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Albino had a name now, ridiculous as it was. Nero? Sherlock poked the bear. “Your parents named you after an insane Roman emperor?”
If he was angry, he didn’t show it. He remained motionless, no expression on his smooth white face. “It is my nom de plume, you could say. It seemed a good fit since I did a little dance while I watched my parents’ house burn down with them inside it. Is that shock I see on your face, Mrs. Hunt? At murdering the two sterling citizens who spawned me?” He shrugged. “I did everyone a favor, removing those worthless losers from the planet. They were the first problem I solved.”
Sherlock studied Nero’s face, saw only ferocious satisfaction. “Exactly what problem are you solving now?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Pope and Domino failed to complete the mission. I was sent here to fix that problem.”
Pope stiffened beside him. Nero touched his hand to Pope’s sleeve. “Not really their fault. You surprised Pope at Kennedy Center and he was fast, he even managed to shoot you in the neck with a dart and get out of there. I give you credit, Agent Sherlock, you spread an impressive net around Emma Hunt after that. Even Domino’s plan to use the officer’s uniform to lure Emma Hunt somewhere they’d be alone didn’t work out. There you were, unexpected, right there in the women’s room, seeing to your fallen police officer. Domino didn’t have time to do anything. I was impressed, Agent Sherlock. It was then I judged it impossible for them to secure Emma Hunt.” His eyes went to Molly. “Emma Hunt was preferable, but you, Mrs. Hunt, as I said, will do nicely.”
Nero was taunting her, but it wasn’t fear Molly was feeling now, it was relief. Emma was safe. Sherlock was with her only because she’d been in the wrong place. They were now in this, whatever it was, together. Molly trusted her implicitly. She saw Ramsey’s face. He’d be frantic, ready to tear the hotel down. And the twins, they’d want their mother but she wouldn’t be there. No, she couldn’t think about that, she had to stay focused, like Sherlock, and think. The ten minutes she’d promised was long up. Her father would be frowning by now, wondering where she was, maybe even pacing. Dillon would know they were both late. They might already have tried to call them or text. Pope, as instructed, had thrown out their cell phones. Molly wondered if their phones would be found and turned in. She said, trying to keep her voice as calm as Sherlock’s, “Since you claim to know all the players, you know I’m married to Judge Ramsey Hunt, surely you’ve heard of Judge Dredd—and you know my father is Mason Lord. Do you have any idea what he’ll do to you when he finds you? The FBI would arrest you, Agent Savich would peel your face off, my husband would kick your heart through your back, but my father?” She leaned forward, said right in his face, “My father would boil you alive. If your boss is Rule Shaker, he’d be in the same pot with you, then the two of you would be buried deep in the desert.”
Nero leaned back and laughed. “Pope, just listen to her. Yes, she’s Mason Lord’s daughter, all right, a right chip off the old block.” He lightly ran his fingertips over the scratches on his cheek. “I like women with guts, not that it matters. Neither of you understand anything, but you will.”
Sherlock said, “The FBI already knows you cloned the real M. J. Pederson’s driver’s license and credit card Pope used to rent the pretty silver Lexus he drove to Kennedy Center. Didn’t you think we’d find the rental car? Or did you simply want to be thorough? I’ve got to say, Nero, selecting a mark in Ender, Nevada, so close to Las Vegas, doesn’t seem very smart. As for you, Pope, we saw you on camera at the car rental at Dulles. You were wearing sunglasses and that ball cap, but FBI tech is amazing, only thing they got wrong is your eye color. I have no doubt facial recognition will nail you. Big mistake. It means we’ll have your boss identified in no time at all.”
There was dead silence for a moment. Nero slowly turned to face Pope. He raised his Sig and shot him between the eyes. There was a huge explosion in the confined limousine, and the smell of cordite, acrid and strong. Pope didn’t make a sound. He fell against the door, his eyes open, staring up at the roof of the limo. The driver, Domino, cried out, swerved the limo into an oncoming lane. Nero said sharply, “Get yourself together, Domino! He was dangerous to us, stupid!”
Molly froze, a scream clogged her throat. Nero had shot him, simply shot him dead. Molly had never seen anyone die in front of her. She felt bile rise in her throat. She leaned down and threw up on the floor.
Sherlock wasn’t about to let him see how shocked she was. Get it together, get it together. She said, her voice cool, “You’re insane. Nero is the perfect name for you.”
He threw back his head and laughed again. “It stinks in here.” He pulled a bottle of water from a side door pocket, tossed it to Sherlock. “Here, have her wash out her mouth.”
He kept his Sig aimed at Sherlock’s heart. “I wonder what I’ll do with him. Domino, how much farther to Dulles?”
Her answer came out in a choked whisper. “Twenty minutes.”
Nero buzzed down both windows. “If I knew she was going to vomit, I’d have waited. Death doesn’t smell as bad, at least at first.”
Molly couldn’t help herself, she kept looking at Pope. He was dead, dead. Sherlock took her hand. No one said another word.
Molly couldn’t believe it when the limo pulled into Jet Aviation at Dulles and she saw a Bombardier Challenger 650 being serviced. Her father’s?
Nero pulled his buzzing cell phone out of his jacket pocket, listened, glanced over at Sherlock. He said into his cell, indifference in his dead-cold voice, “Or, if you prefer, I can have Domino shoot her, wrap her in plastic, and plant her in a dumpster. Or maybe drop her out at ten thousand feet.”
