Chapter Thirty-Seven
The mission went off flawlessly, with every member of the team playing their role with perfection. From the time Cori and Neveah arrived at church, through the service, to the aftermath outside, where they’d hoped Peckham would make his appearance, every detail went off as planned.
Except for the fact that Harlan Peckham never showed up.
While Sam was thrilled that everyone was safe, she was crushed that the plan hadn’t worked as she’d hoped.
With Sawyer and Charles safely back at the Sawyer home, Sam and Vernon got out of the Emergency Response vehicle and into the SUV driven by Quigley for the return to HQ.
As Sam stared out the window, watching the city go by, she was filled with despair. All that time and effort expended for nothing.
What now?
There were so many other opportunities for Peckham to take out Judge Sawyer in the course of an average week, but nothing as easy as this would’ve been. She’d been ripe for the picking, so why hadn’t he come?
Sam had been so certain he would.
They were stopped at a red light when a figure on the street caught her attention. From behind, the man’s build matched the photos she’d seen of Peckham as he walked briskly in the opposite direction of the church.
Then she noticed the braid down his back and realized it was him.
Had he been there and picked up the scent of cops?
Without taking so much as a second to think about it, Sam opened the back door and bolted from the vehicle, charging toward the man while dodging several people on the sidewalk until she was right behind him.
And then she jumped, taking him down in a crash to the pavement that would’ve taken skin off both elbows if she hadn’t been wearing a coat. Thankfully, she didn’t reinjure her hip or wrist in the takedown, but her elbows would be sore.
“What the fuck?” he cried, bucking against her tight hold.
She had him cuffed and relieved of a nine-millimeter Glock that’d been hidden in the waistband of his pants in the time it took Vernon to catch up to her.
The agent glared at her, clearly furious. “What the hell, Sam?”
She smiled up at him, thrilled and relieved. “Sorry about that.”
“Honest to God,” he said with a huff of aggravation. “You’re going to be the living, breathing death of me.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve heard that before.” She pressed the mic on her radio. “This is Lieutenant Holland. I’ve got Harlan Peckham in custody on Connecticut Avenue.”
“Only you, Holland,” Malone replied. “Only you.”