LAKE PLEASANT, CONNECTICUT
The helicopter set them down a half mile from the lake and the cabin, after flying in low to keep them out of sight. Agent Chris Tyson met them next to a stand of pine trees. He was wearing combat gear, Kevlar, a H&K slung over his shoulder. “We have vests for you at the operations site. As of two minutes ago, we’ve identified three targets, one of them moving in and out of the house, the other two stationed outside, patrolling. The family has been seen inside, eating, and that’s very good news. We’ve got three snipers positioned overlooking the house in the surrounding oak trees. Two of them have eyes on the targets outside. I’ve kept most of the team well back. We’ll be ready when the third one comes out of the house.” And he grinned at Pip Erwin. “Long time no see, Pip. All of you look ready to rock and roll.” He stuck out his hand to Sherlock. “It’s a pleasure, Agent Sherlock. Okay, guys, let’s get this done.”
They jogged after him through the thick pine forest, thinning enough in places so they saw flashes of the lake through the branches. They all quickly broke into a sweat. It had rained earlier, leaving the air pregnant with moisture in the unexpected late spring heat. Tyson stopped, held up his hand, listened to his comm, and moved quietly forward to look through the trees. After a couple minutes, he jogged back to them. “All three targets are outside again, but they’re not clear of the cabin and the Conklins. They’re talking, arguing, in a combination of Arabic and accented English. We’re trying to run facial recognition. Stay down, the command center is up ahead.”
They followed him silently through the trees for several minutes, heard him checking in with the sniper team leader as they grew closer. The command center was well hidden from the cabin, and was nothing more than piles of communication equipment and weapons, and a half-dozen agents in combat gear. Everyone remained silent. The five of them were each handed H&Ks, vests, and binoculars. They checked their weapons and magazines, shrugged on their vests, and covered them with dark blue FBI jackets. The team took them to the best nearby vantage point. Sherlock forgot the heavy humid heat and concentrated on the cabin in front of her in the distance. It was old, the wood weathered nearly black over the decades, but in good repair. It sat thirty feet from the lake and a dock that stretched out about twenty feet from the shore, where a single outboard bobbed easily in the gentle wind. The cabin was long and narrow, with a single window at the front that spanned nearly the entire main room. They’d made no effort to hide what was inside. Through the binoculars, she saw Marie Claire sitting in a faded old armchair, her three children close beside her. Two girls, about five and seven, were reading, and the third child, a small boy, was sleeping on a blanket beside his mother, his cheek cushioned on his hand. She saw the remains of their lunch on a nearby table. Marie Claire looked to be in her mid-thirties, her hair glossy black, twisted in a braid at the back of her head. She wore jeans and a white blouse that looked worse for wear. Sherlock couldn’t see her face clearly from this distance, but she knew she had to be ready to close down, beyond tired from the fear she’d had to live with for four days, fear for herself and for her children.
Sherlock panned over to the three armed men. Two of them were very young, with short beards—stubble, really. Had they shaved off their beards for their flight to the United States? The third man was older, perhaps forty, smooth-skinned. He wore aviator glasses. They were dressed casually in dark T-shirts, faded jeans, and boots. All had AK-47s strapped to their chests, pistols hooked to their belts. Sherlock would bet her new pair of Nikes that the young ones wore KA-BARs strapped to their ankles. They looked tough, businesslike, even as they argued with one another. About what?
Agent Tyson handed her an earpiece, and then she heard them speaking, partly in British English. They were arguing, but she couldn’t make out what it was all about with the Arabic mixed in. The older man, obviously their leader, pulled out a cell phone and dialed. He listened, then punched off, shook his head at the other two.
Sherlock turned to see Kelly conferring with three members of the Boston tactical team. One of them asked Cal a question, nodded at his response. Kelly met her eyes and nodded. She’d decided it was time to end it.
One of the agents cursed. He turned, whispered, “The leader has gone into the cabin.” He said into his comm, “Hold, hold.”
