she was, even if she didn’t, and he would have called Dillon. He’d come for her very soon. There had to be something she could do. She felt strong enough now, her head clearing from the effects of the drug. She walked a fairly straight line to the door, called out, “Who’s there? Come let me out, let’s talk this over. I have no idea what’s going on.”
There was no answer, no movement she could hear. She called out again, trying to sound scared, voice trembling a bit.
Still nothing. Had they simply locked her in and left?
Did they intend to come back and kill her? If they’d wanted to kill her, they could have given her an overdose and dumped her in some woods somewhere, no muss, no fuss. No, Bexholt had to know if Lucy was found dead, she’d be the main suspect and Dillon would hound her to the gates of hell. So, they hadn’t killed her. Not right away. They had to think of something less obvious. An accident of some kind or simply make her disappear. Did Bexholt, and her group, really think getting rid of her would make any difference? Did they believe she saw or heard at that house that made Bexholt desperate enough to attack her?
Lucy sat down on the edge of the bed, let her brain continue to settle and sort things out. She looked at her watch—midnight. What could she do? There wasn’t any furniture she could pull over to that window, maybe jump up, see if she could escape. The bed was too heavy. She eyed the window again. She could squeeze through it, but no way would she take the chance of hurting the baby. No, she had to sit like a fricking damsel in distress and wait for the prince to come rescue her. It was mortifying, everything about this night was mortifying.
66
* * *
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.