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Sherlock saw another man was pressing a gun against Molly’s back, no, not a man, a woman dressed like a man wearing a short black wig. There was nothing she could do. She let the man pull her Glock out of her waist clip. The gun muzzle pressed harder against her ribs. The man said against her ear, “Now all of us will walk nice and easy to the limo directly across the street and get in the back. Let me say it again, anything more from you, Agent Sherlock, and she’s dead.”
As they crossed H Street, Sherlock saw the back door of a black limo being pushed open. Could she make her move now? The gun muzzle pressed hard into her back. “Don’t even think about it. Move, get yourselves inside.”
The woman walked around toward the driver’s seat. Molly slipped in the rear, Sherlock beside her. The man followed them in, closed the back door, and locked it. His Beretta was aimed at Sherlock, center mass. She saw he was young, maybe midthirties, his features hard, black scruff on his face he must have thought made him look sexy, but didn’t. It only made him look more like a thug. And he wasn’t a pro, she was certain of that because he hadn’t automatically checked her for more weapons. She still had her Ruger in her ankle holster.
But it was the man who was already in the limo on the seat facing them who captured Sherlock’s complete attention. No doubt in her mind he was a pro. He was dressed in a sharp suit and white shirt, his face almost as white as his shirt and as smooth as Sean’s, not a hint of a wrinkle anywhere. How old was he? Forty? Sixty? No way to tell. His hair was blond white. He wasn’t quite albino, but it was close. His eyes were a color Sherlock had never seen before, so light a blue as to be nearly silver, his eyebrows thick blond-white slashes that nearly met, but not quite. His cold eyes looked from her to Molly, unblinking, like an alligator looking at his prey, or simply commodities he’d procured for a customer, which seemed the case. Sherlock knew it to her bones—this man was a stone-cold killer. Molly gave a small shudder beside her, so she felt it too.
The woman had quickly slid into the driver’s seat without saying a word. She pulled the limo smoothly into the thick H Street traffic.
Albino sat back against the seat and folded his arms, showing them he was armed. “Zip-tie their wrists, Pope, in front of them will do.”
Pope leaned toward Sherlock, his Beretta loose in his hand as he pulled zip ties out of his jacket. Sherlock jerked the Ruger out of her ankle holster, shoved it into his chest. He froze for a second, long enough for Sherlock to wrench his gun out of his hand by its barrel. She called out, “Stop the car or he gets a bullet!”
Albino laughed at her. He was pointing his Sig not at her, but at Molly. He waved a long thin white finger at Sherlock. “You didn’t think this through, Agent Sherlock. Now give Pope his gun back or Mrs. Hunt dies.”
“You won’t kill her, you need her.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, one way or the other. She can be dead and fulfill her purpose. Now, Agent Sherlock, give the gun back to Pope or I’ll shoot her between the eyes.”
Sherlock shoved Pope back, held his Beretta and her Ruger out to him. He took them, sent a terrified look at his boss.
“Good decision, Agent Sherlock. Both of you hold your wrists together in front of you. Get the zip ties on them, Pope. I want no more misguided attempts to escape. Then take their cell phones and throw them out the window.”
As Pope zip-tied them, Albino studied Sherlock then Molly with his unblinking eyes. “From a distance you look like sisters with all that red curly hair, but up close, your hair is very different.” His voice was flat, detached, almost bored.
Sherlock was afraid, knew Molly was as well, but she would keep thinking, keep looking for an opening. “I have to say I didn’t see this coming. You couldn’t take Emma, so you came for Molly.”
“I had so many choices. I could have even tried for one of those cute little boys. In fact, I still might take one of them.”
Molly lost it. She lurched across the narrow space, brought her bound hands up, and scored her fingers down his face. He shoved her back, cursing, breathing hard.
Pope raised his Beretta. For an endless moment, Molly wondered if he would shoot her.
Albino said, “Pope, no. Relax. Our ladies have played their tricks. As for Mrs. Hunt, I’ll punish her as I see fit.” He lightly touched his fingertips to the two long scratches on his cheek. He looked at his hand. No blood. “You’re lucky,” he said, leaned over and slapped her so hard Molly fell to the side.
“Agent Sherlock, don’t move. I will kill you if you try anything more. You’re not as important to us as she is. Now straighten up, Mrs. Hunt.” Molly was breathing hard, tears sheening her eyes. He leaned forward, took her chin between his fingers, and squeezed. “Be a good girl now or I’ll have to hurt you. Your skin is so very fine I might already have bruised you.” He stroked his fingers over the violent red mark on her cheek, pressed in hard, making her jerk with pain.
He sat back and nodded as if in approval. “When I got the call the two of you were heading out on foot, I must admit to feeling lucky you were making it so easy. As for you, Agent Sherlock, I’m sure Pope would like to put a bullet in your head and dump you in the Potomac after what you just did. No man likes to look like a fool. But you’re lucky. The boss asked us to bring you along.”
“Who called you?”
He frowned. At himself? “None of your business, Agent Sherlock.”
Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “You must realize taking us is a huge mistake. You know I’m FBI, but did you know my husband is as well? There is nowhere you can take us the FBI won’t find you. When they do, my husband will peel the skin off your face.”
Albino laughed, showing square white teeth, but his unnerving eyes never blinked. “Such faith in a broken-down bureaucracy. I have to say, though, your husband seems rather competent.”
Sherlock said, “You have no idea.”
“Indeed I do. I always know all the players I face. Your husband, no matter how smart you think he is, won’t find you. You will simply disappear until—until we make other arrangements.”
Molly said, “Who are you? What’s your name?”
He studied her a moment. Molly’s chin went up. She was so scared she wanted to puke, but she wouldn’t let him see it, she wouldn’t.
“You may call me Nero.”
