Page 52 of No Hope of Rescue

There’s tunnel vision going on, warping with a pulse. Mine. Get a grip.

I’m conscious of my breathing—giving myself permission to breathe is part of the control I need right now. And a distraction. Anything.

“Hey, no worries,” says Ross from my right.

Just then, there’s a knock at the door, and the kitchen snaps back into my peripheral vision.

“I’ll get it,” he says.

Standing there is a very nicely dressed man in a tie and three-piece suit. There’s no briefcase, and I realize how much I expect one.

“Brock Weston?” he asks, looking at Ross.

I’m already up and coming from behind. “That’s me. What can I do you for?”

The man stretches out a hand. “I’m Dylan Trent. I’m with the FBI. May I speak with you?”

Its freezing outside, and the man’s breath streams from his lips. Ross and I step back and wave him in. When I close the door, there’s a finality to it that seems forced.

“Oh, I see I’m interrupting.” He glances at his watch. “Sorry. I’m on DC time.”

He hangs his coat and hat on a hook. Planning a visit?

“You’re welcome to stay,” I say. “We just started.”

“I’ll just have coffee. Thank you very much.”

Ross pulls down another mug from the cupboard.

“As I said, I’m with the FBI, a special ops program that looks into stolen antiquities.”

I move to set pancakes out on a big plate, but my side twinges and I catch myself.

This does not get past Dylan Trent. He starts to me ask a question, “Are you—?” when Ross delivers a tiny shake of the head, and he bites it back. “Fair enough. May I?”

I nod.

He pulls out a chair and sits down. “I am one of twelve agents trained in the recovery of antiquities. I’ve been following chatter and stepped on an airplane at five this morning following up on a lead. I didn’t expect to be briefed about your sister’s abduction.”

“How did you find out?”

“My assistant found the police report concerning your sister, and because the plane we were watching never landed, I made an assumption. I understand your sister was taken hostage. But she might have seen more. You might know more.”

I clear my throat. “Can we backtrack, Mr. Trent? I’m a little unclear how this all got out.”

Trent sets down his mug and gives it a quarter turn with long, slim fingers. “I’m going to tell you three things. First, you can just call me Trent. I respond well to that. Second, you’re lucky I landed on your doorstep. I know you don’t feel that way right now, but you will. Third, it’s irrelevant at this point how I tracked you down.”

Just then, the front door opens, and it’s Riley. She does a double take and looks back at the coat hooks, then stands there making an assessment.

I offer a quick introduction and try to continue the conversation. “And you were explaining how you found out about—”

But Riley interrupts me. “Can I see your badge? You do have a badge or something, right?” She looks like she might fly at the guy, both arms swinging. She’s definitely jumpy, scared almost.

Trent frowns, reaches slowly into his pocket, and lays his badge and ID on the table.

“Okay.” She swallows and sits down heavily. “But you’re not from the States, though.”

There’s something very wrong with Riley. She looks as if she’s seen a ghost. She’s probably got goose pimples running down both arms. That’s her fight-or-flight response. Her mouth must be dry. I get her a glass of water, and she takes a deep drink.