Nemesis (FBI Thriller 19)

“Your objection is noted,” Giusti said. “However, McLain, you’re not in charge here, I am.”

Cal got in her face. “My job is to follow my own orders where her safety is concerned.” He looked from Pip Erwin, to Jo Hoag, to Arlo Crocker, and then to Sherlock. “If anything happens to you on my watch, Sherlock, my life won’t be worth spit.”

Sherlock said, “All right, I’ll do as you like, Cal. I owe that to you.” She didn’t want to think about what Dillon would do if something happened to her; she couldn’t think like that. There was always risk. And Kelly was right: who could possibly know about this place? “Everything having to do with Nasim is your call, Kelly. Now, does anyone know where I can find a pencil and paper for Nasim? He wants to write to his family.”

•   •   •

AN HOUR BEFORE DARK, Sherlock and Cal sat down for dinner with Nasim in his room, the local news on TV turned down low. Nasim had asked for fast food, a hamburger and fries, his favorite food as a tourist, he said. They spoke of family. Sherlock learned Cal had three sisters, half a dozen nieces and nephews, and a mother who tapped her toe at him whenever she saw him. She wanted kids from him as well.

Nasim looked up at the camera and asked to use the bathroom.

Within a minute Agents Hoag and Crocker appeared in the open doorway. A visit to the bathroom after dinner seemed an established routine. Nasim rose.

Sherlock and Jo Hoag followed Crocker, his hand on Nasim’s cuffs, to the end of the hall. Crocker took off the cuffs, opened the bathroom door, checked around the small room, and nodded. Nasim went in and Crocker partially shut the door.

Agent Hoag checked her watch. “Not long before it’s dark enough to take him out to the front porch, if that’s what Kelly decides. That’s where we’ve got the best cover.” They heard the toilet flush, heard water running in the sink.

There was a shot, then another, sharp and very loud—rifle shots.

“No!” Crocker and Hoag were through the bathroom door in an instant. Nasim was leaning over the washbowl, staring at himself in the mirror. It was covered with a spray of blood, his blood. Nasim saw Sherlock’s white face in the mirror and slowly sank to the floor, his hands pressed against his chest. He didn’t speak, but his mouth formed the words Save my family.

Sherlock was on her knees beside him, pressing hard against a gaping wound in his chest. She saw blood pouring out of his shoulder where a second bullet had hit. “Nasim! Don’t you dare die on me. Come on, keep your eyes open, stay with me!” Sherlock was dimly aware of the agents shouting, running, yelling into comm units. She heard more shouts from outside the bathroom window, more loud gunfire, but she wasn’t listening. She was pressing her hands against his chest. But she’d seen his wound and she knew—she eased herself down over him, said quietly to him, “Nasim, you will not die, do you hear me, you can’t die, not after all this. Stay with me!”

Nasim’s thready heartbeat stuttered, slowed, and stopped. Blood no longer pulsed in his neck. Sherlock pulled him away from the wall, laid him flat on his back, and started CPR, pushing on his chest again and again, breathing into his mouth even after she felt Cal’s hand on her shoulder. “He’s gone, Sherlock. It’s over.”

She didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, not yet. She banged her fist against his bloody chest, breathed her breath into his mouth.

“Sherlock, look at his eyes.”

Three fast shots rang out through the bathroom and shattered the tiles around them. Sherlock felt the hot, fast path of a bullet as it parted her hair at her left temple and crashed bits of tile onto her head. Two more bullets shattered yet more tiles and gouged out the rim of the bathtub. She flattened over Nasim and Cal slammed down over her, covering her as best he could.

There were shouts, more rapid bursts of gunfire, then quiet.

They heard Jo Hoag yell out, “Thompson’s down, but Elliott got the shooter!”

Cal whispered against her ear. “You okay?”

Sherlock looked up at him, nodded. “He’s dead, Cal. He’s dead, like that.” She snapped her fingers.

Cal lifted himself off her, offered his hand, but she rolled to her side, balanced above Nasim, and stared into his empty eyes. “No,” she whispered. She leaned down, touched her hand to his cheek. “We failed him.”

“Come,” he said, and finally she let him help her up. The front of her white shirt and her fisted hands that had banged against his heart were covered with Nasim’s blood.