Chapter 17
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The large silhouette on the other side of the front door had a disturbingly deep voice. “Ms. Delaney?” the man asked, pressing his credentials against the glass panel. “I’m Special Agent Mark Scofield from the Department of Homeland Security. I need to ask you a few questions, please.”
Erin shot Connor a concerned look.
“Ignore him,” Connor whispered.
“I can’t ignore him,” she replied. “If he saw me come home and I don’t answer, he’s going to suspect something is going on.”
As if he could hear the conversation, the man knocked on the door once more and announced, “Ms. Delaney, I know you’re home. Please open the door.”
Even if she had wanted to sneak upstairs and pretend that she was asleep, or taking that bath she had been envisioning, she’d have to pass the front door to get to the stairs. If he was peering through the glass panel, he’d see her. There was nothing she could do. She had to comply.
“Stay here and be quiet,” she said. This time, she was the one giving the orders. “I’ll get rid of him.”
Nodding, Connor removed his equipment from the dining room table and returned it all to his backpack.
Once everything was cleared, Erin pressed her finger to her lips one last time and exited the dining room.
In the vestibule, she turned to confirm that Connor wasn’t visible. Then, taking a breath to steady herself, she flipped on the overhead light and answered the door.
“Ms. Delaney?” the man asked, holding out his credentials for her to see. “I’m Special Agent—”
“Mark Scofield,” she stated, reading the name on his ID, cutting him off. “What do you need?”
He looked past her, deeper into her house. “Do you mind if I come inside?”
“Agent Scofield, I haven’t slept all night and am due at work in a few hours. So, if you don’t mind, how can I help you?”
Returning his ID to his pocket, he removed a notepad and flipped it open. “Do you know a man named Connor Jameson?”
“Knew.”
“Excuse me?” he replied.
Erin kept her right foot firmly planted behind the door, which she had only opened partway. “I knew a man named Connor Jameson,” she answered. “Past tense. He was my fiancé. Why? What happened to him?”
“I really think we should discuss this inside.”
“Agent Scofield, I am going to ask you one more time, politely, to please get to the point.”
“Have you seen or heard from Mr. Jameson in the last twelve hours?”
“No. In fact, I haven’t spoken to him in months.”
“He hasn’t called you? Texted? Nothing at all?”
“No, he hasn’t. And whatever he’s done,” said Erin, preparing to close the door, “I don’t care. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some sleep.”
“I don’t think so,” said the agent, putting his arm out and preventing her from closing the door.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she demanded, more pissed off than frightened. “I’m a member of the National Security staff.”
The man smiled. “I know exactly who you are.”
“Good. Because I’m going to have your ass. Now get the fuck away from my house.”
“Not until I come inside and have a look around.”
“No way in hell that’s going to—” she began, but before she could finish her sentence, he had burst into the foyer and snatched a fistful of her hair.
“Listen closely,” he warned. “If Jameson’s not here, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
She knew it was a lie. She’d seen his face. He had no intention of letting her live. “Get the fuck off me,” she yelled, struggling to get away from him and to alert Connor at the same time.
As soon as she started to pull away, the man drew his pistol and placed the muzzle against her temple. Her nostrils flared at the pungent smell of gun oil.
“Move,” he commanded.
She shook her head, refusing to comply.
He twisted his hand, gripping her hair tighter, and forced her forward—toward the kitchen and just beyond it—to the dining room.
There was nothing she could do to slow him down. He was incredibly strong and was almost lifting her off the ground. If she had tried to break out of his grasp, she had no doubt it would have meant ripping out a piece of her scalp.
He searched the coat closet, the living room, and then the powder room. Entering the kitchen, he removed the gun just long enough to turn on a light and then put it back against her head—this time at the base of her skull.
Shifting her fully in front of him, he shoved her toward the last place on the ground floor he had left to check—right where Connor was hiding—the dining room.
They entered the space, but like everywhere else, it was empty. There was no sign of Connor. Where the hell was he?
