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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.
