open back of the SUV. He jumped in the driver’s seat, and the SUV roared off, tires screeching. Her rescuer pulled a gun from a clip at his waist, fell onto his stomach, and fired off six fast shots. She saw the left rear tire explode, but the SUV kept going.
An older woman yelled out from a neighboring yard, clutching a hose still gushing water in her hand, “I called 911! The police are coming!”
Her savior started to rise, then stayed on his knees. He looked up at her. “I’m Agent Dillon Savich, FBI. Please don’t move.” Savich quickly pulled out his cell and punched in Detective Ben Raven’s number. “Ben? Got a problem here.” Savich told him exactly what had happened, how he’d shot out the back tire on the SUV, and gave him the address on Hempstead and a description of the two men. “They’ll probably abandon it fast, a Ford Expedition, white, a year old, maybe. The license plate was muddied over. Yes, we’ll be here. Thank you, Ben.”
“Agent Savich, are you okay? He really hit you hard.”
Savich nodded. “Yes. And you?”
“I’m alive, can’t ask for more than that. The woman over in that yard clutching that hose like it’s her lifeline, she called 911.” She gave him a manic, adrenaline-fueled laugh.
He touched his fingers to the back of his head. “Give me a moment to unscramble my brain. I should have been faster.”
“I think you’re awesome, the way you hit that man in the neck—I’ve never seen anyone do that. And you shot out that back tire.” Rebekah realized she was losing it and took a deep breath. Yes, she had to breathe and calm down. She said, “Okay, hold still. Let me look at your head.”
Savich felt her fingers lightly touch behind his left temple. He smelled her perfume, a light rose scent, not unlike Sherlock’s. “There’s a bump and a bruise, but no bleeding. You might have a concussion, though. We should call an ambulance.”
“No, I’m fine.”
Men, did they always want to be invincible? She helped him to his feet and winced because she’d used the arm the bald man had nearly broken. But the pain wasn’t important, and her arm worked. After a moment, he seemed steady on his feet. Rebekah realized she came only to his nose, and she was tall. He was well-built, wearing a black leather jacket over a white shirt and black wool pants. Kit would declare him seriously hot. Actually, Rebekah would agree with her. He was dark, eyes and hair, and he looked tough. His eyes were clear, and that was a relief. Rebekah stuck out her hand. “My name’s Rebekah Manvers, Agent Savich. Thank you for saving me. If not for you, I wouldn’t have had a chance.”
“You’re welcome. I wish I had them in cuffs, but at least you’re not in that SUV with them.”
Savich saw she was very pretty, but her face was still too pale. She was a bit younger than Sherlock, her hair a beautiful dark mahogany, like his desk at home. She had light gray eyes, a shade he’d never seen before. Her hair had come loose to straggle around her face. Both of them probably looked like they’d gone twelve rounds. He smiled at her. “I’m glad I happened to be in the right place at the right time.” He shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Manvers.”
Savich still couldn’t believe he’d actually come across a kidnapping on the street. What were the odds? He’d been on his way to Ambassador Natalie Black’s house a half mile away for lunch to celebrate the upcoming wedding between Agent Davis Sullivan, one of his agents in the CAU, and Black’s daughter, Perry. He’d been less than a block away when he’d seen the SUV swerve off a side street onto Hempstead.
“How’s your arm?”
Rebekah stuck out her right arm, flexed her hand. “It’s still sore, but I don’t think anything’s broken. He ripped off my sleeve so he could shoot me up with a syringe. Look, there it is. It flew out of his hand when you hit him.”
Savich leaned down and picked up the syringe. He pulled a small plastic bag from his jacket pocket and slipped it inside. “We’ll find out what he was going to give you.” He felt a moment of dizziness, then it passed. He ignored the low throbbing where the gun had struck him on the head. It could be worse—he could be dead.