They stepped quietly into a small, dimly lit living room, saw a low-wattage light coming from the bedroom. They didn’t hear any voices, but they heard someone moving about.
What was going on? What had happened here? Sherlock had no intention of rushing in. She eased around the bedroom door and looked into the bedroom. Archer Navarro was lying on the floor between the bed and the window, unconscious, his wrists and ankles wrapped with duct tape. And there was Sasha, ready to climb out a window with a carry-on bag in her hand.
Sherlock said, “Going somewhere, Sasha?”
Sasha was fast. She leaped back, ran to Archer, grabbed a steak knife she’d left beside him, and stuck the tip against his neck.
Both Ruth and Sherlock had their Glocks at the ready.
“Even if you shoot me, I can still stick this knife in his neck. Are you two the FBI agents? Two women? And one of you pregnant? What are you doing here in the middle of the night? You’re not supposed to be here until the morning.”
And like Archer, Ruth and Sherlock understood. Sherlock said, “I’m Agent Sherlock and this is Agent Noble, and we’re here to take you and your husband back to Philadelphia, and yes, we’re women, and yes, I’m pregnant. So what? As it turned out, our boss, Mr. Maitland, arranged for a ride for us on a CIA G5, and unexpected tailwinds got us here a lot sooner than we’d planned.”
Ruth said, “Looks like you don’t want to come back with us, Sasha. At least you didn’t kill him.” She cocked a brow. “Wherever did you find duct tape in Barcelona?”
“Shut up! Now, I’m going to leave and you two aren’t going to stop me. Do you hear me? You try, and I swear I’ll shove this steak knife into his neck.”
Sherlock realized Sasha Navarro was panicked. She had to calm her to keep her from doing something crazy, like murder her husband. “Sasha, listen to me. I know you’re afraid, you’re feeling things have spiraled out of control, but listen to me, we can work this out. First you have to get that knife away fromArcher’s neck. You don’t want to hurt him. Come, let’s talk this over.”
Sasha screamed, “I wouldn’t believe a word out of your mouth! Now, you two bitches will listen to me. Throw your guns on the bed. Toward me, now! Or I’ll skewer him!”
So much for calm and reason. Sherlock saw Sasha’s hand was shaking. Not good. Did she really think she could still run? Maybe they should let her run it if meant saving Archer Navarro’s life.
Ruth said, “We can’t do that, Sasha. If we give up our weapons we’ll be drummed out of the FBI. Didn’t you know that?”
“Wh-what? That’s ridiculous! Stay back, do you hear me?”
They saw a drop of blood on the knife tip and held perfectly still.
Sasha’s voice was low now, scary low. “Move back to the wall—slowly, and sit on the floor, next to the dresser. Lay your precious guns beside you.”
Ruth and Sherlock eased down on the faded green carpet, leaned back against the wall, and set their Glocks down close enough to be within grabbing distance.
Sherlock studied the young woman in her tight jeans and white shirt, boots on her feet. Her hair was still wet, pulled back in a ponytail, her face clear of makeup. She was scared, nearly out of control, didn’t know what to do, and the really bad thing was she was an amateur, and that made her all the more unpredictable and dangerous.
Sasha said, her voice petulant, like a child’s, “You weren’t supposed to be here for hours.”
Sherlock said, “As I said, our plane got us here much earlier. You were trying to escape, Sasha, not kill your husband.”
“No! I wouldn’t have—I really was going to leave! You saw me, nearly out the window. There was no point in killing him.”
Ruth said, “And then what? Meet Carla Cartwright on alovely island with all that embezzled money and spend the day on the beach?”
“I told you to shut up. You don’t know anything. I’m not going to let you ruin things now, no, not now.”
Archer Navarro groaned.
Sasha looked down at him, and Ruth grabbed for her Glock.
Sasha screamed, “Stop, or he’s dead! Push that gun away from you.” She dug in the knife, and more blood welled. “Why did you have to wake up, Archer?”
Archer groaned again and raised his head, his eyes dulled with pain. He looked up at Sasha, then over at Ruth and Sherlock, met Sherlock’s eyes. She saw grief in his, and immense anger. He whispered to them, “I’m sorry.”
Sasha shoved the knife harder against his neck. “Be quiet, Archer. I’m so tired of listening to you talk, talk, talk.” She looked from him to the agents and back again. “Now you’re going to help me get out of this.”
Archer jerked and pulled on the duct tape, but it didn’t give. He craned his neck to look up at her. “At least you didn’t kill me before Carla texted you not to. It was too late, wasn’t it, too late to feed me poison because no one would believe you now, what with Carla in trouble and the FBI coming. That was your plan, wasn’t it, Sasha? Easy and bloodless.”
Sherlock said, “That sounds right. What were you going to feed him, Sasha? Oxycodone? Fentanyl? And you’d tell the police your poor husband had been so depressed, he couldn’t stand the humiliation and the guilt. Quite a plan, but it’s over now. Come on, put down the knife. You can tell us all about Carla, about how she sucked you into this, and tell us how to get the money back. I’m sure the prosecutor will make a deal with you if you tell us.”
