• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Actually, I don’t want to be anywhere near you.”

“Good.” He dropped his arms and she jumped off his lap.

He flipped open the small narrow phone. “Carruthers here.”

“Adam, it’s Thomas Matlock. Is Becca there with you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“All right, then, just listen. I sent an e-mail to Dillon Savich, a computer expert here at FBI headquarters in Washington. I knew his father very well. Actually, Buck Savich was the only other person who knew about all the mess with Krimakov. He’s been dead for a while. I e-mailed his son for help. His job is finding maniacs using computer programs. He’s good. He managed to track me down before I could even get back to him. That’s beyond good. He’s agreed to a meeting. I’m going to see him. We need all the help we can get.”

“I think that’s a mistake,” Adam said, thinking of the logistics. “I don’t think we need anyone else in on this. I’m worried about maintaining control here.”

“Trust me on this, Adam. We do need him. He’s got lots of contacts and is very, very smart. Don’t worry that he’ll talk and expose Becca’s whereabouts if he comes on board. He won’t. Have you learned anything more of value?”

“There’s nothing at all to be found in any of McCallum’s records. The governor says he doesn’t know a thing. I assume you’ve come up dry as well?”

“Yes, but I think that Dillon Savich will be able to help us there as well. Word is he’s magic with a computer and gathering information.”

Adam said, “We don’t need anyone else, Thomas.” The instant the name was out of his mouth, Adam jerked his head up. Becca was looking at him, her eyes narrowed, intent. He cleared his throat. “We don’t want more hands stirring this pot. It’s too dangerous. Too much chance of cracks and leaks. It could lead to Becca.”

“You slipped, Adam. Is she listening?”

“No, it’s okay.” At least he hoped it was. She was now simply looking wary and interested, both at the same time.

Adam said again, “Maybe you could just have this guy do some specific searches for you.”

“That, too, but he’s a specialist just like you are. All right. We’ll see. I’m meeting with him to see what he has to say. Maybe he won’t want to join up with us, or maybe he won’t have the time. I just wanted you to know. Keep her safe, Adam.”

“Yeah.”

Becca shook her head at him when he closed his cell phone. She knew there’d be downright lies or at the very least evasions out of his mouth. She was furious, frustrated, but, surprisingly, she felt safer than she had in weeks. When he looked like he would say something, she smiled at him and said, “No, don’t bother.”

The Egret Bar & Grill

Washington, D.C.

Thomas Matlock rose very slowly from his chair. He didn’t know what to say but he didn’t like what he saw. Damnation, Savich wasn’t alone.

Savich smiled at the man he’d never heard of before receiving the e-mail at four A.M. that morning. He extended his hand. “Mr. Matlock?”

“Yes. Thomas Matlock.”

“This is my wife and my partner, Lacy Sherlock Savich, but everyone calls her Sherlock. She’s also FBI and one of the best.”

Thomas found himself shaking the hand of a very pretty young woman, on the small side, with thick, curling red hair, the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, and he knew in his gut, knew without even hearing her speak or act or argue, that she was tough, probably as tough as her hard-faced husband, a man about Adam’s age, who looked stronger than a bull. Meaner, too. He didn’t look like a computer nerd. Whatever that was supposed to mean nowadays.

“So,” Thomas said, “you’re Buck’s son.”

“Yes,” Savich said and grinned. “I know what you’re thinking. My dad was all blond and fair, a regular aristocrat with a thin straight nose and high cheekbones. I look like my mom. You can bet that my dad was always pissed about that. I never had my dad’s smart-ass mouth, either. That pissed him as well.”

“Your dad could charm the widow’s peak off a fascist general and outwit a Mafia don. He was an excellent man and friend,” Thomas said, eyeing the man. “I