Enigma (FBI Thriller #21)(3)

Savich flattened himself behind the dining room wall, next to the arched opening, and calmed his breathing. He heard Detective Mayer’s voice on the bullhorn trying to reason with a man who had no tether to reason, offering to provide him whatever he wanted if he didn’t harm Ms. Moody.

The man screamed, “You’re a liar! I don’t believe you, not a word! I won’t let you take me, or take her. Do you hear me?” He let out a high, mad laugh. “I will not let you win!” He screamed the words again, wailed them. Then he stopped, turned to face Kara Moody, and whispered, “I don’t know what to do. I’ve got to figure this out. I want what’s best for you, I do, only not how you’d think. But maybe it doesn’t matter now.

He began shaking his head, and his free hand tugged at his hair. He was ready to break and yelled, “What am I going to do?”

Kara Moody raised her head, and Savich realized she knew as well as he did it was crunch time and she had to try. “Please listen to me. Please tell me who you are and why you want me to go with you. Go where? Who is after you? After us? Can’t you see I’m pregnant?”

He ran to her, leaned forward, cupped her chin in his hand, and jerked her face up. “Of course you’re pregnant. Why do you think I came? Did you call them? Did you tell them I was here?” He stopped again, shook his head, as if trying to straighten out his thoughts. “No, you didn’t call them; I didn’t let you. I had to tie you up, you know that, don’t you? You’d have run before I could convince you to come with me. Wait, then who called them? I don’t understand. I don’t understand!”

Savich couldn’t act, the man was too close to her, his face nearly touching hers, close enough to kiss her. Her voice remained amazingly calm as she whispered into his face, “No, I didn’t call them. I don’t like them, either. I don’t want them to get near me. Who are you? Have I seen you before? Were you in Baltimore?”

“Baltimore,” he repeated, as if trying to make sense of it.

He reared back and screamed at her, spittle flying, “I’m an enigma. He keeps telling me that’s what I am, that is what we are. I can’t let them take me, can’t let them take you! It’s evil, a monstrous evil!” He shoved himself back away from her.

“Drop the gun now!”

The man whipped around at the sound of Savich’s voice and yelled, “No!” He jerked up his rifle, screamed, “How did you get in here?”

Savich fired, hit the gun, and sent it flying out of the man’s hands, skidding across the oak floor to fetch up against a chair leg. The young man howled and lunged toward Kara, his hands outstretched. Savich fired again, striking him high in the shoulder. He flinched, but it didn’t stop him. His hands were reaching toward her big belly. Savich took careful aim and fired just as Kara lurched back in the chair and it toppled over. The bullet blew a cloud of blood from the man’s head, and he jerked backward at the impact. But it had only grazed him, and he whirled around again to face Savich. He looked confused, like a child being disciplined for something he didn’t understand. He licked dry lips, whispered, “I don’t understand. You’re not a god. They don’t want me dead. Who are you?” He grabbed his shoulder when his brain finally recognized his pain, and he staggered, tears streaming down his face. He slammed his other hand to his head, and brought it down again, stared at the blood seaming between his fingers. He made a small mewling sound, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell on his side to the floor. He was out.

Savich pulled Kara’s chair back up, saw she was all right. “Hold on.” He knew everyone had heard the shots. He raced to the window to see a newly arrived SWAT team jogging toward the house, their weapons at the ready, bulletproof shields in front of them as they prepared to rush the house. He heard Mayer’s voice shouting, “Go, go, go!”

As if choreographed, a dozen cops rose up from behind their police cars to fan out behind them. Savich threw open the door, raised his creds in the air through the opening, yelled, “FBI! The shooter is down! It’s over! The shooter is down!”

It was as if they didn’t see him, hadn’t heard him, as if they were guided missiles set on their course. They kept coming. Savich understood the adrenaline rush, knew their training had hardwired them not to stop until they got to Kara Moody.

He yelled again, “FBI. Dillon Savich! The man is alive but he’s down! Don’t shoot! It’s over!”

The SWAT team leader stopped, raised his hand. “Is that you, Savich? Dillon Savich?”

It was Luke Palmer, twenty-year veteran, a man he’d met a couple of years before at the gym, a man he knew was scary good at his job.

“Luke, yes, it’s me, Savich! He’s down, unconscious! Ms. Moody is unhurt.”

“But how did you— Never mind.” Luke turned, spoke to his team, then shouted to the cops surrounding the house, “Stand down! It’s Agent Dillon Savich. The shooter is down!”

There were shouts in return, and Luke yelled out again, “It’s over! Stand down!” He and his people lowered their weapons and were soon all in the house. Luke paused a moment and shook Savich’s hand. “Nice work.”

Detective Mayer roared through the open front door, yelled, “What do you mean it’s over? Savich? What is the fricking FBI even doing here?”