Page 79 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

“So it’s done, completed, finis ... kudos to you both!”

Carmen glanced up impatiently at Stan Reynolds, who hovered in the doorway of the Garage.

The deputy director gave an exaggerated wince. “But I’m afraid I do have a tad bit of bad news for you.”

She had been writing up the after-action report with Heron, Selina and Grange.

Then Reynolds frowned, looking at Selina. “And you are ... do you work here?”

“She’s my sister,” Carmen said, and did not tell him that she was the kidnap victim they’d alluded to earlier.

Reflecting that the man had not even asked about the condition of the abductee.

Stan Reynolds, true to form.

“I know you and your erstwhile leader, SSA Williamson, were a touch skeptical of my theory that Sergei Ivanov was behind the Brock murder.”

Heron whispered, “‘Tad.’ ‘Touch.’”

Carmen tried not to smile.

“But we dug deep enough and found, guess what, the dear departed bridegroom, did send an encrypted message to a known asset in the Russian embassy in Washington. It came from, ta-da, Brock’s house.” His eyes were triumphant. “I ordered agents to bring Ivanov in for questioning.”

She frowned. “What charge?”

“He wasn’t arrested. Only brought in for questioning. As I just said. But we’ll break him. I know you tried, did your best. Points for that. But I’m afraid there will be consequences for dropping the ball.”

All of Reynolds’s skills were on full display—not as a law enforcer but as a master political operator. On these facts, he would have an easy time bringing I-squared within his own orbit. Organizations—and personnel—often never recovered from national security oversights like this.

The hollow feeling within her spread.

She glanced at Heron, who appeared as troubled as she was.

How had they missed it?

Well, if I-squared were taken away from Williamson, which now seemed likely, and brought under Reynolds’s direct control, she’d quit.

Simple as that.

And what about Professor and Intrusionist Jake Heron? Williamson was the only official in the federal government with the cojones to enlist the help of a civilian consultant with his background, however brilliant.

This would be the end of their working relationship.

And perhaps the end of any relationship at all.

Reynolds said, “We’ll congregate in the morning about what comes next. Ciao.”

He strode triumphantly out of the Garage.

Selina muttered, “Dude is a total prick.”

No one argued with her assessment.

Carmen finished the last paragraph of her report and hit Enter, sending the file to the powers that be.

It described in detail Damon Garr’s unique profile as a killer.

Also contained was the disposition of Tristan Kane—in a maximum-security holding facility, where he would have zero access to electronics.

Lauren Brock’s statement, along with Carmen’s notes about her history and the extenuating circumstances of her relationship with Garr, were included too.

Footnotes described the crimes in Verona and Florence.

Not a single word of Russian conspiracy was included.

Heron said firmly, “I’ve had it, Sanchez. I need a drink.”

“Me too,” Selina chimed in.

“No,” Carmen said instantly.

“I’m almost twenty-one.”

“Which is like being almost pregnant. Either you are or you’re not.”

Selina pouted but Carmen could tell she wasn’t truly upset. She knew that her gymnastics always came first, and rhythmic routines and alcohol do not mix.

Carmen suggested, “Virgin strawberry margarita?”

“That’ll work. If there are chips and salsa involved.”

“Deal.”

The three of them said goodbye to Grange and Mouse and walked from the facility into the cool night air.

In the parking lot, they made their way toward the Suburban and Jake’s Nissan, parked side by side. She had yet to repair the bullet hole in the back window that she’d placed there the other day as a prelude to the set in Santa Monica that had yielded Tristan Kane’s account information.

“I’d leave it,” Heron said, noticing she was eyeing the damage. “Nobody’ll park near you at the mall.”

She chuckled.

It was then that Carmen was vaguely aware of a dark SUV pulling into the lot and moving slowly their way. It stopped not far away, though at an odd angle, outside the white lines of a parking space. The door opened.

The driver was Allison Brock, Anthony’s widow.

Her stern visage slipped away, and she smiled, waving a greeting.

Carmen supposed she had come with information about Lauren, her sister-in-law, perhaps not knowing they had already cracked the mystery of Ms. Person of Interest. Or was maybe curious about what else the investigation had revealed.

Carmen waved back.

There was a beat of a moment.

And then Allison raised an Uzi machine pistol. She aimed toward the trio, pulling the trigger and sending a fusillade of bullets their way.

“Down!” Carmen cried as the others dropped to the asphalt. She went for her gun but saw that she could not get a bead on Allison, who was using the open door for cover.

Then Allison spotted another target, one she could hit without exposing herself to return fire from Carmen.

Mouse had just walked from the building and stood fifty feet away, frozen in place.

Allison aimed at her, as Carmen tried to acquire a clear-sight picture—but she had no workable shot.

Uzis have short barrels and fire a small-caliber bullet, but they’re accurate—and lethal enough at this range.

“Mouse!” she called out to her. “Down.”

The woman crouched but was still an easy target.

Just as Allison centered her weapon, another vehicle skidded to a stop inside the gate to the parking lot.

It was a small SUV, a black Ford Edge. The door swung out and a towering mountain of a man wearing a black leather jacket stepped out fast, smoothly drawing a pistol as he sank into a tactical stance.

Unlike Carmen, he had an unobstructed view of Allison Brock, and he fired three times.

She grabbed her chest, dropped her gun and slumped to the ground.

Carmen shifted her Glock toward the unknown shooter, who lowered his gun and shouted, “I’m a friendly.”

“Weapon on the ground, step away.”

“Yes, Agent Sanchez.”

He knows me?

The man followed orders, placing the pistol at his feet and taking two steps back with his hands in the air, one of which held an open wallet.

As Heron called 9-1-1 and Mouse returned to the Garage to summon help, she approached and secured Allison’s gun and then examined the ID that the newcomer displayed. His name was DeLeon Blake, and he was a security consultant. His license to carry a firearm was in order.

Accompanied by Mouse, Liam Grange ran from the building, weapon in hand. Then slowed after assessing that the danger had been neutralized.

“Explain,” Carmen said to Blake.

“I work for your late father’s boss, Carl Overton. After Selina came to him asking about your father’s clients, he hired me to keep tabs on her. She told him a stalker was following her, and he was worried about her safety.” He grimaced. “Did the best I could but she gave me the slip.”

“What’s this about a stalker, Sel—?”

Carmen turned to her sister.

And gasped.

“Carmen ...” Selina’s voice was weak. She removed her hand from her chest, revealing the hole from one of Allison’s bullets. It was just above her heart.

“I think . . . maybe I should . . .”

Selina slumped to her knees.