Oh, no …

Who? he thought.

But then realized: Why even ask? Kathryn Dance, of course.

A fucking liberal soccer mom from a small town had outthought him and the Keyholders.

How she’d done this was beyond a mystery to him. But she had. She’d probably texted for backup and alerted Raymond, who’d fired on Myra when she got out of the car and presented a threat.

And could—

He heard a man’s voice from behind him, Dennis Harutyun’s. “Simesky, drop the weapon and raise your hands over your head.”

The deputy would have snuck through the back door. Dance probably was covering the front.

Simesky assessed the situation. He reflected that Harutyun was a true rube; he’d probably never fired his weapon in the line of duty. Simesky, on the other hand, had killed eight people in his life and gone to bed each night afterward with a clear conscience.

He glanced back. “What are you talking about? I’m just trying to protect the congressman from that killer. I heard gunshots. I haven’t done anything! Are you crazy?”

“I’m not going to tell you again. Drop the weapon.”

Simesky was thinking, I have my Cayman Islands account. I have any one of the Keyholders’ private jets at my disposal.

Just fight your way out. Turn and shoot. He’ll be totally freaked out, he’ll panic. Fucking small-town cop.

Simesky started to turn, keeping the gun low, unthreatening. “I just—”

He heard a stunning bang, felt a burn in his chest.

The sensations were repeated a moment later. But both the sound of the second explosion and the tap on his skin were much softer than the first.

Chapter 59

“BOTH DEAD?”

“That’s right,” Harutyun told Sheriff Anita Gonzalez.

Ten people were in her office at the FMCSO, which made it pretty cramped.

P. K. Madigan was back, though still unofficially, because it had, after all, been his information that had led to uncovering the plot.

Also present was a public affairs officer from the county. Dance noted that Harutyun seemed infinitely pleased at this—somebody else to handle the press conference. Which was going to be big. Very big.

Lincoln Rhyme, Thom Reston and Amelia Sachs were here too, along with Michael O’Neil and Tim Raymond, the congressman’s own security man. In the interest of safety Congressman Davis was onboard his private jet, heading back to Los Angeles.

Anita Gonzalez asked, “Any other perps working with Simesky and Babbage?”

Dance replied, “I’m sure there are. But they are—well, were—the only active participants on the scene so far. Our office and Amy Grabe, the FBI’s agent in charge in San Francisco, are tracing associates and connections.”

Michael O’Neil said, “There seems to be some affiliation with that outfit they call the Keyholders. Some political action group.”

“Political action? Hell, they’re assholes,” Madigan muttered, digging into his ice cream. “Wackos.”

Lincoln Rhyme said, “But rich and well-connected wackos.”

“Did either of them say anything before they died?” Gonzalez asked.

Tim Raymond said, “No. Myra was walking toward me when I got the text from Agent Dance to treat her like a hostile.” He shrugged matter-of-factly. “I lifted my weapon when she was about thirty feet away. She was hiding a forty-five under her coat and she engaged. Afraid I couldn’t take any chances.” He was shaken but not, Dance assessed, from the shootout; rather by the fact that he’d missed the threat posed by the assassins—who had also been masquerading as his friends and coworkers.