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44
In Captivity
Williard House
SUNDAY
Sherlock was coaching Molly on how best to use her knife as a weapon when they heard steps on the tile floor outside the basement door.
“Molly, back to the blankets!”
They managed to slide onto the blankets as the key turned in the lock and the door opened.
Nero walked into the basement with his Sig in one hand and a cell phone in the other. “Time to prove you’re alive, ladies.” He stopped cold when he saw they were sitting with their backs pressed against the wall, leaning into each other, their eyes closed. They looked dead.
He yelled, “Open your eyes!”
They didn’t answer him, didn’t move.
“Open your eyes or I’ll hurt both of you!”
They didn’t move.
Nero cursed, pushed his Sig into his belt, walked over and dropped to his haunches, pressed up against Sherlock’s face. “You little bitch! Stop this, now!”
Sherlock head-butted him, jabbed her knuckles hard into his Adam’s apple and twisted. He grabbed for his neck and gurgled, because suddenly he couldn’t breathe. She smashed the butt of her knife up into his groin, and he fell on his side, trying to breathe again, cupping himself. Sherlock jumped on him, grabbed his Sig, and dug it into the back of his head. He tried to crawl away, until she hit on the head with the gun. “Hold still, Nero, or I’ll finish it.”
He froze for a second, then pulled out his cell phone from underneath him and smashed it hard against the floor, once, twice.
“Stop it!” Sherlock slammed the gun against the back of his head, harder. He groaned, fell onto his face.
Domino shouted, “Back away from him or I’ll have to shoot!”
Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat—a gunshot would bring the other guards down on them, trap them in the basement. She said, “Domino, his head will explode if I pull this trigger. It wouldn’t be neat like the bullet hole he shot in Pope’s forehead, there’d be a splash zone. If you shoot me, some of us will die, maybe you as well. Is he worth it? Do you think he cares at all about you? Think, Domino. Do you think he’d hesitate to shoot you dead in a second like he shot Pope? Throw your gun on the floor, kick it over to Mrs. Hunt, and no one has to die.” She dug the muzzle into the back of Nero’s head. He wheezed, gasped out, “Do it, Domino. She’ll shoot me.”
Domino shook her head at him. “You’ve really screwed it all up, haven’t you, Nero? You were going to fix all our problems, all we had to do was listen to you, because you know everything. You murdered James—that’s James Pope in case you didn’t even know his name—you murdered him without a thought because he made a mistake. I guess that means we should shoot you now? Go ahead, Agent Sherlock, kill the bastard. I’d applaud you, but I’d also have to shoot you.”
There was nothing to do but pray Domino was bluffing. “I’m not going to shoot him, Domino, and you’re not going to shoot me. Why don’t we both lower our guns so no one gets hurt and talk? See, I’m putting his gun down.”
Domino looked at her, confused for a second, then nodded and lowered the muzzle of her Beretta. Sherlock rolled off Nero’s back and hurled the knife that was still in her hand at Domino. Domino raised her gun again, but the knife went into her upper arm and stuck. Domino yelled, and the gun fell from her hand as she grabbed her arm. It skidded across the floor, fetched up against the blanket. Molly slid over to it, snatched it up.
Sherlock said, “Come here, Domino, sit down on the blanket.”
Domino staggered over and sank down, clutching her arm below the knife. With no warning or hesitation, Sherlock pulled the knife out of her arm. Domino groaned as her blood gushed out of the wound. Sherlock pressed her hand tight around her arm. Molly picked the napkins off the dinner tray, pushed them under Sherlock’s fingers. “Now you do it. Press as hard as you can, Domino. The bleeding will stop, I know. I have three kids.”
Sherlock looked over at Nero, still on his side, his smashed cell phone beside him. “Molly’s right,” she said to Domino. “The bleeding’s not arterial. Keep the pressure on it and you’ll be fine. I rarely get to say this—it’s just a flesh wound.” She picked up Nero’s smashed cell phone, pushed on the power button, tried the screen. No go, it was dead. Still, she slipped it in her pants pocket. It still had its SIM card, and Dillon could track the calls he’d made, and maybe the owner. Sherlock said, “Nero managed to break his cell so I’m going to need yours. Where is it?”
Domino said between gritted teeth, “I don’t have it. Nero took all our cell phones and hid them.”
She had to be lying. “Don’t give me that crap. Tell me or I’ll hurt you more.” As she said it, Sherlock patted down her blouse, her jeans. No phone.
Tears fell from Domino’s eyes, trailed down her cheeks. “No, please, I’m not lying. Nero told me he was on an assignment a while back and one of his men called his girlfriend and she told someone else, and he got ratted out. He barely escaped with his life. So no cell phones, only him.” She sucked in her breath, closed her eyes again, and cursed. “It hurts.”
“Well, you were going to shoot me,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. She rose to stand over Nero, who was still on his side, cupping himself. “Molly, search his pockets for zip ties.”
Molly dug into his pants pockets and pulled out two sets of zip ties, meant, she knew, for her and for Sherlock.
Sherlock shoved Nero onto his stomach, straddled him, and pulled one of his arms behind his back. He moaned and thrashed, until she dug her knees into his back. “Hold still or I’ll whack you again. One more good hit and it might scramble your brains.” He froze. She jerked his other arm behind his back and zip-tied his wrists together. “Let’s see if you have anything helpful in your pockets. The name of your boss would be nice.” She searched his pants, his shirts, his jacket. She pulled out the basement key. “Look what I found, Molly.”
