Matheson was the first agent on the scene. The state police had done as instructed – after detaining Handler as if it were a traffic stop, they seized his phone. He hadn’t been able to place any calls from the moment he’d been pulled over.

  Matheson had put Handler in the back of his BuCar, where he grilled him. When Handler denied any connection to Kristie Fain’s disappearance, he called Shannon.

  “We got him,” Matheson said. “He was on his way to a consulting job, he says. Everything else, he’s stonewalling.”

  Shannon said, “I have Keith Cutter with me. Can you put your phone on speaker? We’ll have the two of them talk directly.”

  “Good idea.”

  Cutter was pale and morose, but he agreed. “It’s over,” he said to Handler. “You have to tell them. Or she’ll die. And for nothing – you’re not going to get what you want. And neither am I.”

  After a considered pause, Handler said, “I can’t say anything. If they see someone coming, she’s dead, too.”

  Shannon spoke. “Who are they?”

  “They’re men available for hire. I knew the right places to look; I called in some favors. But I can’t say any more about that until I know my family is safe. My parents, my sister. These are people who don’t forgive a confession.”

  “How many?”

  “There are three of them. And they’re very good at what they do. They leave nothing to chance. They don’t even use the stove.”

  “Give me the address.”

  “I rented a house,” Handler said. “And I had them remove any traces of the owners so she would never know where she was. She was supposed to live through this.”

  “Give me the address …”

  Handler did.

  “That’s less than an hour away,” Shannon said after putting it into the GPS. The Broadlands were almost due west, the deep suburbs of Washington.

  Matheson came back on the line. “What do you want to do?”

  “I can be there in forty-five minutes,” Shannon told him.

  “Forty,” said Eddie, already pouring on the gas. He took Highway 190 out of Forest Hills, driving in the fast lane.

  “I don’t know what I can do,” Matheson said. “I can run it up the flagpole, see if we can scramble a team …”

  “Thank you.” But she felt heavy with doubt. Suspended, she’d gone off with a civilian on paper-thin evidence and beaten information out of Keith Cutter. He might’ve said anything for fear of traumatic brain injury at the hands of Eddie Caprice. Handler, for that matter, could have also lied. And she was a rogue agent.

  “All right,” Matheson said. “Call you back.”

  She thought to try Tyler, maybe even contact the Bureau director himself. But there was a risk they’d want her to come in. She could wind up a fugitive if she kept pushing. Better to let Matheson handle it. But it would have to be soon. With dawn approaching, the vote just hours away, a human being was about to become a political casualty unless everyone acted swiftly.

  40

  Matheson had bad news. “I talked to my SAC. Had to wake him up, actually. He, ah … he basically told me to proceed at my own risk. That putting my neck on the line when this intelligence on Fain could be bunk was a bad move. I just … I’ve got seven years to retirement. I’m sorry, Ames.”

  Eddie had taken 190 to I-495, then 267, to bring them within a few miles of their destination. Things here were quiet and dark, the openness broken by sections of tract housing strung like necklaces alongside the highway.

  “It’s all right. I understand. I’ll keep working on it from my end.” She hung up.

  She had Eddie, and maybe he was all she needed.

  After the tract-housing sections, Broadlands looked more like a real neighborhood with wide streets and stately homes set back into wooded properties. Eddie found a dead end and pulled his Ford off the asphalt and partway into the woods. If it was someone’s property, the nearest house was a good hundred yards away, too far to notice. A creek babbled somewhere in proximity in the dark; maybe this was a section of state land. At any rate, the neighborhood was quiet, and it was the ditch hours of the night. It would have to do.

  Eddie opened the back and returned with bailing twine and duct tape. He tied Cutter’s hands and ankles, then attached him to the metal bar beneath the front seat.

  “I won’t be able to breathe,” Cutter said as Eddie neared with a length of tape. “Only breathing through my nose – it’s not enough.” He looked at Shannon. “I have cancer, for chrissakes.”

