The Lost Key (A Brit in the FBI 2)

The gunshot came out of nowhere, suppressed, like a pop, but they knew what it was.

64

Nicholas only had time to see Gareth fall before he was tackled from behind. He went down hard on his knees. Mike whirled around, right into the waiting arms of a big bruiser nearly twice her size, hard with muscle, strong as Rocky.

Nicholas shouted to her, but she couldn’t move. Rocky’s arms were tightening more and more, he was going to crush her ribs if she didn’t break loose. Gareth was down, Nicholas was under attack—she had only herself.

Rocky let up a bit, banged her hand against her leg, and she let the Glock go. She pulled an old trick—let herself go limp. It surprised him enough to give her time to force her shoulder under his forearm and twist hard to the right, and despite his weight advantage, she sent him over her shoulder to sprawl on his back on a thick Berber runner. The carpet cushioned his landing and he was back on his feet, a surprising shock for such a big man, and he was coming at her again, fists up, protecting his face.

He kicked her leg out from under her and she went down on her knees. His hands went around her throat, his fingers bent inward to gouge her eyes. She jerked and heaved so he couldn’t get to her eyes, twisted onto her back and kicked him hard in the gut. He windmilled backward, then started cursing her. She kicked him in the kneecap, but it wasn’t enough, so she kicked him in the groin as hard as she could. She realized in one part of her brain that she was out of control. She wanted to kill him, she wanted to obliterate him.

He was strong, fast for his size, and despite the blow to his groin, he was up and dancing toward her again. Bring it on, Rocky, bring it on. No way was she going to let him beat her. She blocked the next punch to her face, saw her chance. She slid her thigh in between Rocky’s legs, and crashed her left leg down hard, at the perfect angle. He went down with a howl, and she stomped on him again, in the exact same spot, and was rewarded with the fine crunch of bone. She’d blown out his knee.

Mike flipped him onto his stomach and cuffed him. He was yelling, cursing, so she hit him hard in the back of the head with her fist, knocking him out. At last he shut up.

She took a huge breath, felt all the bruises along her ribs, but she was okay, she’d won. She sent a prayer of thanks to her FBI hand-to-hand combat coach, press-checked her Glock, and yelled, “Nicholas!”

She found Gareth first. He’d taken a shot to the

neck not an inch above the top of his body armor and was bleeding, but it wasn’t too bad, not an artery, thankfully, a through and through. She ripped his sleeve off and pressed it to his neck. He groaned and his eyes opened.

Of all things, he smiled up at her. “Alive, am I?”

She laid her palm along his cheek. “You’re going to be okay. Hold this.” She pressed the shirt sleeve to his neck, guided his hand to it. “Help’s on the way.”

“No, it isn’t. They cut our comms. I called to Penderley, but no one’s come in after us. Where’s Nicholas?”

“I’m going to go find him now.”

But first, she tested her comms unit. Gareth was right, no communication. Disruption technologies were one of the FBI’s greatest fears, from knocking out comms to taking down planes and setting off EMPs, Havelock had clearly figured out how to make it happen.

She had to find Nicholas, but first she had to let the Brits outside know they were in trouble. She couldn’t shout, she didn’t know how many bad guys were in the house.

She fired her Glock through a big glass window that gave onto a garden, straight down into the dirt. It was loud, a blast in the quiet. The shot that had gotten Gareth in the neck was suppressed. Hers wasn’t. That should bring them running. She tore off a sleeve of her shirt and attached it to the window as a signal.

“Go find Nicholas, Mike. I’m okay.” Gareth pulled out a knife, thin, deadly sharp.

She listened hard as she ran quietly toward the stairs to the upper level. She heard nothing.

Her ribs were on fire, but she paid no attention. She had to find Nicholas.

She saw a trail of fresh blood drops on the stairs, teardrop shaped, the fat end of the blood drops closer to her. Since the velocity pattern was moving away from her, she knew whoever was bleeding had gone up the stairs instead of coming down.

65

Mike followed the trail of blood up the stairs. There, windows were fewer, making it darker. It was silent as a tomb.

Come on, Nicholas, where are you? And where are you, Penderley? Come on!

Mike cleared room by room. The last door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar. She paused, listened. She heard breathing. Whoever was in there was waiting for her.

She edged sideways and looked through the crack. She saw Nicholas lying on his back under a large square window. Rain was coming down hard, slamming against the windowpanes. He was deathly still.

She kicked open the door, but forced herself not to run in, to keep to the side.

Five shots blasted out. She closed her eyes a moment, again blessed her training.

She aimed into the breach between the frame and the door and fired, praying the bullet wouldn’t ricochet and hit Nicholas.