The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

At the bottom of the stairs stood the guard who’d allowed Sophie to escape. He was holding his head. He looked up, an excuse halfway out his mouth when Havelock shot him in the forehead.

Edward Weston came through the front door at that moment, looked at the dead guard, at Sophie Pearce. He asked calmly, “Do we have what we need?”

Havelock shoved Sophie at him. “Get her in the plane. Let’s go.”

“Where’s Shepherd?”

“Dead.”

Weston threw out his hands. “What? Why? We need him.”

“No, what we need is the key, and now I know exactly where it is. Now, let’s go.” He signaled to Elise, who looked through Weston and followed Havelock out the front door.

“No, he’s not dead,” Weston said.

Havelock turned to see Alex Shepherd coming slowly down the stairs, his gun locked on Havelock. He raised a brow. “My, my. Still alive, are we? Wearing that armor I had made for you? I suppose I should have shot you in the head. No matter, you can bring her.” He pointed the gun at Sophie’s temple. “Let’s go.”

63

Notting Hill

4:00 p.m.

Penderley said, “The tech lads are saying the phone has some sort of scrambled signal, bouncing off relays throughout the country. The call may not have originated in Oxford after all, but we’ll be optimistic. We’ll find her.” Nicholas only hoped they’d find her in time.

They parked a block away from Leyland’s house so they wouldn’t alert Adam Pearce or Oliver Leyland, if he was there. The windows of Leyland’s white stucco town house were dark, the four-story mansion silent in the cool spring air.

Dark low-hanging clouds were piling in. The wind had kicked up, swirling through the town houses on Lansdowne Crescent and the green communal gardens of Notting Hill. Rain was coming soon. Mike shoved her hair out of her face. “It looks like we’re about to have nasty weather.”

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” he said. “It’s good to be home.” He saw himself at Old Farrow Hall, running through the labyrinth hedges toward the center even as the rain battered down. What was he, twelve years old?

Penderley said, “My team are set up outside the perimeter.”

Nicholas said, “And you promised to keep them there, sir. It’s only the three of us. Gareth? You ready? I don’t want to make Adam think I lied to him.”

Gareth Scott walked up, patted his chest, bulky with body armor. “Ready as I’ll ever be, let’s get it done, mate.”

They moved silently toward the house, Nicholas and Mike, weapons at their sides, following Gareth. They skirted the black-fenced front steps and forest green front door and moved to the side of the house to another entrance.

The side door was slightly ajar. There were clear rake marks on the lock. It had been forced.

Gareth gave Penderley a running commentary through their radios as they entered the house from the side entrance. They were on the lowest floor. There were a dozen windows, and despite the dark clouds overhead, light spilled into the hallways and rooms, making it easy to see. They split three ways, clearing the ground floor quickly. No signs of a struggle, no signs of Adam or Oliver Leyland. No signs of anything.

Nicholas didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all.

They met in the grand foyer under a centuries-old crystal chandelier and began up the massive wooden staircase.

They found Leyland’s body on the first-floor landing, his head leaning against the panels. His legs were bent backward, his arms dislocated, making him seem a crumpled marionette, his strings cut and dropped straight down from the landing above.

Mike swallowed. “Is this Leyland?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Somebody pushed him over.”

Gareth fell to his knees beside Leyland. He looked up. “Sir, do you read me? Leyland is down. Repeat, Leyland is down. He was hurt badly, sir, before he died. We’re moving to the second floor. Do not send anyone else in here until we’ve cleared the place.”

Gareth skirted Leyland’s body, signaling to Nicholas he was going to move to their left. Nicholas nodded, taking the low side right. Mike was in front of him going straight.