Sherlock turned her binoculars back to the cabin. The leader was leaning over Marie Claire, speaking to her, gesticulating with his hands.
She saw the young boy leap up, push himself against the man’s legs. The man leaned down and shoved him away. The little boy began to cry. Marie Claire said something to the man, drew the little boy to her.
The man raised his fist, lowered it, turned, and left the cabin.
Good, the three were outside again, but they were clustered right in front of the glass window, arguing again.
Move, move, move. It was her silent chant.
One of the young men lit up a cigarette, tossed the match to the ground. The match flame didn’t die, it smoldered against a piece of wadded-up paper, then burst into flames.
The leader yelled something, gestured for the man to put the flame out. As one of the young men moved away from the front window, Kelly whispered, “Bring him down. Execute!” Not even a second and the man was down, blood blooming on his chest.
The two targets fired blindly into the woods and juked and dodged toward the trees, away from the cabin. Two more sniper shots rang out, struck both men center mass. They dropped where they stood. Two more shots followed quickly.
It was over. Like that, it was over. Sherlock calmed her racing heart. No one of the team was hurt, and the Conklins were safe.
Kelly ran into the clearing with the tactical team, checked on each of the targets. When Sherlock joined her, she nodded toward the cabin. They both dropped their weapons and walked inside.
Sherlock had never before seen a face as pale as Marie Claire’s. She’d pulled all three children tightly against her, covering their heads with her arms. Sherlock saw she hadn’t pulled them under the table because her ankles were tied to the chair.
She met Sherlock’s eyes. “We’re FBI, Mrs. Conklin. It’s over.” Sherlock smiled at this woman who’d lived through so much. She said again, “All of this is over. Those men are all dead. You and your children are safe now.”
Marie Claire stared at the two women. She said in heavily accented English, “Those shots—those horrible men are really dead?”
“Yes,” Kelly said. “I’m Agent Kelly Giusti and this is Agent Sherlock.”
Sherlock knelt beside Mrs. Conklin, slid a knife through the ropes around her ankles. She leaned back on her heels. “We’ll take you all out of here to a safe place as soon as we can. Everything will be all right now.” She said that for the children to hear, but of course nothing would be right. Their father was dead. Sherlock guessed Mrs. Conklin already knew that.
Marie Claire nodded, soothed her children. The older girl, the image of her mother, wiped her nose and stared at the two women. “How did you find us?” Her English came naturally to her, thanks to her father, thanks to Nasim.
Kelly patted her shoulder. “We worked hard to locate this cabin. We wanted to find you very much.”
The younger girl had Nasim’s eyes, Sherlock saw, and felt her throat clog. Marie Claire said, “My babies were so frightened. I could not help them.” She took the little girl’s hand. “All of us are very dirty. Those men didn’t let us bathe, even though there is a bathroom.”
Marie Claire raised her eyes to Sherlock’s face. “Nasim,” she said. “My husband. Where is he? I spoke to him only once. That was two days ago, Thursday night. Then nothing. Where is he?”
Sherlock couldn’t say it aloud, not in front of the children, who were all staring at her. “We will speak of Nasim later, all right, Marie Claire? First, we want to make certain you and your children are safe.”
She knew, of course, she knew. Sherlock nodded slowly, turned to smile at each of the children. “My name’s Sherlock and this is Kelly. And you are?”
“I’m Gabrielle.”
“I’m Lexie.”
The little boy licked his lips, looked at his mother, and whispered, “I’m Thomas. I want to go to the bathroom,” then pressed himself tightly against his mother’s leg.
“Yes,” Marie Claire said, “all of us will go to the bathroom, then we will leave this place.” And she clapped her hands and herded the children out of the living room. At the door, she turned back to them, said quietly, “Thank you for coming.” They watched her face tighten. “Nasim would thank you, too.”
Kelly felt tears behind her eyes, swallowed. “I don’t want to tell her, Sherlock, I really don’t.”
Sherlock drew in a deep breath. “We will tell her that Nasim was a very brave man, he sacrificed himself to save them, he led us to them. That is what we will tell her.”