Bloody Sunday

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Bloody Sunday Page 33

by Ben Coes


  Dewey took a left into the long gravel driveway. When he came to a uniformed Maryland state trooper, he showed him his government ID. The policeman waved him on. He steered the Ferrari past the line of cars and parked in the circular driveway in front of the rambling mansion, next to the ambulance, whose back doors were open.

  Several people were milling about. There wasn’t a sense of urgency, though the mood was somber.

  Dewey climbed out and walked up to a group of men in dark suits standing at the front door, which was wide open. He held out his ID.

  “What happened?” said Dewey.

  One of the agents, a middle-aged bald man, nodded to the other two. They walked away.

  “She died last night,” said the FBI agent. “Housekeeper discovered her.”

  “How?”

  “Old age, heart attack, whatever.”

  Dewey nodded and started to move past him.

  “We’re not letting anyone inside,” he said.

  Dewey glanced at him. He reached into his pocket and again showed him the CIA ID.

  “Learn your protocols,” said Dewey.

  “Sorry.”

  Inside, a pair of paramedics had Bruner’s wife on a gurney. She was already zipped up in a black body bag. Dewey went past them, walking slowly around the ground floor of the house. Someone had cleaned up. The trash bags and laundry were gone now. Every room was cozy and elegant, with beautiful paintings in large frames adorning the walls, gorgeous antiques, and Oriental carpets festooned in subtle, amazing patterns. He came to a closed door and turned the knob. Inside was the living room. It was eerily quiet. He looked at the place she had been sitting when he came to kill her. He stared for several seconds, as if she was still there. Then he saw movement and glanced to his right. Lying down in the corner was her large Saint Bernard. He was sound asleep.

  Dewey started to turn around to leave but paused instead. He walked to the big dog and crouched next to him. Dewey put his hand on the dog’s head and rubbed it. After a few moments, the dog opened his eyes and looked up at Dewey.

  “Hey,” said Dewey.

  Dewey ran his hand along the dog’s soft back, scratching him gently. The dog lifted his head and leaned toward him, licking Dewey’s other hand.

  “You feel like going for a ride?”

  Dewey stood up and looked at the dog, then grinned. The Saint Bernard stood slowly up. They walked out of the room, down the hallway, and went outside, the dog trailing Dewey the whole way.

  Dewey stared briefly at the FBI agent as he walked to the car with the Saint Bernard at his side. He opened the passenger door. The dog stared for several moments at the seat. Dewey leaned down and patted it.

  “Get in,” he said. “It’s a Ferrari.”

  The dog lifted a paw and put it on the seat and lumbered in. Dewey shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in. He pushed a red button on the console and started the car. The engine howled. Before he hit the gas, Dewey looked over at the dog. His head was nearly as high as Dewey’s.

  “I’m Dewey,” he said, patting the dog on his shoulder. “Wrigley, right?”

  The dog’s big, furry, square head turned left and right. His mouth was open and he seemed to be smiling. He held Dewey’s gaze for a moment. A large drop of drool emerged from his mouth and dribbled down onto the leather dashboard.

  Dewey burst out laughing.

  He hit the accelerator and sent the Ferrari tearing up the dirt driveway.

  “You’re gonna love Castine!” yelled Dewey over the full-throated roar of the Ferrari, wheel in one hand, patting Wrigley with the other as the dog attempted to stick his head up above the windshield so as to feel the breeze. “Sure, it’s a little cold sometimes, but you’re basically wearing a fur coat so you’ll be fine.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Dr. Lynne Bartholomew Goltra, CW4 (Ret.) Matt Hastings, and Gary Reeder for their technical expertise and advice in the writing of Bloody Sunday.

  Thank you to my wonderful agent, Nicole James, and my brilliant editor, Keith Kahla. As they do with every book, Nicole and Keith were partners at every point and pushed me to write the best book I was capable of.

  At St. Martin’s Press and Macmillan Audio, I’m grateful to everyone for the tireless effort and enthusiasm you give to my books. Thank you all, and in particular Sally Richardson, Jennifer Enderlin, Andrew Martin, George Witte, Alice Pfeifer, Martin Quinn, Jeff Capshew, Jeanette Zwart, Paul Hochman, Hector DeJean, Alison Ziegler, Joseph Brosnan, Rafal Gibek, Ervin Serrano, Robert Allen, and of course, Keith.

  Thank you also to Ryan Steck, Adrian King, Mike Bursaw, Joseph Finder, Barbara Peters, and Mark Greaney.

  Thanks to the men and women of the U.S. Armed Forces for protecting my freedom to write, and for your courageous service to the United States of America.

  Of course, without my readers my books would be like the proverbial tree falling in the forest. Thank you everyone who reads my books. Whether it’s at book signing or through your notes and letters to me, I am humbled by your support and kindness.

  To Mabel, Johnny, and Wrigley, thank you for your companionship during the writing of this book.

  Finally, to my family, Shannon, Charlie, Teddy, Oscar, and Esmé, how can I even begin to express my gratitude? Esmé, your willingness to go to North Korea disguised as a shrub will never be forgotten. Oscar, putting on three hundred pounds, and dying your hair black so you could pretend to be Kim Jong-un was selfless and amazing. Teddy, the way you learned Korean just so you could yell at me in another language was awe-inspiring. Charlie, trying to blow me up with a nuclear bomb so as to make me understand how that feels was not only appreciated but exhilarating as well. Finally, Shannon, thank you for locking me in the basement all of last fall and feeding me only bread and water. You enabled me to not only shed a few unwanted pounds but also to find that level of authenticity that I strive for in my books.

  On a more serious note, thank you to my beautiful, patient, and endlessly wonderful family. Your love, support, and humor are the winds in my sails.

  ALSO BY BEN COES

  Power Down

  Coup d’État

  The Last Refuge

  Eye for an Eye

  Independence Day

  First Strike

  Trap the Devil

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ben Coes is the New York Times bestselling author of international espionage thrillers, including Eye for an Eye, First Strike, and Trap the Devil. Before writing his first novel, Power Down, he worked at the White House under two presidents and was a fellow at the John F. Kennedy School of Government. He lives with his wife and four children in Wellesley, Massachusetts. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27


  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Ben Coes

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  BLOODY SUNDAY. Copyright © 2018 by Ben Coes. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Names: Coes, Ben, author.

  Title: Bloody Sunday / Ben Coes.

  Description: First edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018006500 | ISBN 9781250140760 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250140784 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Intelligence officers—Fiction.|GSAFD: Spy stories. | Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3603.O2996 B58 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018006500

  eISBN 9781250140784

  Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].

  First Edition: July 2018

 

 

 


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