent always this nerve-racking?”
“Only sometimes.” He looked down at her, cupped her face in his hand. “But for you, the hairier the better—you love it.”
Oh my, it sounded like she was a wild adrenaline junkie. She gave him a huge grin. “Maybe I do.”
They moved silently past the darkened kitchen windows, around to the back kitchen door. No surprise, it was locked. Savich started to pick the lock, then motioned her on. He whispered next to her ear, “Dead bolt.”
They paused at two of the back windows, took quick looks, saw no movement. Then Savich saw a pinpoint flash of light. They snugged up against the window, saw a small beam of LED light cross what was probably a bedroom. They saw a door open, and a bathroom counter beyond it. The beam of light was cut off as the bathroom door closed. Time to move, fast.
Savich pried up the bedroom window with his knife and climbed in. “Stay here,” he whispered to Sherlock. “Be ready.” He walked on cat’s feet to stand beside the closed bathroom door. He knew he had to bring Armstrong down fast, and quietly. It was possible there were others in the house.
He slowed his breathing, waited. His cell vibrated in his jacket pocket.
67
* * *
EAGLE'S NEST
FRIDAY, MIDNIGHT
Griffin prayed the road wouldn’t crumble beneath them with the landslide of heavy boulders slamming onto it and bouncing over the cliff. He had no control of the Range Rover now tilting toward the edge.
The rocks continued to crash down, luckily, none hitting closer than about six yards in front of them. The Range Rover continued to slide toward the cliff edge, nothing he could do to stop it.
“We’re going to jump, Carson!”
He grabbed her arms and pulled her across the driver’s side after him. They stumbled back toward the gate and landed on their knees in the center of the narrow road. They watched from well back, frozen, as the earth beneath Griffin’s Range Rover split and crumbled.
Griffin watched his car plow down the bushes and slide over the edge. They heard the SUV bouncing against the cliff wall, heard it land with a loud boom at the base of the mountain. Griffin ran as close to the edge as he dared and looked down. He saw his beloved Range Rover crushed against rocks, one wheel slowly spinning. Suddenly, the earth beneath his feet ripped apart and he slid into an ever-widening crevasse. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing to save him. He knew he was going to die, and how to make peace with that?
“Griffin! Grab my hand!”
He flailed his arm upward and he felt her grab him, and she was pulling him up? But how? No, he would pull her over with him. He yelled, “Let me go, Carson!”
“Griffin, I’ve got this bush between my legs. Pray it holds our weight. Come on, pull yourself up. No way are you going to fall.” She managed to grab his other hand as he climbed upward, his feet scrabbling to find purchase. He managed to fit his boot against a rock that hadn’t yet pulled loose and heaved himself up, so slowly it felt like eternity. “Come on, Griffin, pull, pull,” she said over and over, her litany, until finally he reached solid ground. He fell next to her, breathing hard, his heart galloping. But only for a moment. They crawled backward until they hugged the mountain. Carson grabbed him around his chest, squeezed him hard, then pulled away, stared at him a moment, then began laughing like a loon. He pulled her back against him, his heart still kettledrumming, but he was alive, she was alive, and he was so grateful it nearly swamped him. She hiccupped and eased away from him to lean back against the mountain wall. She wasn’t laughing any longer. “I was so scared, I thought you were going to— No, forget that—we’re both all right, we both survived. I didn’t think, just acted.” She looked toward the lone bush still upright at the edge of the cliff. “May all of heaven rejoice at the strength of that precious bush. I want to take it home, take care of it, maybe add a dollop of vodka in its water.”
Griffin’s heart was slowing enough so he could catch his breath. He leaned in close, said against her tangled hair, “Thank you for my life, Carson.”
She hiccupped again, swallowed. “You’re welcome, but please, don’t ever do anything like that again. I don’t want my heart to stop. It might not reboot next time.”
If she hadn’t been with him, if she hadn’t been such a quick thinker— No, he wouldn’t go there. He was alive, they were both alive. He hugged her once more, and turned to watch a huge boulder hurtle down the mountain, hit the road like a bomb, then bounce high like a basketball to hurl itself over the cliff.
