The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

When Nicholas punched off, Mike said, “No matter he didn’t officially lift your suspension, we’re still a go. I’ll call Gray, you keep searching these files.”

Mike watched him out of the corner of her eye as she dialed Gray’s number. He was completely focused, eyes calm, inwardly directed.

She spoke to Gray, who sounded punchy, his eyes were nearly bleeding, he told her, but they were nearly at the same point. She rang off. “Where’s the loo?” For a British accent, she didn’t think it was bad.

That got a grin out of him, but he didn’t look up, merely waved a hand. “Down the hall, to the right, the third door, I think. I’m still learning the place.”

She grabbed her purse and stepped out into the hall. He was right, the bathroom was behind the third door. She took care of business, brushed out her hair and put it back up in a ponytail. She was confident Nicholas would find out exactly what was going on. She’d call Ben, see what he was thinking.

She snapped off the light and stepped out into the hallway, right into the barrel of a suppressed nine-millimeter Beretta.

39

Mike’s heart nearly flatlined, but she didn’t make a sound, didn’t move. There was a man on the other side of the weapon stuck into her chest, a man she recognized. She had a fraction of a second to think Grossman—what in the world is he doing here? before he was on her.

He moved fast, but she was quick, too. She punched him hard in the chest, sent him stumbling back. She started to lash out a leg, knowing she had to take him down or she’d be in real trouble. Grossman anticipated the move, grabbed her ankle, and gave it a vicious twist. She was forced to spin with the twist or risk having her hip dislocated. But as she did, she brought her left elbow around and slammed Grossman in the temple. He went down with her, both of them crashing to the floor. She kicked him hard in the stomach, scrambled up and started to run, to call to Nicholas, to warn him, but Grossman got a hand on her shoulder and hauled her back down, flipping her on her stomach and getting an arm around her throat. She kept struggling, but his arm tightened, cut off her air, his forearm mashed up against her mouth, and she started to see spots. She clawed at his arm, but he didn’t move, didn’t let go, and her struggles became more feeble.

Nicholas, she tried to cry out, Nicholas, be careful! But no words came out. She couldn’t breathe, and fear was metallic and hard in her mouth.

She was about to black out when Grossman eased up on the pressure, enough for her to gulp in a huge breath.

His breath was hot on her neck, his voice cold, hard, so unlike the harmless bibliophile he’d appeared this afternoon.

“Don’t you dare scream, Agent Caine, or I’ll shoot you and leave you bleeding out in this hallway, and don’t think for a second I won’t.”

She nodded, still unable to swallow or breathe properly.

She realized she’d heard a bit of British in his voice, the cadence clipped, consonants long, and wasn’t that strange, because he was American, from Chicago, hadn’t he said that?

Grossman said against her ear, “We’re going to walk down the hall to the library, and your friend is going to give me Pearce’s files. Then I’ll walk out of here, and no one needs to get hurt. Do you understand?”

She managed another nod. She had to warn Nicholas, but she was starved for air and her muscles were still sluggish. She’d been gone for only a few minutes, he wouldn’t come looking for her yet, no reason even to wonder.

She pretended to lose her balance and hit her head hard against the wall. She hoped it was loud enough, hoped he believed her. He didn’t. Grossman grabbed her, jerked her forward and yanked her ponytail. “Nice try. Stay on your feet, Agent, there’s a good girl.”

No more Brit accent, but she was sure his American was fake. There’s a good girl. Oh, yes, the Brits were up to their eyeballs in this—this what exactly? But Grossman couldn’t have killed Stanford. Who did, then, a partner or another member of this organization in Britain?

He yanked her ponytail again. She ignored the pain, stumbled to her feet, being as clumsy as possible, shuffling her feet along the wood floor, hoping Nicholas or Nigel would hear. It wasn’t much since she’d taken off her boots, maybe she could kick back and—

“You don’t want to cooperate, do you?” In one fast move, Grossman pressed her face against the wall. He kicked her legs apart and leaned hard against her. She felt a shot of panic.

He said in her ear, “Don’t pull that crap again. I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to.” He pulled her away from the wall and shoved her forward, his hand over her mouth. “Now, walk.”

The gun dug deep against her ribs when he forced her into the library. She knew she’d be of no use to Nicholas if he shot her.

Nicholas didn’t look up. “Ben gave me the transcripts of e-mails bet

ween EP and Pearce. It took me a while, some real digging, then I found something—I think it’s coordinates, latitude and longitude. The files here say they’re looking for an old U-boat, World War One era. Pearce sent Stanford a message last night saying he’d found it. These coordinates are probably the sub’s location. Adam was using the satellite to look for the sub.”

“Thank you, Agent Drummond.”

He whipped around to see Alex Grossman, his hand over Mike’s mouth, a gun stuck in her ribs. And then Mike was in motion. She bit hard on his hand and he dropped her with a curse. “Nicholas—”

Grossman slammed his fist into her jaw and she went down.

Grossman pointed the weapon at Nicholas. “No, no, don’t move or you’re a dead man. You’re very clever, Agent Drummond. You’re quite good at this.”

Nicholas was already out of his chair, hand reaching for his Glock.