  Eddie hesitated, then withdrew a knife from his pocket. He cut a slash in the center of the length of duct tape, then stretched the tape across Cutter’s mouth, connecting the ends around the back of his head. The slash was in the middle, where his mouth was. “There,” Eddie said. “You can breathe but can’t yell.”

  Shannon turned and threw up. It was such a sudden, violent purging that she couldn’t move for a moment. She stayed bent over, staring at what had come out of her, tallying up all the laws she was breaking and the number of civil rights violations. The immorality. Eddie, meanwhile, pulled a bag from the SUV and slipped the straps over his shoulders.

  “You good?”

  She nodded, took a breath, then she was walking alongside Eddie as they moved back up the dead-end street on foot. They took a left, jogged fifty yards past another big beautiful house, white with black trim, and then went right. Her body shivered though the night was warm. Her hip felt like bones grinding to dust. Down a long road, past two more Southern-style homes, the pain crawled up her side and circled her pelvis. She had to stop running.

  And then the house. Just a sketch of it in the darkness. It sat a good hundred yards away from their last turn, at the end of the road. Wide, mostly one-story, dark, surrounded by forest. And she knew from the map there was a lake just beyond the scrub. A reservoir.

  The house was exactly as Handler had described: large but understated, the vinyl siding cobalt gray, the shutters black. A detached garage was partly visible to the rear and the right.

  The sight of it emboldened her, chased out the cold, made her feel solid again. Shannon stepped off the road and into the trees, and Eddie followed. The woods were sparse and mostly free of detritus. They were able to move quietly and mostly maintain a visual.

  Close enough, she stopped and hunkered down to watch, unsure of what to expect – perhaps a man with a high-powered rifle pacing a widow’s walk. But the home had neither a widow’s walk nor an obvious guard. It appeared completely dark inside. Only the walkway was lighted, small, possibly solar-powered lamps throwing starred light on the ground.

  Eddie quietly opened his bag and handed her a Kevlar vest. He had black, oil-based face paint, and they both smeared it on, camouflaging them in the night. He pulled out two ArmaLite AR-15 rifles. He’d brought it all from home; she was using a civilian’s weapons on top of everything else. But she glassed the scene with the mounted scope, carefully checking each window and door, her pulse working in her neck.

  There seemed to be no one here. No lights, no sounds, no car in the driveway, nothing. The garage, too, was still and dark. A raised deck was mostly visible, a section of it concealed behind the house.

  She pulled the scope away and gestured to Eddie that they get a little closer. He nodded, and they pushed toward the house, keeping concealed in the forest, moving slowly and as silently as possible. When Eddie stepped on a twig and broke it, they both froze.

  They waited. When she swallowed, her throat felt dry. Sensing no obvious danger, they continued on, creeping closer, until they were alongside the house.

  In the video, Fain had appeared to be in a basement or garage. At least, there’d been a concrete floor and possibly a pegboard for tools. But that was the video, and it could have been taken at any time; they could have moved her since. Eddie had suggested they separate once they reached the place, one checking the house, one the garage. But Shannon decided that they remain together. Eddie was a help, but also a risky variable. And he was her responsibility. She was already deep into extrajudicial territory, no need to further–

  Moving steps ahead of Eddie, she froze and made a tight fist in the air so Eddie could see it. He stopped when she stopped, and her heart started banging against her ribs.

  She smelled a cigarette.

  The raised deck covered most of the territory between them and the garage. She’d caught a whiff of smoke on the night breeze, and now she spied the tendril of it rise in the moonlight. From her angle on the ground beside the deck, she couldn’t see the smoker, just the smoke. But he was there. A mere few yards away from them.

  Eddie’s eyes shined amid the dark streaks of makeup as he looked up at the same smoke, which rose and dissipated into the blackness. The only way to get eyes on this person was to ease away from the deck to gain perspective. Or to continue moving around behind it, where the land sloped higher. But to get eyes on him meant he could see them, too.

