The Final Twist

by Jeffery Deaver

  He is carrying a cardboard box.

  “Everyone,” he says.

  The three children look up. Mary Dove remains in the kitchen. The word was uttered in his speaking-to-the-children tone.

  When they settle he looks at them one by one. Finally he says, “Never deny the power of ritual. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Like in Harry Potter? The ceremonies at Hogwarts?” Dorie is a fan, to put it mildly.

  “Exactly, Button.”

  Colter is thinking of the Lord of the Rings trilogy but he doesn’t say anything.

  Russell seems to be thinking of nothing in response. He just watches his father and the box he is holding.

  “A general rule of survivalism is: ‘Never risk yourself for a stranger.’ But that’s not what I believe. What’s the good of learning our skills if we can’t put them to use and help somebody else?”

  The three of them—his children, his students—sit motionless on couch or chair, looking up at the intense eyes of their father.

  “Colter saved somebody’s life today. And I thought we should have a ritual.”

  The boy’s face burns and he’s sure it turns red. Dorion’s, on the other hand, blossoms with happiness as she looks Colter’s way. He gives her a smile. Russell now gazes at the fireplace, where the flames had turned from energetic blue to subdued orange.

  Ashton reaches into the box and extracts a small statuette of an eagle in flight. He hands it to Colter, who takes it. It’s heavy, metal. He’s worried that his father will expect him to make a speech. At fourteen he has rappelled down hundred-foot cliffs and borrowed a motorcycle from a friend in White Sulfur Springs, the nearest town, and hit ninety miles an hour on a road of imperfect asphalt. He has also pulled a pistol on an intruder in the Compound—that incident last year—and sent him on his way.

  He would do any of those again rather than make a speech, even to this small audience.

  “But he couldn’t have done that without the love and support of his brother and sister. So our ritual includes both of you too.” Ashton reaches into the box once more and takes out a statuette of a fox and hands it to Dorion. Her eyes ignite with pleasure. The only thing she likes more than locomotives is animals.

  “And here’s yours.” He hands Russell a bear statuette. His brother says nothing but stares at the bronze, weighs it in his hand.

  Shaw suddenly has a snap of understanding. The statues echo the nicknames of the children. Dorie is the clever one. Russell the reclusive one. And Colter the restless one.

  Then the ritual is over—no speeches required—and Mary Dove announces that it’s time to eat.

  After dinner—which would have been bighorn sheep but is now elk—Colter takes the statuette into his bedroom and sets it on a shelf beside his copies of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Ray Bradbury’s short stories and a half-dozen law books, which for some reason he enjoys reading.

  * * *

  —

  Now, years later, in the kitchen of the Alvarez Street safe house, Colter Shaw was looking at the same statue as intently as he was the night of the avalanche.

  He recalled that when he left home to attend the University of Michigan and was packing his duffel bag for the trip he had noticed that the eagle statue was nowhere in his room.

  Yet here it was now.

  There was only one possible explanation for its appearance. His father had taken it with him when he’d come to the safe house. It was, maybe, a sentimental reminder of his son, something that Ash wanted to have with him. To make him feel close to home.

  A perfectly reasonable, heartwarming explanation.

  But Shaw believed there was another reason, a more important one, that Ashton had brought the eagle to San Francisco. It was the clearest message yet that Father wanted Colter, of all his children, to carry on his mission.

  24

  Shaw’s phone pinged with the sound of an incoming text. It was from his private investigator, in Washington, D.C., to whom he’d sent an encrypted email before his bike ride from the Tenderloin back here.

  Charlotte “Mack” McKenzie might have been a model. With steely gray eyes, she was an even six feet tall, her complexion pale and her brown hair long. This was a problem for her in street work. Like a spy, PIs benefit from being inconspicuous. And no one could ever say that of Mack McKenzie. Her days of tailing people, though, were long past. She had put together a security and investigative operation that hummed, and she had a talented crew of staff and contractors to do the sweat labor.

  Maria and Tessy Vasquez. Largely under the radar—likely undocumented—but social media and level-one governmental data confirm their identities. No criminal records. Probably legit. No AKA “Roman” in CA or U.S. criminal databases in SF area.

  Mack was a woman after Shaw’s own heart. In keeping with Shaw’s approach to life, little was ever zero percent or one hundred percent with her, even if she wasn’t quite as quick to assign a precise number as he was.

  Probably legit . . .

  She finished with:

  Your requested analysis presently underway.

  He replied, thanking her, and looked over the notes he’d taken at Maria Vasquez’s apartment, a decent place in a modest building surrounded by the complex ’hood of the TL. He was concerned about the young woman, the talented singer and photographer.

  For-profit kidnapping? Near zero percent.

  The odds she’d been murdered and the body disposed of? Not great. Ten percent. That wasn’t as common as cable TV would have us believe.

  And what about her being in a meth house somewhere, strung out, after having relapsed? Thirty percent. She seemed to be making good on a fresh start. But add Roman into this equation and that boosted the number to sixty percent.

  He suddenly saw his BlackBridge mission as a distraction from the reward job, which was, after all, his main profession. But he’d make it work. He’d do whatever was necessary to find the girl, or at least get some answer for her mother.

