“Actually, it’s not up to you, Agent Sherlock. There’s another consideration in calling you up here. We’re going to take you out of the public eye for a few days. The terrorists behind Conklin know he spoke to you at JKF, and it’s not a big leap to assume they’d be happy to see both of you dead, as payback for sending their operation into the crapper. Both of you might be targets, Nasim because he failed. You know as well as I do it would be a public relations coup for the terrorists if they succeeded in killing you in particular, and we’re not going to let that happen. So please be careful until we have you safely here with us in New York. As for Nasim, we’ve got him hidden away as safe as a baby.
“My boss, SAC Zachery, has spoken with Mr. Maitland and he’s given his thumbs-up. He’s arranged for one of the FBI Bell helicopters out of Quantico to bring you up to New York. We’ll meet you at the East Thirty-fourth Street Heliport. Bring clothes for, say, three days.”
Well, that’s that, Sherlock thought, as she stared at her cell. She had to hand it to Giusti, she’d gone about it the right way, gone right up the ladder on both ends, leaving her no choice. She thought of Dillon, of this mad psychopath on his hands and in his head, and knew he wouldn’t be happy about it, either, a vast understatement.
“Very well. I’ll be at Quantico in two hours,” Sherlock said to the cell phone, since Giusti had already hung up.
Friday, late morning
Special Agent Callum McLain was standing next to the helicopter at Quantico, chatting with their pilot, J. J. Markie, a fireball who told stories about how he’d flown a helicopter into the heart of hell in Afghanistan, mixed it up with the devil, and flown back out whistling, when Sherlock drove onto the tarmac in her trusty Volvo. Sherlock had met Callum—Cal—a couple times, and liked him. He was smart, funny, and no-nonsense when he was focused. He was a big guy in his early thirties, buff and well dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, his Glock doubtless clipped to his belt. She saw he was wearing black boots, not wing tips. She was glad Dillon had picked him to accompany her. She hadn’t argued because she knew it was important to him, to do all he could do to keep her safe.
“Agent Sherlock? Good to see you again.” She and Cal shook hands and he took her overnight bag. “Been about four months, since that barbecue the director gave at his house for a bunch of agents.”
Sherlock smiled up at him. “I remember the special dishes he made for the vegetarians, especially that grilled corn on the cob, one of Dillon’s favorites.”
“Worked out. I got his share of barbecue ribs. You and Savich had your little boy with you—Sean, right? Do you know, I’d like to have one like him someday?”
Markie poked him on the shoulder. “To pull that off, you’ve got to find an unsuspecting woman first, McLain. Congratulations, Sherlock, on bringing down that terrorist at JFK, amazing what you did. My daughter Ruth says she wants to be an FBI agent like you when she grows up. I asked her if she was going to curl her hair and dye it red to match yours. Not a problem, she told me, she’d already picked out the exact shade. She wants to start karate tomorrow.”
“How old is your daughter, J.J.?”
“The little pistol turned six last week.” He looked down at his watch. “You guys ready to go? I’d like to get this bird in the air. We don’t want to keep New York twiddling their thumbs.”
When they were buckled in the back seats, their headphones clear, Markie gave them the safety rundown. Then, “A little under an hour to the helipad on Thirty-fourth Street. We’ve got a nice wind on our tail pushing us north.”
They rose slowly to about fifty feet, banked and headed northward. Minutes later, Sherlock was looking down at dozens of white granite buildings and monuments, the Potomac lazily curling around them, the Washington Monument spearing toward the clouds. She said into her mike, “Cal, if you didn’t know, Dillon asked Mr. Maitland for you specifically. He said you’d have my back, that you have no fear, which is really not that reassuring if you think about it. I thought you’d like to know, though.”
No fear? Yeah, he liked the sound of that, but then he caught Sherlock’s crooked smile. “My boss told me both of you wanted someone with you from our house, not some New York cowboy you didn’t know. I gotta tell you, Sherlock, to be involved in this particular terrorist investigation, to actually be in on the chase, it’s more than I hoped for. Trust me, I’m going to be your second skin.”
That sounded good to her. Cal studied her, then lightly touched his hand to her arm. “Not that you need me. They ought to be showing that JFK video of you at Quantico, how you got the terrorist’s attention right away, engaged him, distracted him. The woman he grabbed—Melissa Harkness—she was impressive, too, the way she saved herself. I told my brother he ought to give her a call, ask her out for a cup of coffee. He’s with Treasury, harmless and single. Someone like her might do him good.”