by Stephen Frey
She patted him on the back. “You need closure, Jack, and I know exactly how I’m going to get it for you.”
CHAPTER 43
DANIEL GADANZ slumped down in the big chair, silver flask full of scotch in one hand, lighted Cuban cigar in the other. He’d gotten David Dorn, he’d killed the president of the United States, and put Troy Jensen through hell in the process. He’d even gotten the added bonus of Troy dying. Gadanz had gotten his revenge, but he still wasn’t satisfied.
And this damn thing in his head was going off constantly now.
He guzzled half the flask and then took a long drag on the cigar. At any moment that skull-splitting pain would explode again, and he was beginning to suspect that none of his two hundred billion dollars could do a damn thing about it.
Last night he’d cocked a pistol and put the barrel to his head. But in those moments with the cold steel pressed to his skull, he’d come to understand how much of a coward he was. Even drunk, he couldn’t pull the trigger.
Gadanz glanced up when the curtains that were drawn across the room’s lone doorway rustled.
A moment later a hooded figure slipped into the room. He assumed he was dreaming as the figure climbed the stairs up to his throne. How could this person have gotten past his security detail?
The figure stopped a few feet in front of him and pulled back the hood. He was surprised to see that she was a pretty young woman with dark hair, which was pulled off her shoulders to the back of her head.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
“The Angel of Death,” she answered.
He stared at her for several seconds, and then dropped the flask and the cigar, lifted himself from the chair, and knelt before her. “Thank God you’re here.”
“Who ran Operation Anarchy for you?”
“What?” he asked, glancing up at her.
“Who executed Operation Anarchy? Who brought all those assassins together?”
What did it matter if he gave away the identity of that man now? If he didn’t answer, perhaps she would go away without granting him his ultimate wish, something, it turned out, he was unable to do for himself.
“Liam Sterling,” he answered.
WHEN GADANZ was dead, Skylar slipped his severed head into the bag she’d brought with her. Now she was going after Sterling.
When Sterling was dead, Jack would have closure. She’d promised that for him, and she kept her promises.
EPILOGUE
“YOU OKAY?” Karen asked.
“Yeah, sure.” A light snow had begun falling on the small graveyard. It was just starting to cover the tops of the seven tombstones. Jack stood before the gravestone on the far right. “I need a few minutes alone with him, okay?”
“Of course.” Karen leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Take as much time as you need.” She took a step and then turned back. “Never forget how much I love you.”
“Never,” Jack answered firmly.
He watched her walk away into the woods. She still needed a cane, but not nearly as much anymore. Her speech was getting better, too. And that smile was almost perfect again.
She was going to give him a son in four months. Why was he so damn lucky?
He turned away so she wouldn’t see his emotion if she looked back. He still felt the need to be her strength even though, ultimately, she was probably stronger than him.
For several moments Jack gazed at Troy’s tombstone. “Why did you have to die?”
Maybe Troy was right after all. Maybe some people couldn’t be saved. Worse, maybe they didn’t want to be saved. Maybe those extreme measures RC7 took could be justified after all, at least when it came to those people.
Tears rolled down Jack’s cheeks. The last time they’d seen each other he’d shouted something terrible in a moment of anger and panic, then raced away to save Karen. Troy had died before he could take those words back.
“I miss you, brother,” Jack whispered as his lower lip quivered. “So much.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
TO MY daughters, Christina, Ashley, and Elle. I love you so much.
To my literary agent, Cynthia. A wonderful partnership that’s lasted twenty years.
To my editor, Kevin Smith. The consummate professional.
To all the great people at Thomas & Mercer who make these books possible: Alan Turkus, Daphne Durham, Jacque Benzekry, Tiffany Pokorny, Paul Morrissey, Sean Baker, Kjersti Egerdahl, and Terry Goodman.
To Kevin “Big Sky” Erdman. Here’s to all those red stripes and browns we’ve caught in Montana over the last thirty years—and the ones still waiting for us.
To Todd and Karen Cerino for so kindly allowing me to use their beautiful home on the edge of Seneca Lake when I needed inspiration and solitude. Promise Kept was perfect.
To the others who’ve been so supportive over the years: Matt and Sarah Malone, Andy and Chris Brusman, Pat Lynch, Jack Wallace, Jeanette Follo, Lisa Sevenski, Barbara Fertig, Bart Begley, Walter Frey, Marvin Bush, Kurt Butler, Scott Andrews, Baron Stewart, as well as Mr. Smith 1, Mr. Smith 2, and Colonel Smith.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2008 Diana Frey
STEPHEN FREY has spent twenty-five years working in investment banking and private equity at firms including J.P. Morgan & Company in New York City and Winston Partners in McLean, Virginia. He is the author of nineteen novels, including the first two books in the Red Cell series, Arctic Fire and Red Cell Seven. He lives in Leesburg, Virginia, where he writes full-time.
