They parked a block away from Leyland’s house so they wouldn’t alert Adam Pearce or Oliver Leyland, if he was there. The windows of Leyland’s white stucco town house were dark, the four-story mansion silent in the cool spring air.

Dark low-hanging clouds were piling in. The wind had kicked up, swirling through the town houses on Lansdowne Crescent and the green communal gardens of Notting Hill. Rain was coming soon. Mike shoved her hair out of her face. “It looks like we’re about to have nasty weather.”

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” he said. “It’s good to be home.” He saw himself at Old Farrow Hall, running through the labyrinth hedges toward the center even as the rain battered down. What was he, twelve years old?

Penderley said, “My team are set up outside the perimeter.”

Nicholas said, “And you promised to keep them there, sir. It’s only the three of us. Gareth? You ready? I don’t want to make Adam think I lied to him.”

Gareth Scott walked up, patted his chest, bulky with body armor. “Ready as I’ll ever be, let’s get it done, mate.”

They moved silently toward the house, Nicholas and Mike, weapons at their sides, following Gareth. They skirted the black-fenced front steps and forest green front door and moved to the side of the house to another entrance.

The side door was slightly ajar. There were clear rake marks on the lock. It had been forced.

Gareth gave Penderley a running commentary through their radios as they entered the house from the side entrance. They were on the lowest floor. There were a dozen windows, and despite the dark clouds overhead, light spilled into the hallways and rooms, making it easy to see. They split three ways, clearing the ground floor quickly. No signs of a struggle, no signs of Adam or Oliver Leyland. No signs of anything.

Nicholas didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all.

They met in the grand foyer under a centuries-old crystal chandelier and began up the massive wooden staircase.

They found Leyland’s body on the first-floor landing, his head leaning against the panels. His legs were bent backward, his arms dislocated, making him seem a crumpled marionette, his strings cut and dropped straight down from the landing above.

Mike swallowed. “Is this Leyland?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Somebody pushed him over.”

Gareth fell to his knees beside Leyland. He looked up. “Sir, do you read me? Leyland is down. Repeat, Leyland is down. He was hurt badly, sir, before he died. We’re moving to the second floor. Do not send anyone else in here until we’ve cleared the place.”

Gareth skirted Leyland’s body, signaling to Nicholas he was going to move to their left. Nicholas nodded, taking the low side right. Mike was in front of him going straight.

The gunshot came out of nowhere, suppressed, like a pop, but they knew what it was.

64

Nicholas only had time to see Gareth fall before he was tackled from behind. He went down hard on his knees. Mike whirled around, right into the waiting arms of a big bruiser nearly twice her size, hard with muscle, strong as Rocky.

Nicholas shouted to her, but she couldn’t move. Rocky’s arms were tightening more and more, he was going to crush her ribs if she didn’t break loose. Gareth was down, Nicholas was under attack—she had only herself.

Rocky let up a bit, banged her hand against her leg, and she let the Glock go. She pulled an old trick—let herself go limp. It surprised him enough to give her time to force her shoulder under his forearm and twist hard to the right, and despite his weight advantage, she sent him over her shoulder to sprawl on his back on a thick Berber runner. The carpet cushioned his landing and he was back on his feet, a surprising shock for such a big man, and he was coming at her again, fists up, protecting his face.

He kicked her leg out from under her and she went down on her knees. His hands went around her throat, his fingers bent inward to gouge her eyes. She jerked and heaved so he couldn’t get to her eyes, twisted onto her back and kicked him hard in the gut. He windmilled backward, then started cursing her. She kicked him in the kneecap, but it wasn’t enough, so she kicked him in the groin as hard as she could. She realized in one part of her brain that she was out of control. She wanted to kill him, she wanted to obliterate him.

He was strong, fast for his size, and despite the blow to his groin, he was up and dancing toward her again. Bring it on, Rocky, bring it on. No way was she going to let him beat her. She blocked the next punch to her face, saw her chance. She slid her thigh in between Rocky’s legs, and crashed her left leg down hard, at the perfect angle. He went down with a howl, and she stomped on him again, in the exact same spot, and was rewarded with the fine crunch of bone. She’d blown out his knee.

Mike flipped him onto his stomach and cuffed him. He was yelling, cursing, so she hit him hard in the back of the head with her fist, knocking him out. At last he shut up.

She took a huge breath, felt all the bruises along her ribs, but she was okay, she’d won. She sent a prayer of thanks to her FBI hand-to-hand combat coach, press-checked her Glock, and yelled, “Nicholas!”

She found Gareth first. He’d taken a shot to the neck not an inch above the top of his body armor and was bleeding, but it wasn’t too bad, not an artery, thankfully, a through and through. She ripped his sleeve off and pressed it to his neck. He groaned and his eyes opened.

Of all things, he smiled up at her. “Alive, am I?”

She laid her palm along his cheek. “You’re going to be okay. Hold this.” She pressed the shirt sleeve to his neck, guided his hand to it. “Help’s on the way.”

“No, it isn’t. They cut our comms. I called to Penderley, but no one’s come in after us. Where’s Nicholas?”

“I’m going to go find him now.”

But first, she tested her comms unit. Gareth was right, no communication. Disruption technologies were one of the FBI’s greatest fears, from knocking out comms to taking down planes and setting off EMPs, Havelock had clearly figured out how to make it happen.

She had to find Nicholas, but first she had to let the Brits outside know they were in trouble. She couldn’t shout, she didn’t know how many bad guys were in the house.

She fired her Glock through a big glass window that gave onto a garden, straight down into the dirt. It was loud, a blast in the quiet. The shot that had gotten Gareth in the neck was suppressed. Hers wasn’t. That should bring them running. She tore off a sleeve of her shirt and attached it to the window as a signal.

“Go find Nicholas, Mike. I’m okay.” Gareth pulled out a knife, thin, deadly sharp.

She listened hard as she ran quietly toward the stairs to the upper level. She heard nothing.

Her ribs were on fire, but she paid no attention. She had to find Nicholas.

She saw a trail of fresh blood drops on the stairs, teardrop shaped, the fat end of the blood drops closer to her. Since the velocity pattern was moving away from her, she knew whoever was bleeding had gone up the stairs instead of coming down.

65

Mike followed the trail of blood up the stairs. There, windows were fewer, making it darker. It was silent as a tomb.

Come on, Nicholas, where are you? And where are you, Penderley? Come on!

Mike cleared room by room. The last door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar. She paused, listened. She heard breathing. Whoever was in there was waiting for her.

She edged sideways and looked through the crack. She saw Nicholas lying on his back under a large square window. Rain was coming down hard, slamming against the windowpanes. He was deathly still.