“It’s probably going to land on top of my Range Rover.” He popped his ears. “There, that’s better. I wondered why I was having a hard time hearing you.”
Carson popped her ears. “Yes, good.”
“Are you okay, Carson? Really?”
“I—I, that is, yes, other than not having any spit in my mouth and my heart wanting to leap out of my chest, but, hey, who cares? We’re alive, Griffin, we’re alive.”
Griffin drew in a steadying breath. He finally said, “I bet Quint’s had the explosive in place for a while now.”
“That’s how he was going to handle us? Even though we were really careful, it’s gotta mean he saw us on a camera. But why did he have it already in place?”
“To take care of unwanted guests and claim it was an act of God? Still, it was sloppy, hard to time a landslide at exactly the right time, has to take some luck, which he didn’t have with us. He should have gotten out his shotgun and drilled us clean, over and done. Thank the powers that be he wanted to be cute about it, turn it into an accident, no dead bodies on his property. Still, it was close.”
He took her dirty hand and they sat quietly. The night was silent again.
“Griffin.”
He felt her hand on his forearm. He pulled her in. She was shaking, no surprise, she was overloaded with adrenaline from the shock and fear, the fight for his life, and the aftermath, finally knowing they weren’t going to die. All of it made a wicked brew. She said against his ear, “I’m sure glad you’re a crappy driver. If you’d made that first K turn, we’d be dead. Smashed really dead. Do you think Quint will come down and check?”
“I would,” he said, gave her another hug, and pulled out his cell. “I am now officially pissed.”
Savich whispered, “Griffin? What’s up? Sorry, but you’ve got to make it fast.”
And Griffin told him what had happened.
“Good, you’re both all right. I can’t talk, I’m up to my eyeballs in trouble here. Get off the mountain, Griffin, now, before Quint Bodine gets down there to see if you’re both dead. When you can, call Bettina Kraus. She’ll bring the troops.”
Griffin was shaking his head as he said, “I was going to wait until morning to call Bettina, Savich, but not now, not since Quint knows we were looking around. You know as well as I do the girls’ lives are on the line. He might kill them, bury the evidence. I can’t let him do that. I’ll call Bettina, tell her the situation. We’ll wait here for her and her troops.”
“Be careful, all right?” Before Griffin had a chance to say anything more, Savich had punched off.
Griffin said, “Savich is in trouble himself.” He immediately called Bettina Kraus, woke her up. He talked faster than he’d talked to Savich. When he rang off, he said, “She’ll be here with agents as soon as she can get everyone rounded up. Say two hours.”
“Good. No, Griffin, I know you’re going to say something stupid like I should walk to the bottom of the road and wait. No way.” She stood up, brushed the dirt from her pants. She shook a teacher’s finger at him. “Don’t even try it. Consider me your second skin until this is over.” She sighed. “To think I came to Gaffer’s Ridge to do a human interest interview, and look what happened instead. No, keep quiet. I’m not about to leave those girls. We’ll be ready for him. I’ve still got the gun.”
“You nearly
died—twice.”
“And you were very close yourself. Now, we’re wasting time. What do we do?”
He got to his feet. “I doubt we have much time before Quint gets here to see what’s left of us after the landslide.”
Carson pulled the small Colt Griffin had given her from her waistband, said in a calm voice she didn’t recognize as hers, “Let’s get the murderous bastard and rescue those girls.”
They walked back toward the gate.
68
* * *
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
The toilet flushed, the tap water ran, then stopped. Savich pictured Armstrong wiping his hands. The door opened, but there was no light this time. Armstrong was confident enough he knew where things were in the room. Savich jerked Armstrong back against him, squeezed his arm tight around his neck, his Glock against his temple. He said into his ear, “Armstrong, you’re a long way from Langley.”
Armstrong didn’t say a word. He twisted to grab Savich’s elbow and pressed his fingers hard on his ulnar nerve. Fire flashed down Savich’s forearm and his hand went instantly numb. His Glock fell to the hardwood floor.
Armstrong was on him. He was well trained, hard as a seasoned fullback, and out to maim.
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