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They fall into conversation until the bartender arrives and Sheridan orders his and Henry’s beers.I watch him and Quinten talk for two minutes and thirty-six seconds. Quinten smiles at Sheridan and says something in his ear. Sheridan smiles back. Nods.
Then Sheridan turns away with the beers, only to dart back a moment later. He tries to get the bartender’s attention again, but he’s gone, already pouring cosmos for three women at the other end of the bar.Quinten slides Sheridan an ashtray, and Sheridan mouths, “Thanks.” He grabs the ashtray and makes his way back to Henry.
Anatoly stops the video. “As I said, we’ve been chasing down every moment of Quinten’s movements in New York. We’re especially interested in everyone he spoke to. Imagine our surprise when we discovered this young man was a Secret Service agent. That was intriguing, so we have been following him since New York.”
They’ve been following Sheridan. My Sheridan.
But is he really mine anymore? Was he ever?
He refused to leave after the fight at the UN.
“What did you find?”
“This.” Anatoly pulls up a new window on his laptop with files that show cell phone intercepts. Jesus, the FBI and NSA have years of rebuilding to do. The United States and Russia have always been playing a spy-versus-spy game, but we like to think we’re in the lead. We’re not. We’re clearly not. “We have been monitoring his communications.”
There are nine highlighted calls on Sheridan’s cell phone records going back six months. “This number he dialed,” Anatoly says, “we have recently traced to a burner phone that Quinten bought in New York during the UN.”
A pit opens inside me, a chasm with no bottom. The farther I fall, the darker my thoughts become.
I trusted him. I trusted Sheridan with Brennan.
I draw my weapon and rise. Anatoly follows, pulling his own pistol from beneath his jacket. We move to the stairs, and our backs hit the wall. I peer up. I can’t see anything.
Each step I take is slow, careful. Anatoly shadows my moves, until we’re mirror images of each other. Not long ago, I’d have thought it absurd that I could ever be in formation with the head of the FSB, closing in on an American traitor inside the Secret Service. I would have said I could trust my people. With Brennan’s life.
How wrong I was.
The second floor is silent. Based on what he let us hear, Sheridan is in the bedroom at the end of the hall. I clear the two other bedrooms first, peering in open doors and sweeping the corners as Anatoly covers me.Both are empty.
I stack outside the left side of the last bedroom while Anatoly takes the right. The door is cracked enough for Sheridan to have eavesdropped on our conversation if he pressed his ear against the frame, but I can see daylight all the way down the slit. If he was listening, he’s not there now.
I give the countdown. This is Anatoly’s house, but Sheridan is my man. He’ll go in first. I’ll make the arrest.
On one, I kick the door open and drop back. Anatoly charges in, slings himself right—
Sheridan leaps from where he was hidden flush against the wall and ducks under Anatoly’s locked arms. He shoves upward, cracking Anatoly’s elbow and forcing his pistol toward the ceiling.
Two shots go off. Bullets bury themselves in the plaster overhead, and dust and drywall rain down as Sheridan kicks out Anatoly’s knees and wraps his tie twice around Anatoly’s throat.
In two seconds, Sheridan has Anatoly on the ground, the muscles in his forearms bulging as he pulls on the ends of the tie I last saw shoved in his pocket when we sat on the tailgate of the SUV at Henry’s house, waiting for Hudson.
Sheridan roars as he pulls tighter—
I press my pistol to the back of his head. “Freeze, Sheridan.”
He doesn’t move. Anatoly’s face is turning purple.
I dig my weapon into his scalp. “Let him go, or I’ll pull the trigger.”
Sheridan opens his hands. Anatoly sags to the floor and drags in a gulp of air as he rips the tie free. His face is red, and from more than the near strangulation. Sheridan took him down in less time than it takes to blink. I’d be proud if I didn’t want to vomit.
“Hands up,” I growl. “Now!”
“Reese—” Sheridan starts.
“I don’t want to hear it. Put your hands up!”
He does, slowly. I kick him to the ground, lay him facedown, and strip him of his badge, cuffs, flashlight, and magazines. The only other things he has on him are his two cell phones.
I put him in an armlock and drag him into the bathroom, then cuff him around the pipes beneath the sink. He doesn’t fight me. He’s limp. He’s shaking. Tears are running down his face. Snot drips from his nose. His teeth are chattering, and when he looks up at me, there’s so much agony pouring from him that it nearly breaks my heart.
No. He used me. He wormed his way past all my defenses. He played me perfectly, but now his time is up.
I point my pistol at his forehead. Fresh tears race down his cheeks.
“Tell me everything, Sheridan. Starting with where Brennan is.”
