68
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
The toilet flushed, the tap water ran, then stopped. Savich pictured Armstrong wiping his hands. The door opened, but there was no light this time. Armstrong was confident enough he knew where things were in the room. Savich jerked Armstrong back against him, squeezed his arm tight around his neck, his Glock against his temple. He said into his ear, “Armstrong, you’re a long way from Langley.”
Armstrong didn’t say a word. He twisted to grab Savich’s elbow and pressed his fingers hard on his ulnar nerve. Fire flashed down Savich’s forearm and his hand went instantly numb. His Glock fell to the hardwood floor.
Armstrong was on him. He was well trained, hard as a seasoned fullback, and out to maim.
Savich felt a rush of adrenaline. It had been a long time since he’d mixed it up, and this guy was a brawler. Armstrong jumped in close, pummeled him with his fists, grabbed Savich’s left arm with both of his and twisted it sharply behind him. Savich knew he had only a second before the bone snapped. He ignored the pain and his numb right hand, managed to feint and turn to the side to gain a bit of space, and kicked Armstrong in the belly. Armstrong sucked in a breath, let him go as he stumbled back. “You’re going to pay for that, you FBI prick.”
“Yeah? Show me what you’ve got.” Savich jumped back a step to get the leverage he needed, whirled, and kicked Armstrong hard in his kidney, whirled again and kicked him in the groin. Armstrong grunted, went down on his knees, grabbed himself as he rolled over onto his side, keening. Savich flipped him onto his belly, jerked the flex-cuffs from his belt, realized he couldn’t fasten them with his numb hand. Then Sherlock was there. She bent down next to Armstrong, whispered in his ear, “All right, moron, enough fun and games. Don’t move or I’ll shoot your ear off and make you eat it. You got that?”
Armstrong was breathing hard, fighting nausea from the blow to his crotch, the hot pain in his kidney.
Sherlock pressed her Glock into his ear. “Say it out loud. You understand, Armstrong?”
Finally, he managed, “Yeah, I understand.”
In that instant, Sherlock saw the Glock in his belt holster. She made a grab for it, but Armstrong was fast, clamped her arm against him. Savich calmly stuck his own Glock into Armstrong’s other ear. “Let her go or you’re a dead man.”
Armstrong let her go. Sherlock pulled Armstrong’s gun free and slowly rose, shook her arm. “I’m okay, Dillon. Step away while I cuff him. How’s your arm? Can you use it?”
“It’s coming,” Savich said. He rose, shoved his Glock back into his belt clip, and watched Sherlock fasten on the flex-cuffs. He looked up to see Ruth and Ollie in the open window, their weapons drawn. “We’re secure here,” he said to them.
Ollie said, “No one else is here. Only this guy, Armstrong.”
Savich walked over to the door and flipped on the switch. Light flooded the small bedroom. There was a closet, a bathroom, a dresser, and a double bed covered with dark blue sheets. He walked back to Sherlock and looked down at Armstrong, his legs drawn up, his face against the floor.
Savich said to him, “You going to heave?”
Armstrong whispered, “Bastard. What are you doing, attacking a CIA safe house?”
Sherlock pressed her foot against his ribs, hard enough to get his attention. “You’re calling him a bastard when you’re holding an FBI agent prisoner here? Where is she? In the basement? She’d better be all right, or believe me, this won’t be your lucky day.”
Armstrong raised his clammy face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Yeah, I have a detainee in the basement. She isn’t FBI, she’s a suspected foreign agent. I was assigned to keep guard over her until the morning, when she’ll be picked up and interrogated. I’m only babysitting her. I was told she’s violent, and so they drugged her. Last time I checked, she was still out.”
Savich said, “Sorry, Lance, that story isn’t going to fly.”
Sherlock said, “Did you people ever hear of checking a wallet for ID? You’d see she’s FBI.”
“I was told she didn’t have a wallet, par for the course. Even if she did, it would be fake.”
Savich said, “Who told you to hold her?”
“None of your freaking business. Let me go. I’ve got calls to make. This is your mess to figure out, not mine. Get these cuffs off me!”
Sherlock said, “You want to call your boss, Claire Farriger? I can tell you right now, Lance, she isn’t going to be happy with you. She gives you one simple assignment and look what happens. The FBI rides to the rescue and you end up on the floor whimpering like a little boy.”
Savich said to Ollie, “You and Ruth get down to the basement and see that Lucy’s all right. But be careful, it’s possible there’s another one down there with her. We’ll take this one to the kitchen.”
Armstrong was no longer thinking he’d die. He was wishing his hands were free and he could have another go at these two. “Let me loose. I’m entitled to a phone call.”
Sherlock said, “Sorry, Lance, you’re not entitled to anything at all. Tell us exactly what Farriger and Nikki Bexholt are up to or I might let the big man here at you again.”
“He was lucky. Let me loose and I’ll show you.”
Sherlock laughed. “If I let you loose, what I’d see is him tying your legs around your neck. Now, what did you do to her?”