  She waited, breathing shallow, sensing Eddie behind her.

  She heard the hiss of a cigarette butt dropped in water.

  A moment later, the back door opened and closed.

  Shannon let herself exhale. She caught Eddie’s gaze and knew they were thinking the same thing: someone was here. Yet they were no closer to confirming Fain’s location or justifying the call for backup – the backup she would only get if she had ironclad proof.

  They needed to get to the garage. But, knowing someone was here, she decided to modify their plan. She gestured to Eddie that he return to the woods and cover her. He understood and quietly left the perimeter of the house and dissolved into the shadows. Now she was alone.

  The deck was shaped like two-thirds of an octagon. As the land sloped up, she would become gradually more visible.

  She started around, moving as quietly as possible. The nearby water made soft lapping sounds. Insects buzzed in the trees. At first, the deck was at her eye line. Then, as the ground shifted upward, more of her body rose into view. If anyone was looking out, she could be spotted.

  She kept moving in a crouch, holding the rifle in the low-ready position at her side. Traces of the cigarette hung in the humid air. A curtain drawn across the sliding glass doors concealed the interior of the house. Another door, a few feet from the sliding glass door, was windowless. If anyone could see her, she didn’t know where they’d be watching from.

  She glanced back in the direction she’d come, just able to make out Eddie’s shape where he crouched in the trees, monitoring her progress. Then the deck blocked her view as she kept moving. She focused on the ground in front of her, careful not to bump into something, make a noise.

  The strip of driveway stretched in from the street and widened to an end. A freestanding basketball hoop stood at its terminus. Directly in front of her was the garage. It was two bays – two garage doors, each with a bank of small dark windows.

  She would have to cross the asphalt to get a look inside. There would likely be a separate entrance, a door on either the right or left. Maybe that door had a window; it was unlikely she’d find a view of the interior from anywhere but there. She’d be entirely visible to someone on the south or west side of the house, or anywhere on the deck. But she had to risk it. She had to see.

  She was steeling herself for it, ready to sprint across the driveway, when she heard a door open and close. And then voices.

  Huddled there, a mere three-foot height of decking to conceal her, she stayed motionless, listening.

  Men walked this way, their footfalls creaking over the boards. At least two of them. They spoke quietly, audible but not discernible. After a moment, they descended the steps on the west side of the deck.

  Shannon backed up. She started reversing around the deck, putting distance between herself and the men. She stopped just short of losing the view, and in time to see them as they moved toward the garage.

  Two men.

  She could see the area light attached above the garage, but either the bulbs were dead or the motion sensor deactivated; neither man triggered it as he crossed the driveway. One of them was clearly armed – a handgun stuck out from the back of his pants. She wasn’t sure about the other one, but she bet he was, too.

  They disappeared into the shadows along the right side of the building. A set of keys jangled, then inserted into a lock; a door opened and shut.

  Had they both gone inside? Was one standing guard? She watched the windows over each garage bay door. She studied the shadows.

  Her heart banging, she eased her phone out of her pocket and quickly tapped out a mass text to Tyler, Bufort, Matheson – everyone:

  Confirming at least two armed men 423 Waxpool Road, Broadlands. Send help.

  She talked herself down as she waited for a response – and then she saw a light come on inside the garage. Not much, maybe a flashlight or a lamp.

  Her phone buzzed. Tyler.

  Need visual confirmation of victim.

  Shannon exhaled. At least he was listening to her. But what sort of confirmation? An image? Sure, maybe she’d just waltz right up and snap a cell pic.

  No, Tyler would take her word. But it needed to be authentic. She needed to see.

  She waited just another few seconds in case someone had remained outside. Her heart was going hard enough to crack a rib. She’d trained at Quantico, but real-life situations like this rarely ended well, and she never got used to it. Every cell in her body sought to avoid confrontation. She wanted to wait, but waiting was a gamble. If Fain was in there, they could be doing something to her. Hurting her again, torturing her for another video. To make sure Nickerson followed through.

