Eleventh Hour

Sherlock went en pointe. “What private entrance?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She was around Mrs. Mazer’s desk in an instant, her hand on the doorknob, turning it, but nothing happened. It was locked.

“It locks automatically when it’s closed from the inside,” Mrs. Mazer said, rising, alarmed now. “Some years ago a reporter forced his way in, so the senator decided to make the lock automatic. What’s wrong, Agent Sherlock? Oh dear, is it about Dr. Campion?”

Sherlock knocked on the door, yelling Nick’s name.

“Here, Agent.”

Sherlock ground the key into the lock, twisted it, and the door opened silently.

The office was empty. “Where’s the private entrance? Quickly, Mrs. Mazer.”

“In the back wall.”

Sherlock pulled her SIG Sauer out in a flash, even as she yelled over her shoulder to Mrs. Mazer, “Call the police. Tell them your Senator Rothman has taken Dr. Campion. Hurry!”

It took Sherlock a moment to find the small button, built in nearly flat against the wall. She pressed, and the door silently eased back. She stepped into a dimly lit passage that was oak paneled, the floor carpeted with two small Turkish rugs. She paused, listening. She thought she heard something, movement, a man’s breathing.

She went forward slowly in the darkness. The corridor turned once, then ended. The whole thing wasn’t more than six feet long. She was facing a narrow elevator, its silver door barely visible in the dim light.

She heard the low hum of the elevator motor. He was taking Nick down. But Sherlock didn’t know where the elevator let out. She punched the button again, then a third time.

And while she punched, she pulled out her cell phone, dialed Dillon’s number. He answered immediately. “Hello?”

“Dillon, hurry. Rothman’s building. He’s got Nick. It isn’t Albia. Oh God, hurry—”

The elevator door opened silently and smoothly, and she jumped inside, punched the only button. Dillon was no longer connected on the cell phone. It didn’t work inside the elevator. No, it was all right, she’d said enough. Every available cop in Chicago would converge on the building within minutes.

The door opened and she stepped out slowly, fanning her SIG. She was in a dark area of the basement. There was the low hum of equipment all around her. She paused for a moment, listening. Where could he have gone? How big was this damned basement? How could he begin to hope he’d take Nick out of here without being seen? There were media nosing around.

Sherlock stood quietly for a few more seconds, but she simply couldn’t hear anything except the sounds of the equipment motors all around her.

When the gun barrel slammed down, she collapsed to the floor, her SIG hitting the concrete and skidding away from her.

Her first thought, when she opened her eyes, was that she had a bitch of a headache. She felt the pain slash through her head. Not a moment later, Nick remembered—Albia had struck her with the butt of her gun. She tried to raise her hand but couldn’t.

She heard the sound of an engine, loud, but that didn’t make any sense. She realized she was tied to a chair, arms and ankles, really tight. The pain in her head made her nauseous, and she swallowed repeatedly until she knew she wouldn’t vomit. Then she heard a moan, but it wasn’t from her.

She looked up. She was in a small room, lots of wood, cramped. She looked to her left. There was Sherlock, tied to another chair, her head slumped forward.

The room lurched. Moved. She realized they were on a boat and the boat was moving fast, the engine pushing hard. She smelled the water and the diesel, heard the powerful engine, felt the boat bounce and rock as it sliced through the waves.

Boat?

“Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock? Please, come out of it. You can do it.”

Silence, then, “Nick?”

“Yes, I’m all right, just a horrible headache. He got you, too. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock got herself together, closed her eyes, tried to get her brain back in gear. “Nick, I’ll be okay, just give me a minute.”

The boat slammed down and Nick’s chair nearly toppled.

“We’re in a boat, going really fast,” she said.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I can feel it. I’m very sorry I let him get me, Nick. At least I’d already called Dillon. Every cop in Chicago will be looking for us, count on it.”

“We’re on John’s boat. I’ve been out on it a couple of times. It’s good-sized, a sixty-three-foot Hatteras Fly-bridge yacht. It’s really fast, Sherlock. He used to brag that it could do twenty-one knots.”