She saw some visitors from the Hill, standing on the sidelines, watching the agents’ role-playing simulations. The trainees would have to be careful. It wouldn’t look good for the Bureau if any of them killed a visiting congressman.
It began. She and Porter Forge, a southerner from Birmingham who spoke beautiful French without a hint of a drawl, saw a bank employee lurch out of the front doors, yelling at the top of his lungs, waving frantically at a man who had just fled through a side door. They got no more than a brief glimpse. They went after him. The perp dove into the crowd of people and disappeared. Because there were civilians around, they kept their guns holstered. If any one of them hurt a civilian, there’d be hell to pay.
Three minutes later they’d lost him.
It was then that she saw Dillon Savich, an FBI agent and computer genius who taught occasional classes here at Quantico, standing next to a man she’d never seen before. Both were wearing sunglasses and blue suits and blue-gray ties.
She’d know Savich anywhere. She wondered what he was doing here at this particular time. Had he just taught a class? She’d never heard about his being at Hogan’s Alley. She stared hard at him. Was it possible that he was the suspect the bank employee had been waving at as he’d dashed into the crowd? Maybe. She tried to place him in that brief instant of memory. It was possible. Only thing was that he didn’t look at all out of breath, and the bank robber had run out of the bank like a bat out of hell. Savich looked cool and disinterested.
Nah, it couldn’t be Savich. Savich wouldn’t join in the exercise, would he? Suddenly, she saw a man some distance away from her slowly slip his hand into his jacket. Dear God, he was going for a gun. She yelled to Porter.
While the other trainees were distracted, Savich suddenly moved away from the man he’d been talking to and ducked behind three civilians. Three other civilians who were close to the other guy were yelling and shoving, trying to get out of the way.
What was going on here?
“Sherlock! Where’d he go?”
She began to smile even as other agents were pushing and shoving, trying desperately to sort out who was who. She never lost sight of Savich. She slipped into the crowd. It took her under a minute to come around him from behind.
There was a woman next to him. It was very possibly about to become a hostage situation. She saw Savich slowly reach out his hand toward the woman. She couldn’t take the chance. She drew her gun, came right up behind him, and whispered in his ear as she pressed the nose of the 9mm SIG pistol into the small of his back, “Freeze. FBI.”
“Ms. Sherlock, I presume?”
She felt a moment of uncertainty, then quashed it. She had the robber. He was just trying to rattle her. “Listen to me, buddy, that’s not part of the script. You’re not supposed to know me. Now, get your hands behind your back or you’re going to be in big trouble.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, and began to turn.
The woman next to them saw the gun, screamed, and yelled, “Oh my God, the robber’s a woman! Here she is! She’s going to kill a man. She’s got a gun! Help!”
“Get your hands behind your back!” But how was she going to get cuffs on him? The woman was still yelling. Other people were looking now, not knowing what to do. She didn’t have much time.
“Do it or I’ll shoot you.”
He moved so quickly she didn’t have a chance. He knocked the pistol out of her hand with a chop of his right hand, numbing her entire arm, bulled his head into her stomach and sent her flying backward, wheezing for breath, landing in a mass of petunias in the flower bed beside the Hogan’s Alley Post Office.
He was laughing. The bastard was laughing at her. She was sucking in air as hard and fast as she could. Her stomach was on fire. He stuck out his hand to pull her up.