Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(42)

Griffin said, “I can leave right now, Savich. Wait, Congressman Manvers said he had to go out for a meeting this evening, which means Rebekah would be alone. I know her assistant, Kit Jarrett, would stay with her, but is that enough?”

Savich shook his head. “You go watch over Rebekah. I’ll go to St. Lumis.”

Savich pulled Sherlock aside. “I’ve got to go see what’s going on, make sure Pippa is all right. Rush hour traffic shouldn’t be too bad on a Monday night. I’ll call you, keep you updated.”

Sherlock was as worried as Dillon, but she didn’t want to pile on. “Do you want to call Police Chief Wilde? He’s right there.”

“Not really. That last puzzle section with Major Trumbo hanging out the Alworth Hotel window, surrounded by flames? Until we find out what it all means, I want to keep this as private as possible.”





26


ST. LUMIS

MONDAY, LATE AFTERNOON

When Pippa came to, she could barely breathe, then realized there was cloth stuffed into her mouth. She managed to spit it out and swallowed, trying to get saliva back in her mouth. She breathed in moldy, stale air—she was still in that derelict building. He’d tied her up, bound her wrists behind her back and her ankles and knees with rope, the knots strong and stout. How much time did she have before he came back? The man in the black hoodie? Who had he called? What had that person told him to do with her? If not kill her, then what? None of it made sense to her. She’d been in St. Lumis for less than two days. How could anyone know she was an FBI agent or even why she was here? Who would even wonder? Well, obviously someone did know, and it didn’t matter how. So why attack her? Surely whoever they were, they had to know killing her would only bring the full weight of the FBI down on their heads. What did they hope to gain? Did they think she’d found out who they were? But how? Maude Filly? Suddenly she was afraid Maude Filly had closed early yesterday because someone had forced her to. No time to think about that. Right now she had to get out of the building before Black Hoodie came back. She looked down at her wrist. Of course her iWatch wasn’t there. Smart. Savich could have used it to locate her.

Pippa started to sit up, felt a wave of dizziness and eased back down. She lay perfectly still. She wasn’t going anywhere until she got herself together. She remembered how she’d come to after the first time he’d struck her, but only for a minute. Her head still pounded.

She had to move more slowly, not take any chances. She lay there until she knew she shouldn’t wait any longer. She had to move, free herself, and ignore her pounding head. She was concussed, how badly she didn’t know, but now, at least, she wasn’t nauseated. Her vision was clear, and, best of all, she could move. And that meant she had a chance. Who cared about an aching head?

She had to get her wrists free. She tugged and worked the ropes, but there was no give. She had to find something sharp enough to cut through them. She looked out a high broken window. No more sunshine. How late was it? There was still enough light for her to see the rubbish and debris lying around her. She didn’t see anything sharp enough to cut through the ropes, except some small shards of glass scattered on the floor. Then she saw an ancient rusted hook half buried under a tattered pile of filthy clothes in a corner, several feet away. She inched slowly toward it, little by little, quietly, because she had no idea if Black Hoodie was nearby. Her hands brushed against the hook. It was at the end of a long wooden pole, decades old, probably used to hook the latches on the high windows to open them in the morning and close them for the night. The hook tip felt sharp enough to do the job. She backed onto the hook until she felt the blade against her wrists. Carefully, she played her fingers over it, adjusting her hands until the ropes were directly beneath the tip, and started slowly rubbing the rope across it. Eventually her hands cramped, and she had to ease off.

She started again but realized she was cutting her hands as well as the rope. She didn’t know how long she kept at it, but the room became almost completely dark as she worked the knots. When at last the rope gave, she pulled her hands apart and brought them in front of her. She couldn’t prevent a hiss of pain. Her hands were bloody and numb and hurt. She patted them on her T-shirt, raised them to the back of her head, and felt dried blood through her matted hair where he’d struck her. She didn’t seem to be bleeding now, and that was good. When she pressed against the wound slightly, she felt a jolt of pain. She stopped and breathed until the pain faded. It was time to forget about her head and her hands. She had to move fast now. She went to work untying the ropes around her ankles and knees.

Her hands were throbbing fiercely by the time she was free. She braced herself against a rusting shelf and slowly stood. She took a small step, felt a stab of vertigo, and stumbled. She caught hold of an old mildewed crate and breathed in deeply until the vertigo eased off. She stamped her feet to get the feeling back. She had nothing to wrap around her hands, certainly not the moldy rags scattered on the floor, so she’d have to be very careful.

Her cell phone, her Glock, and her wallet were gone. So was the small Glock 380 she kept in her ankle holster. She checked her jacket pocket. He’d taken her creds, too. He knew exactly who she was now, but of course he’d known she was FBI before he’d struck her down. She started to shake. She was so afraid, it threatened to sweep away any logical thought. This was her first time face-to-face with real danger, and she was alone, with no one here to back her up.