Thomas said, “There are some samples of his handwriting, yes, but what good would it do to analyze it? You’re right, it probably doesn’t even matter now. We’re coming down to the endgame here.” Thomas sighed and streaked his fingers through his hair. “I wish to God I knew what kind of gambit Krimakov was playing.”

Sherlock said, “I do, too, but since we don’t, we have to keep using the tools we’ve got. If he gives us the time, if he continues with his delaying tactics, and more distractions, I can get the two samples of his handwriting compared. Maybe they could tell us how far over the edge he’s gone, or maybe prove that all he’s done is cold manipulation and butchery, and he’s as sane as you and I. Our people are good, trust me. There’s no reason not to do it.”

“I’ve got to talk to Tyler,” Becca said, rising, throwing off the afghan. “Reassure him. Tell him what’s going on here.”

Sherlock said, “At the very least, if there’s still time, the analysis and comparison will let us know what we’re up against. Trust me on this. Get that note from Tyler, Becca.”

“Yes, she will,” Thomas said. “Go make your call, Becca.”

Becca nodded and walked to the phone, pulling the small address book out of her purse as she walked. She looked up Tyler McBride’s number. She dialed.

After three rings, Tyler answered, his voice frantic. “Becca? Is that you?”

“Yes, Tyler.”

“Thank God. Where are you? What are you doing? What’s happening?”

“Okay, Tyler, just listen to me. Here’s the plan. It’s the only way to handle this, so don’t yell at me. We’re all coming up to Riptide, but not together. No, just be quiet and listen. We’re all going to trickle in. He’ll never know there’s anyone else but me in Riptide. I’ll come directly to your house, we’ll speak, he’ll see me, then I’ll go to Jacob Marley’s house. He’ll come for me there. You know it. I know it.” She drew a deep breath. “He has no reason to kill Sam. He’ll have me, so he can keep his word and release him.”

“The others will be hiding in Jacob Marley’s house?”

“No, but they’ll be close by. It will work, Tyler.”

She was aware that all of them were staring at her, but she just shook her head at them. It was the only way to go, and all of them knew it. There’d been no reason to flail about and discuss any number of options into the ground. She had to go and she knew no one would let her go alone. Fine. They had a chance now. “Oh yes, Tyler, I need you to give me Krimakov’s note. Sherlock wants it. Now, just go about your business. Don’t say a word to anyone. We’ll be there in under four hours.”

Slowly, she lowered the phone into its cradle. She looked up. “Sam’s not going to die.”

“No,” Adam said, walking to her, “no, he won’t.” Then he just couldn’t stand it. He pulled her against him and held her there, his hand tight across her back, his other hand fisted in her hair. He felt her heart beating against his chest, hard, fast strokes. He brought her closer. He looked up to see Thomas staring at him, and slowly, he loosened his fingers in her hair, smoothing it down, but he didn’t want to let her go.

Thomas said, “Agent Hawley and Agent Cobb, this kidnapping will stay amongst us. It doesn’t go to anyone else in the FBI. All right?”

“No problem,” said Tellie Hawley. “Hell, we’re in this thing to the end. That bastard butchered four of my people. I want him as much as you do. If Savich and Sherlock aren’t saying anything to the higher-ups, why should we?”

“Let’s get rolling,” Sherlock said once Thomas had given her several papers with Krimakov’s handwriting. “We’ll meet at Reagan in an hour?”

“No,” Thomas said. “We’ll go over to Andrews Air Force Base. I’ll have a plane ready for us.”

They were nearly out the door when Thomas’s private phone rang. He looked undecided, then said, “Hold on. It’s got to be important if it’s on that phone.”

Slowly, because she didn’t really want to, Becca forced herself to pull away from Adam. “I’m all right,” she said.

“I’m not,” he said, and smiled at her. “We’ll get through this.”

They all followed Thomas back to his study, watched him pick up the phone on the edge of the mahogany desk.

“Yes? . . . Hello, Gaylan.”

It was Gaylan Woodhouse, the CIA director. They all watched Thomas’s face stiffen, then slowly turn pale and set. “Oh no,” he said, his voice bleak. “You’re absolutely certain of all this?”