  She eased out from beneath the deck and quickly and quietly crossed the driveway.

  Stay, stay, stay.

  But she had to ignore the instinct. Perhaps later, if she made it through all this, she could reminisce how handling a missing persons case seemed perpetually at cross-purposes with all reason, procedure, and self-preservation. Probably, she’d have to do it in a courtroom, facing charges. For now, she headed for the spot between the two bay doors, a narrow strip of wall about two feet wide, directly beneath the darkened area light. The windows in the garage doors were just about eye level.

  She took a breath, prepared to get a look inside.

  She’s not in there. This is all a wild-goose chase.

  Or a trap …

  Shannon stretched up onto the balls of her feet and peered through the dusty glass.

  41

  A moment after, she dropped back to the ground, ice in her veins, holding a breath in her lungs. Fain was in there. Tied up, just like the video. God, she’d been like that for going on twenty-four hours.

  The small light clamped to the workbench beside her had illuminated the bruised side of her face. She’d been wearing the same clothes she’d been in a week ago, walking to Penn Station. Like Shannon had feared, her captors seemed in the process of another video. They wore the clown face paint. One of them had held Fain by her hair, a knife to her throat, while the other one manned the camera.

  His gaze might have flicked up to the windows. Maybe he’d only seen the light reflected back?

  Or maybe he’d been able to make out a woman’s face.

  She didn’t have long to wonder – the side door opened. She ran back across the driveway, towards the deck. When she dared to look back, the man emerged from the shadows, holding his gun, eyes locked on her. He fired.

  The projectile hit the side of the deck flooring, just beside her head. Shannon ducked but kept running. She had the rifle; she could stop and return fire. But it was too dangerous – she risked hitting Fain. Or returning fire might cause the men to abort. To kill their hostage – the chief witness to their crime – and get the hell out of there.

  Maybe things were past that point. Now knowing someone was here, maybe they could guess who it was. And one of them was firing. The neighborhood homes were sparse, but someone might hear the gunshots and call the police.

  It all passed through her mind in a couple of seconds. Shannon stopped running and turned around. As soon as she located the man – the white paint of his face stood out in the gloom – she squeezed the trigger. The rifle had a decent kick, but she held on. The rounds chased him off, running up the driveway, past the basketball hoop and into the woods.

  A door opened at her right. She swung the rifle in that direction and fired again. The explosions blew out the shadows, lighting up the area just beside the garage, where lush vegetation had encroached. The man there pointed his weapon, but the rounds from her AR-15 cut him down.

  Shannon moved in, keeping the weapon aimed. Her head felt like it was on fire from the adrenaline, her lungs working double time. She kicked the door open and cleared the room. No one else in the garage except for Kristie Fain. The woman’s eyes were wide and alert as Shannon approached.

  “I’ll be right back for you,” Shannon said. “I have to make sure–”

  Glass exploded. One of the small square windows of a garage door had been punctured by a round and shattered. More rounds punched into the door – they came through. Shannon flipped the rifle onto her back and dove for Fain. She took the woman down to the floor, chair and all, and stayed on top of her as the hail of gunfire continued.

  They couldn’t stay here. Shannon jumped up and dragged Fain and the chair toward a second room.

  More gun reports from outside, but nothing that hit the garage this time. It sounded like the gunman out there was firing in a different direction.

  Eddie …

  With Fain pulled back to a hopefully safer spot, Shannon removed the gag from her mouth. The woman gasped for breath.

  “How many?” Shannon asked. Cutter had given a number, but could’ve been lying, or it had changed.

  “Three,” Fain answered. She lay on her side, plastic zip ties fastening her to the wooden chair.

  Shannon needed a knife or snips. “I’ll be right back.”

 

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