And pulled the fire alarm on his way.
He paused, as any man might—surprised, mildly annoyed—and watched the crowd in the buffet area push away from tables, heard the noise level rise as people talked all at once.
She was good, Brooks observed. Abigail merged with the exiting crowd. As he zigzagged between her and the tailing agents, joining the people exiting, she nipped to the side and into a restroom. If he hadn’t been watching for it, hadn’t known the plan, he wouldn’t have seen the move.
He slowed his pace a moment. “Fire alarm,” he said into the phone. “No, it won’t hold me up. I’m heading out,” he added, as he fell in behind the agents. After he pushed the phone into his pocket, he pulled a ball cap out of his bag. Still moving, he put on sunglasses, stuffed the jacket he’d worn into the buffet in the bag, pulled the strap of the bag long, then slid it crossways over his body.
They were looking for her now, Brooks noted, one of them doubling back, searching the crowd, aiming for the lobby and the main exit.
Less than two minutes after he’d pulled the alarm, she slipped out of the restroom, joined him. The long tail of her blond hair was pulled through a ball cap like his. She wore flip-flops and a pink hoodie, and had shed a good ten pounds.
They walked out together, hand in hand, then broke from the crowd and climbed into a cab.
“Dulles Airport,” Brooks told the driver, “American Airlines.”
“Jeez, you think there’s a real fire?” Abigail asked, with a hint of New York in her tone.
“Don’t know, baby, but we’re out of it now.”
At Dulles they got out at the American terminal, went inside, circled around, then exited to take another cab to the terminal for the private charter.
“Can’t really blame the feds for wanting to tail you,” Brooks commented, once they were settled on board.
“No.”
“And you make a pretty hot blonde.”
She smiled a little, then turned her laptop toward herself. “Cosgrove responded.”
“Already?” Brooks tilted his head.
I don’t know who you are, but be aware you’re attempting to blackmail a federal officer. This matter will be turned over for immediate investigation.
“Standard first-round bluff.”
“Yes,” Abigail agreed. “I’m about to call it.” She glanced up. “I’m a very good poker player, and it’s ironic he’s the one who taught me.”
Brooks watched the text come on-screen. “The student becomes the master.”
Rudolf Yankivich was your Volkov connection on the incident. He is currently serving ten to fifteen in Joliet. I’m sure your commanding officer would be interested in this information. The payment has now increased to $75,000, and will continue to increase by $25,000 for each scoop of bullshit you serve. You now have thirty-seven hours.
“Scoop of bullshit?”
“Yes, I believe harsh language is appropriate at this time.”
“I’m so in love with you.”
The sentiment made her smile. “I know how to say ‘bullshit’ in several languages. I’ll teach you.”
“Looking forward to it.”
She sent the e-mail, sighed.
“I can’t wait to pick up Bert and go home.”
It could be like this—would be like this, she corrected—as she sat on the back porch with a glass of wine, the dog at her feet.
Peaceful, quiet, yes—but not solitary, not with Brooks sitting in the second chair, which he’d bought on the way home.
“Will I get used to it, do you think? Being one person, being safe, being with you?”
“I hope you will, even to the point where you take it all for granted now and again.”
“I can’t imagine that.” She reached over for his hand. “It should happen quickly now.”
“We’ll be ready.”
She sat for another moment, her hand in his, looking out over her thriving garden, the quiet woods. Just another soft evening, she thought, as spring drifted toward summer.
“I’m going to make dinner.”
“You don’t have to bother. We can forage around for something.”
“I feel like cooking. Like routine. Like everyday.”
She saw understanding when he looked at her. “Everyday sounds good.”
To her mind, no one who hadn’t done without everyday could fully appreciate how precious it was.
She gathered what she needed, pleased when he came in to sit at the counter and talk to her while she worked. She chopped plum tomatoes and basil, minced some garlic, shredded some mozzarella, added some cracked pepper and poured olive oil over them to marinate. For fun she began to prepare a pretty tray of antipasti.
“I thought we could get another dog, a puppy, as company for Bert. You could name him, since I named Bert.”
“Two dogs, no waiting.” He considered. “It’d have to be Ernie.”
“Why?”
He nipped one of the hot peppers off the tray. “Bert and Ernie. Muppets?
“Oh. That’s a children’s program. Bert and Ernie are friends?”
“And possibly more, but since it’s a kids’ program, we’ll stick with friends.”
“I named Bert for Albert Einstein.”
“I should’ve figured.”
“He is very smart.”
Her computer signaled.
“That’s incoming mail,” she said, and stepped out of everyday.
She walked to the computer, leaned over and brought up the mail. “It’s Cosgrove.”
“He took the bait.”
Blackmail me, blackmail the Volkovs. You won’t live to spend the money. Back off now, and live.
“He’s tying himself to the Volkovs with this response. It’s not concrete, of course, but it’s a start.”
“Let me answer this one,” Brooks requested, and took a seat.
“Oh …” Then Abigail’s uncertainty turned to a nod of approval. “That’s very good.”
Tell the Volkovs you’re being blackmailed, you’re a liability. They eliminate liabilities. Pay now, and live. Payment is now $100,000. You have twenty-nine hours.
“I’ll route it.”
He gave her the seat, stood behind her, rubbing her shoulders, as she worked what he thought of as strange magic with the keyboard.
“Now he could call the bluff. He could let this go past the deadline, wait it out.”
“No, he won’t.” Brooks leaned down, kissed the top of her head. “He’s shifted from using the law as a lever to using the Volkovs. He’s sweating. His next response will demand a guarantee. How can he be sure we won’t