  It just then happened that his phone hummed, and he took a call from one of Tessy’s friends. The young woman couldn’t provide any information about the missing girl. But in response to his question about Roman said, “Is he involved? Shit.”

  “I don’t know. Her mother thinks it’s possible.”

  “He’s trouble. I think he’s crazy. I mean, really, like a psychopath.”

  Shaw asked if she had any specific information on him.

  “No, I never really knew him. He didn’t want Tessy hanging with us. He wanted her all to himself. He’s dangerous, mister. He hangs with some really bad people. You know, gangs, that kind of thing. I heard he killed somebody. Jesus, I hope she didn’t go back to him.”

  He tried the people he’d called earlier and, when none of them answered, left new messages. This was all he could do on the reward assignment for the time being, until Mack got back to him with his earlier request.

  Back to the scavenger hunt of Amos Gahl’s stolen evidence.

  Glancing at his phone, he checked the tracker app. The chipped copy of Walden was still at the library.

  He wondered what Helms, Braxton and Droon would be thinking about Blond’s death. Was the mysterious bearded shooter a friend of Shaw’s or was the incident merely a coincidence? Had Blond, who reeked of hired killer, been gunned down in retaliation for some earlier offense?

  Shaw sat back, stared at the ceiling and silently asked Amos Gahl: What did you find?

  And where is your courier bag hidden?

  It was time to look at the two leads that might hold the answers to those questions: the house on Camino in Burlingame and the warehouse in the Embarcadero.

  The coffee cup froze halfway to Shaw’s mouth when he heard the doorbell ring.

  He turned fast, hand near his pistol. He stood.

  A voice called, “Me. I’m coming in.” />
  The front door opened and Russell stepped inside. Still in the black hat, still in the dark, thigh-length coat, the tactical boots.

  He walked into the kitchen.

  “There’s an issue.” He took off his coat, revealing a green T-shirt. The muscles of his arms were pronounced. His jeans were held up by dark red suspenders. He sat. “Man in the alley?”

  “Droon or the other one?”

  “The dead one. Karin was handling disposal. She found a note, handwritten. In his pocket.”

  His brother displayed a photo on his phone.

  Confirmation from Hunters Point crew.

  6/26, 7:00 p.m. SP and family. All ↓

  Russell remained stone-faced as his brother looked over the screen, then sat back.

  Shaw said, “Does the ‘All’ and the arrow mean what I think it does?”

  A nod. “It’s a kill order. A hit on someone with the initials SP and his family. Or her family.”

  Shaw noticed that it had been folded many times, like the notes Amos Gahl’s colleague had left for their father.

  “Dead-drop,” Shaw said.

  “Some messages you don’t send electronically no matter how good the encryption. We do it too.”

  Used dead-drops?

  Or issued kill orders?

  “Did Karin find his ID? Anything else?”

  “Not yet. Running prints and DNA and facial recognition. May get it right away, may take a while. May never find out. People in this line of work do a lot of track covering.”

  Shaw asked, “With Blond gone, will they still go ahead with the hit?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy in the alley. My nic for him.”

  “Have to assume it’s still a go. Handwritten KO, dead-drop, the arrow on the whole family. They’ll assume that Blond got disappeared for some reason unrelated to this. That woman Braxton’ll just find another triggerman.”

  “Thanks for telling me. But I can’t go to the police. Ashton didn’t trust them.”

  “Wouldn’t want them anyway.”

  Of course. The note would be accompanied by a question: How did Shaw come by it? And the disquieting answer to that inquiry was: because his brother had shot someone in the head.

  Russell looked at his watch; it was an analog model, brushed steel or titanium. “Two days until they die. We need to figure out a plan.”

  Had Shaw heard right? “‘We’? You don’t want to get involved in this, Russell.”

  His older brother clearly wasn’t happy. “I do not, that’s true. But what this’s become, it isn’t your thing. It’s not a reward job, Colt. You can’t do it on your own.” He stalked up the stairs. “I’ve got reports to file. We’ll talk strategy in the morning.”

  THE STEELWORKS

  After the third guard draws his weapon and fires, Shaw returns one shot, missing, and he and Nita step into one of the empty storerooms. Shaw looks out occasionally, Glock ready. One or two of the men near the office will fire his way, but casually without aiming. It’s covering fire only, to keep them down, to keep them back.

  And it’s working.

  Shaw called 911 and reported the shots.

  Why, though, are the three not charging him? Moving forward, shooting . . . They could overwhelm Shaw and the young woman. She’s crying, shivering.

  Rock, Paper, Scissors . . .

  Still not charging them. Shaw then looks around the corner and sees why.

  A man walks down the stairs, listing under the weight of a five-gallon gasoline can. He takes it into the TV room.

  Because he’s armed, they must assume that Shaw is an undercover cop, or at the least he’s called the police. So the order has come from the owner of the place to destroy the physical evidence, the computer files.

  Everything has to disappear.

  Including the witnesses.

  And in the process, they can avoid getting shot by charging Shaw.