Retracing their steps into the kitchen, Erin noticed something at the same time Scofield did—the back door was barely, almost imperceptibly, ajar. Is that where Connor had gone? Had he fled? And if so, when? Before or after it was obvious the man was a threat and intended to harm her?
She found it hard to believe that he would abandon her, but it made no difference now. Connor was gone, and whoever the man with the DHS credentials was, he was going to kill her.
Whether or not he’d make it quick and painless was little consolation. This was how her life was going to end.
She couldn’t let it happen this way. Not without a fight. Even if he took her entire scalp, Erin Delaney was going to make this the most difficult murder the man had ever committed. But in order to do so, she needed a weapon.
As the man shoved her toward the back door, Erin was within inches of the bar cart.
Hanging on a small display stand on top were a set of cocktail tools, including a garnish knife.
Though she would have preferred an ice pick, she didn’t have one.
The oddly shaped knife would have to do, and she would have to make the absolute best of it. She was only going to get one chance.
Opening the door seemed like it would be that chance. He only had two hands, and in her mind, that meant he only had two options. Either he could let go of her hair or he could holster his weapon.
It was obvious that he suspected Connor was close, which seemed to mean that he would let go of her hair and use that hand to pull the door the rest of the way open. That’s when she would make her move. But instead, he surprised her.
“Open it,” he said, pushing her toward the door.
She felt so stupid. Of course he would force her to do it. Why hadn’t she seen that coming?
Without him loosening his grip, there was no way she could grab the knife. And without the knife, there was no way she’d be able to escape.
There was, however, one thing she absolutely could do. When she opened the back door and they stepped into her tiny backyard, she could scream bloody murder.
Some of her neighbors would hear her. And all those who did would call the police.
It might not save her life, but it would draw tons of attention.
It would also throw one hell of a wrench into whatever else her captor had planned.
Before that happened, though, there was one other thing she could do.
If Connor had indeed fled, she could buy him a little more time. Even if it was only a second or two, she felt she owed him that for having doubted him—for having used his PTSD as a reason not to believe him.
So, when Scofield punctuated his command by pushing her toward the door, she literally dug her heels in.
The beast of a man responded by shoving her forward so hard she thought her spine would snap if she continued to resist. That was when she kicked her left leg out in front of her and drove her foot into the partially open door, slamming it shut.
“You stupid bitch,” he growled, cocking his right arm as if he intended to strike her across the back of her head with the weapon.
But right before he could bring the pistol crashing down, there was a voice from behind them in the kitchen.
Pssssst.
Erin didn’t need to see what was going on, nor did she need to be told what to do.
The moment Scofield let go of her hair, she dropped to the floor. That was when the shooting started.
With his pistol raised above his head, Scofield was already a dead man. Before he could spin fully around, identify the threat, and bring his weapon to bear, Connor had shot him five times.
The kitchen was rank with gun smoke, its back wall splattered with the man’s blood, as Scofield’s lifeless body fell to the floor.
With her ears ringing, Erin scrambled to get away from him.
“Are you okay?” Connor asked, loud enough for her to hear.
She nodded. “I thought you were in the dining room. Where the hell were you?”
“We can’t talk now,” he replied, helping her to her feet. “The cops will be here soon. We’ve got to move.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
She had blood across her face and in her hair. Grabbing a towel near the sink, he moistened it and wiped away as much as he could.
“That’ll have to do. Where are your shoes?”
“At the front door.”
Bending down, Connor fished Scofield’s credentials from his jacket. Pocketing the photo ID, he tossed the badge and wallet aside.
“Let’s go,” he said, taking her hand and leading her toward the foyer.
“My phone,” she responded. “It’s in the dining room.”
“Leave it. We can’t afford to take it with us. Whoever these people are, we can’t give them any advantage.”
“Where are we going?”
Slinging his backpack, he stated, “I know a place. It’s a long shot, but if we can get there without anyone seeing us, we might be safe. We need to move, though, now.”