The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

Gray Wharton’s voice came loud and clear. “One more thing, Mike, Sir Nicholas—Jonathan Pearce is a viscount. The Tenth Viscount Chambers, to be exact.”

That got Nicholas’s attention. “Chambers? Who is Pearce’s father?”

“Looks like his dad’s name was Robert, son of Leo, son of—no, wait—it looks like Leo was adopted by William Pearce way back in 1917, before the end of the war. As to who Leo’s real father was, I’m going to have to dig to find that out. Do you think that could be important?”

Nicholas said, “No clue, Gray. I doubt it, but if you happen to see it, let me know. Thank you. Quit calling me ‘sir.’”

It was a secure building, requiring either a code or a buzz in from an apartment to open the doors.

Mike cupped her hands against the glass to get a better view of the lobby setup. “I don’t see a doorman. We’re going to have to buzz Allie’s apartment.”

Nicholas pressed the button for 2A. Nothing. 2B answered, though, and Mike adopted her best young girl voice. “Hey, it’s five, I left my keys upstairs.”

“Not again,” came a harassed voice, but the door buzzed, and clicked open.

Mike gave Nicholas a grin. “Works every time.”

Nicholas shook his head. “You’d think New Yorkers would be more careful.”

“No kidding.” They’d looked at the apartment floor plan, saw Allie’s place was rear-facing, with a sectioned fire escape that let down into an alley.

They took the elevator to the fifth floor. Apartment five was the last door down a narrow, elegantly modern hallway with stained teak floors and small wheatgrass installations along the wall, the embedded lights reflected by beveled mirrors, giving a lovely glow to the space.

“Nice to have a rich boyfriend these days,” Mike said.

They were at the door now. Nicholas leaned in, listened. It was quiet, too quiet. He whispered, “Something doesn’t feel right.” Didn’t smell right, either. He smelled the sharp pungent odor of copper and that meant blood, a lot of it.

Not good, not good. Mike pulled her Glock from its clip at her waist, called Ben. “Ben, come down, something’s not right here.”

She knew they should wait, but she knew to her gut something was very wrong. She stood to the side of the door, and banged her fist three times, yelled, “FBI. Open up.”

Nothing. There were no sounds.

Nicholas reached for the doorknob. Unlocked. He met her eyes, nodded. Mike called out again, then he opened the door and went in, quick and fast, Mike behind him, her Glock high, his low.

And everything around them seemed to explode into movement.

29

107 Avenue A, Unit 5

4:30 p.m.

The light was blinding, the force from the blast knocked him sideways against the entryway wall. Nicholas shook his head, trying to get his vision and his hearing back. Mike was beside him, shaking him, shouting something at him, but he couldn’t hear her. He felt a trickle of wet from his ear; his hand came away red. He numbly realized someone had thrown a flash bang.

You’re getting slow, Drummond. Maybe it was the aftereffect of being Tasered this morning, but he couldn’t seem to get anything moving right.

It wasn’t only the flash bang, he’d also taken a shot to the chest, center mass, and thank the good Lord above he was wearing a Kevlar vest, at Mike’s insistence, or his first day with the FBI would have been his last.

Mike was yelling at him. “Can you get up? Are you okay? Come on, Nicholas, talk to me. There’s no one here, I checked, well, except—can you get up?”

With a huge wheeze, air filled his lungs and he was able to move again, his hearing and sight returning. Mike’s hand was gripping his arm, helping him up. “That’ll teach you for going in first,” she said, and punched him.

“Better me than you.” He managed to get up. “Okay, I’m fine now. Knocked the wind out of me, is all.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Stop doing that to me, Nicholas. What happened?”

“A guy started shooting when I opened the door, then he tossed a flash bang at me as he went out the window.”