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?”