Had the manager seen them questioning the waitress? Did he have something to hide? Had Van suspected the bar was the site of something illegal? Was that why he’d been here in the first place? Had these people been involved in his death?
Lots of questions and no answers except for the beads of sweat starting to form between her shoulder blades.
Ava wrapped her hand around the neck of the bottle wishing she weren’t so impulsive. Van had tried to curb the habit, but she’d never quite got the hang of caution. Apparently, she only learned lessons the hard way.
“You have CCTV cameras in here?” Ava shot a look at the lens above the bar.
The manager gave a shrug as he continued doing something with the cash register. “Some.”
“I want to see tonight’s footage.” It wasn’t a question.
His expression turned sullen.
“Or I could bust you for operating after-hours.”
His eyes hardened, but he didn’t look intimidated or contrite. He looked irritated. This was not going how she’d anticipated.
“I want to identify the woman who claimed Lanny Gardner hit her. I can get a subpoena and a full team down here to go over the footage in the morning if you’d prefer. Your choice.”
The men exchanged glances. She knew immediately it had been the wrong play. Their stances shifted.
Bo stood, wooden stool creaking ominously, and moved behind her. He ran the tip of his finger across the nape of her neck, and she repressed a shudder. “Anyone know where you’re at, sweet cheeks?”
“I’m an FBI agent, Bo.” She derided him. “What do you think?”
“I’m thinking you’re bluffing. I think you came down here on your own on a mission to save some whiny little bitch. That’s why your sidekick isn’t with you.”
“He’s sitting in the car outside.” She forced herself to breathe normally. To show no fear.
Bo shook his head. “He isn’t.”
What the fuck? What did he know?
“Anyone gonna miss you if you disappear, sweet cheeks?”
She used one hand to grab his wrist and ducked under his shoulder, bringing his arm behind his back and one-handedly driving him to his knees. She planted her foot on his back, exacerbating the bite of the angle, then smoothly pulled her Glock left-handed and pointed it straight at the manager who’d started to bring up a shotgun.
“Raise that one more inch, and you’ll be wearing a 9mm slug between your eyes.”
He hesitated.
“Put it down! Get around here and on the floor. All of you. Get on the floor.” A light sheen of sweat formed on her brow. Holy crap. How had things gone south so fast?
The three other men eased onto the floor, watching her for an opening. If they found one, they’d kill her, she knew it the same way she knew her own face.
Did they kill Van?
“Hands on your head,” she shouted. “Spread your legs. Wider.”
“I thought that was my line.” Bo gave a dark chuckle that crawled over her nerves, and she gripped his wrist tighter.
“No talking.” Obviously, these guys were involved in something illegal.
Duh, Ava, ya think?
Had they drugged Sheridan? Was that why they knew he wasn’t outside waiting for her in the car? She cuffed Bo behind his back, making sure the metal bracelets were snug. For the others she pulled out the cable ties she kept coiled up in her jeans pockets in case of emergencies. She jerked the plastic teeth firmly into place, forcing the manager’s wrists close together so he couldn’t twist free.
She had the third guy contained before calling dispatch.
“This is Agent Kanas out of the Fredericksburg Resident Agency. I need immediate law enforcement assistance at—”
The fourth guy slid his hand under his plaid shirt at the back of his waist band.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Ava yelled.
Too late. He pulled a gun and rolled onto his back, bringing the weapon up and aiming it at her, pulling the trigger, but not fast enough. Ava swerved to the side and fired three times at his center mass, the noise enormous in the vast space.
The men on the floor were swearing and shouting, but she stepped away from them, keeping her back to the one wall in case the gun shots brought someone else in from the back.
She realized the dispatcher was still talking to her.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m all right. Yeah. Send a bus.” She gave them the address with a shaky voice. “One of them pulled a gun on me. I’m all right, but he’s wounded. Maybe the EMTs can save him.”
*
It was easy to be invisible in a hospital. Just sit around and look tired and worried with a coffee cup near anxious fingers, or pace the corridors with clasped hands and tight lips. It was, however, more difficult to get answers to questions like whether or not Dominic Sheridan was alive.
Caroline had fucked up.
It didn’t matter.
As soon as the next agent died—hopefully sooner rather than later—even the FBI would figure out the connection and realize they had a serial killer on their hands, hunting them like the animals they really were.
How surprised they would be.
Was Sheridan dead? Bernie hoped not.
Extreme pain and suffering would be acceptable, but not dead, not yet, and not by someone else’s hand. Bernie wanted him to eventually figure out why this had happened and who was responsible before dying an excruciating death.
What about the female agent who’d accompanied Sheridan? Who was she? What had happened to her?
A flurry of activity stirred around the door to a private room. A group of FBI agents marched past, huddled around Sheridan’s tall, lean figure like secret service bodyguards.
Sheridan was alive. Good.
The Fed looked pale and gaunt. Bruises darkened his eye sockets and there was a cut across the bridge of his nose, probably from the airbags in his fancy Lexus. He wore sweats and a plaid shirt, and his right arm was in a sling.
Hopefully it fucking hurt.
No sign of the woman he’d been with last night. Maybe she hadn’t been in the car. Or perhaps she hadn’t made it.
Hopefully he cared for her and the pain of her death would eat him alive until it drove him insane with grief.
Was his daddy involved, yet? Must be nice to have a politician for a father, but not nice enough to stop what was coming. Nothing would stop what was coming.