Millicent opened her door and jumped out, heedless of the heavy rain drenching her, and tried to calm the three bulldogs, all barking ferociously, a protective wall around her. She fumbled with the distress alarm, pressed the button again, and the screeching abruptly went silent. She patted the dogs’ heads again and again, telling them they were brave and she loved them.
A police car slammed to a stop behind the Bentley. She yelled to the two constables that three men in a dark van had tried to kidnap her, and she waved frantically down the road. No wasted time—the police car backed up and chased after the van, its siren again blaring into the night.
Two more police cars arrived, their sirens blaring loud enough to wake the dead. One of the officers held an umbrella over her head while another tried to start up the Bentley. The grand old lady started right up. The police cars followed the Bentley through the gates, down the drive to the Hall. Millicent finally felt her heart slow. Who on earth were those men, and did they really want to kidnap her? It seemed insane to her.
Through the rain she saw Seth McComber, in charge of the home wood and the Darlington guard dogs for over twenty years, trotting back to the Hall with the dogs, using his gnarled walking stick. Everything seemed so normal, but it wasn’t. Millicent felt suddenly exhausted, adrenaline crashing, she supposed, and she wanted to cry, something she hadn’t done in a very long time. The terror of those men hammering on the Bentley windows was still loud in her mind.
What would have happened if the alarm hadn’t sounded in the police station?
She hoped Sebastian was home. She pictured his face, his arms around her telling her it would be all right. She willed him to be there, for her. She needed him, needed him very badly.
Chapter Forty-Five
Savich house
Georgetown
Early Sunday morning
When Savich’s cell blasted out the Blues Brothers’ “Gimme Some Lovin’,”he was dreaming he and Sherlock and Sean were standing at the top of the Lost Boy run at Vail, the sun glistening off the acres of new snow in front of them. Sherlock was hugely pregnant, singing at the top of her lungs and waving around her ski poles, but it didn’t seem to matter to anyone.
He jerked awake, saw it was nearly 1:00a.m. As always with a late call, his heart pounded, aware someone he loved could be in danger, or worse.
“Savich.”
“Hello, Savich, John Eiserly here. Sorry to call you so late, but I knew you’d want to hear this immediately. There was an attack on Elizabeth’s mother, Lady Millicent, tonight at the very gates of her home near Brighton, Darlington Hall. They were out to kidnap her, not murder her, or they could have simply shot her through the car windows, but they tried to bludgeon their way in. She’d been visiting her son, Tommy Palmer, Elizabeth’s brother, in London, and three masked men evidently followed her home.
“Luckily, her Bentley was equipped with a distress alarmconnected to Darlington Hall and local police emergency, and constables arrived very quickly. She was shaken, of course, but uninjured. The weather was—still is—filthy, so she didn’t see much, only the two men, both in black clothes and masks, and a driver in the dark van. The attack was unexpected and vicious.”
Eiserly let out a well-bred curse. “I don’t know what’s happening here, Savich, but it seems whoever failed to take Elizabeth using the Sikorsky helicopter decided they’d have better luck going after her mother. None of us saw this coming.”
Savich said, “If whoever is behind this wants revenge, they could have simply killed Elizabeth’s mother.”
“But they didn’t. Oh, yes, I did confirm Aboud and Samir Basara knew each other, but not well.”
“They’d have to have been blood brothers for Aboud to feel strongly enough about him to go after Elizabeth with his helicopter.”
Eiserly said, “Remember Sherlock said the attempts on Elizabeth could be about something else entirely? I suppose it’s possible Bashar al-Assad, the president of Syria, could have an interest. He badly wants British sanctions lifted now the civil war is nearly over. Aboud’s family and Assad’s have long-standing ties, and the Aboud family’s import-export businesses in Syria have been badly hurt by the sanctions. I do know Lord Camden, Elizabeth’s father, was a member of the Foreign Office group that decided the sanctions we imposed, but the final decision wasn’t his by any means. Perhaps he could help get the sanctions lifted, but I doubt it.
“And someone you can’t identify was at Aboud’s horse farm in Virginia? It makes my head hurt, Savich. Please call me after you’ve spoken to Elizabeth. Again, sorry to wake you, but as you know, His Majesty’s Government never sleeps. Love to Sherlock.”
Savich punched off and turned to Sherlock, who was up on her elbow listening intently.
Sherlock said, “Should we wake her up and tell her now?”
“If we did, she’d be on the phone making reservations for the first flight to London. Let’s wait until morning.”
Sherlock said on a yawn, “Do you think Aboud believes Elizabeth’s father really has enough juice to get the sanctions lifted? I’m with John—it gives me a headache, Dillon. Let’s tuck it in.”
She added in a sleep-slurred voice, “Whatever this is about, Aboud’s not the key to all this.”
But then what was it about? “Sleep now, sweetheart. We won’t figure it out unless we get some sleep.”
Sherlock didn’t answer him, she was down for the count, her breath slow and steady against his neck, a soft curl brushing his cheek. Savich gently pulled her closer, felt the baby move against his side, and something else—contentment. He smiled. He couldn’t wait to meet his little girl, and Felicity was an excellent name.
Chapter Forty-Six
Rebel Navarro house