  With a crisp whoosh, the massive fireball fills the office and rolls into the corridor. Orange, black, yellow. Uncontrolled boiling, mesmerizing if it weren’t so deadly. The men vanish.

  Down here, Shaw notes, there are no sprinklers.

  Shaw calls 911 again and reports there’s now a fire.

  For what good it will do. The entire building will be a pile of cinders in twenty minutes.

  The stampede above them is a roar and is accompanied by muted screams. He believes he hears, “We have to get out. Help us!” The smoke will be rising to the dance floor.

  The flames illuminate the basement. Shaw hopes he’ll be able to see another exit. There is one but it’s chained, and his lock-picking skills only go so far.

  There’s one way out.

  “Come on.” He takes Nita by the arm and leads her straight toward the conflagration.

  “No!” she screams.

  He tugs her more firmly. “Our only chance.” She comes along.

  They approach the turbulent flames, the heat scraping their skin. Just before it becomes unbearable, Shaw turns to the right, into the storeroom across from the office. The flames are lapping at the outer wall but have not yet eaten through.

  He moves to the side facing the stairs and begins to kick the Sheetrock. This wouldn’t work if he were in his rubber-soled Eccos but his boots’ leather soles, the heels in particular, make indentations in the wall. Again, again. Finally he breaks through. It’s a small hole. He ducks and looks through it. Yes, the area at the foot of the stairs—only ten feet away—is empty of hostiles. But soon it will be engulfed in flame.

  More kicking. The hole grows slowly larger.

  Nita helps. She’s strong. When Shaw cracks a piece, she pulls it free. The hole is now about eighteen inches around. Almost big enough to fit through.

  Kick, pull.

  Both are coughing. His eyes sting and stream. The fire is stealing the oxygen. He feels light-headed.

  Kick, pull . . .

  Now, finally, it’s big enough for them to fit through.

  “Go on.”

  She wriggles through and collapses on the other side.

  The pounding feet on the dance floor above them have stopped. Everyone has evacuated. The roar of the flames is the only sound.

  Shaw turns to the hole they broke open in the Sheetrock and says to Nita, “Up the stairs now, fast. There’ll be police.”

  “But . . . what about you?”

  He smiles to her. “Not yet.”

  And turns back, jogging to the far end of the corridor.

  PART TWO

  JUNE 25

  THE GREAT EARTHQUAKE

  Time until the family dies: thirty-two hours.

  25

  The Shaw brothers had two missions, interwoven like ropes in a Gordian knot.

  One, saving the SP family from the hitman who would replace Blond; the other, bringing down BlackBridge. In saving the family, they might find hard evidence linking the hit back to Braxton, Droon and maybe even Ian Helms himself. Or, finding that evidence in the first place might allow them to identify and save the family.

  Their initial task was to try to identify Blond, and so after leaving the safe house they drove to Hunters Point, a neighborhood on the eastern edge of the city, jutting into the Bay.

  Hunters Point and neighboring Bayview were among the toughest parts of the city, and the most densely populated with gangs.

  Confirmation from Hunters Point crew.

  6/26, 7:00 p.m. SP and family. All ↓

  Which gang could the hit order mean?

  Shaw had enlisted some help and this morning had sent a text to his friend and rock-climbing buddy, Tom Pepper, who, at the FBI, had worked terrorism and organized crime.

  As Russell’s SUV—a Lincoln Navigator—idled in a parking lot, Shaw’s phone hummed. He answered, “Tom.”


  “Colt.”

  “You’re on speaker here with my brother, Russell.”

  A pause. Shaw wondered what the man would be thinking. He knew of the estrangement, though not its basis. “Hello, Russell.”

  “Tom.”

  “Here’s what I’ve got. Two main crews in Hunters Point—Bayview. One’s Anglo. The Bayneck Locals. You know the Peckerwood Movement?”

  Shaw replied, “Vaguely. White supremacists, prison culture, drugs. Started in the South, right?”

  “In the thirties. Then spread, lot of the members ended up in California. Skinheads, yeah, but they have some alliances with Latinx gangs. The Baynecks aren’t technically Peckerwoods—there was some falling-out—but they’re cut from the same cloth.

  “The second main gang in that area is Black. The Hudson Kings. It’s rap based, like the old Westmob and the rival Big Block. Okay, listen. They’re all businessmen first—drugs and guns mostly—but that doesn’t mean they’re not violent and territorial and will take out a threat in an instant. I’m saying: They won’t be inclined to cooperate.”

  Shaw said, “I’m going to appeal to their better nature.”

  Pepper chuckled. “Whatever you’re doing, make sure it’s during the daylight hours.”

  “We’re here now,” Russell said. “They have a social club, hang someplace?”

  “The Kings had an HQ in a storefront on Northridge. I think near Harbor. The Baynecks used to operate out of a biker bar on Ingalls. Bayview and Hunters Point have complicated boundaries, so I’m not sure which ’hood they’re in. I don’t know anybody in the Baynecks but there’s an O.G. high up in the Kings. Kevin Miller. He was a stand-up guy. Didn’t exactly cooperate, but he kept things calm. Nobody got shot. And that’s saying something.”