The Assassins (The Judd Ryder Books)

by Gayle Lynds

  As soon as Dean showed him the storage area, Tucker hurried back outdoors, opened the truck’s rear, and dollied the first batch of supplies inside. Horses stuck their heads out of the stalls to watch him pile sacks of feed. As he stacked bales of hay, his handheld vibrated. He snatched it from his pocket and saw it was Judd.

  Dean had been observing, arms crossed. He radiated disapproval.

  “The wife,” Tucker explained.

  As Dean gave a slow nod, Tucker silently read:

  Short hall inside door. Guards’ locker room on right. Will change into a uniform and look for 2nd-fl room.

  Tucker did not like the idea of Judd investigating without him. He texted back:

  In barn. Wait for me.

  Stuffing the phone back into his jacket, Tucker rolled the dolly over to Dean. “How about you or your men giving me a hand? My wife’s on my butt. I got to get home.”

  His feet planted solidly, Dean shook his head. “Tim never needed help.”

  The man was so laconic he probably had no blood pressure, Tucker decided. His best course was not to argue. “No problem.”

  Silently cursing, he pushed the dolly back outside and resumed unloading. The minutes passed slowly. Sweat streaked his face. By the time he rolled the last crate inside, his arms, shoulders, and back ached. He stored the dolly in the truck and slammed the door. With a wave of his hand, he got behind the steering wheel, closed the door, and started the engine. Fighting the urge to speed, Tucker drove past the garage and main house then downslope. In two minutes he was at the stand of spruce. Some hundred yards ahead were the service gate and protective granite wall.

  Checking his mirrors, he killed the truck’s headlights, downshifted so his red brake lights would stay dark, and searched for the opening in the woods he had spotted when they had driven past earlier. The trees had looked young and thin, and despite his slow speed, they seemed to blend together, a solid mass.

  It came upon him suddenly, a narrow black tunnel fronted by saplings. The hole looked barely wide enough for what he needed. He yanked the steering wheel hard to the right and floored the accelerator. He smashed through the trees, bending and snapping branches, the snow geysering up in great waves coating the windshield and side windows. Lurching against the seat belt, he felt the front end ram into something. The back tires spun.

  Turning off the ignition, he wiped sweat from his forehead and set the jug of frozen water on the floor, reached behind him, and grabbed a balaclava and snowshoes. Rolling the black balaclava down over his head, he adjusted the face hole over his glasses.

  He opened the door and strapped on the snowshoes. God, it was cold. He took out his Browning and stepped onto the snow, the snowshoes sinking only an inch. Moonlight shone in luminescent streaks down through the trees, giving the woods an unearthly glow.

  Closing the door, he slogged forward to check what had stopped the truck—a bank of snow. The fender was burrowed into it. Needled limbs poked out. There was a downed tree under there somewhere. Snowshoeing back to the truck’s rear, he discovered the tires had dug themselves deep holes. Driving out of here was going to be dicey, if they could do it at all. He would worry about that later.

  With a glance at the moon, he got his bearings and snowshoed off, pushing back branches and ducking needles. A gust of wind curled up and around him, spraying him with snow. He found the riding trail Judd and he had spotted in the satellite photos and moved onto it, increasing his speed. As he climbed, he watched through the trees for headlights, flashlights, moving shadows. The cold bit his flesh.

  He paused within the forest to observe an open area that sloped up toward the compound. Bushes and trees made long-shadowed silhouettes. And then he saw a line of oval depressions—snowshoe prints. Holding up his Browning, he moved toward them, the snow muffling his progress, and stopped abruptly. Hidden just inside the treeline was a large mound that seemed not to belong there.

  Tucker peered up the slope. The garage was dark, no light to indicate anyone was there. He studied the oval prints of snowshoes. There were three sets. Two people—one following the other—had come down the slope from the garage. Then one had dragged the other into the trees and returned uphill.

  Tucker moved until he could see the mound’s face. He recognized him—the sentry who had walked down the drive when Judd and he had first arrived. Blood frozen on the side of his neck shone darkly in the moonlight. Beneath it was a narrow black well in the snow, where the man’s lifeblood had poured out.

  The wound was a neat slice, a single well-placed thrust of a blade into the jugular. The man had probably been followed here, or forced here, then knocked unconscious so he would not yell or resist, and finally—and expertly—stabbed to death.

  He stood. Where was the victim’s M4? Stepping from the woods, he searched for the rifle along the treeline. There was no sign of it. Either the killer had taken it with him or he had flung it deeper into the forest. He looked up the hill again. No one was in sight, no guard, no horse trainer. If this were the sentry’s patrol area, it was now without security. But who had killed him?

  Taking out his handheld, he texted Judd:

  Sentry killed near spruce forest. Expert knife to jugular. Know anything about it?

  Wary, watching all around, Tucker hurriedly climbed toward the compound, following the snowshoe prints. Lights shone from windows in the main house and the barn, while the garage remained dark. Somewhere in the distance a coyote howled.

  When he finally reached the garage, Tucker was sweating and shivering at the same time. Still following the prints, he went around to the rear. The snow was gray and pounded flat here. He was assessing the prints when his handheld vibrated again. A response from Judd:

  No. Still in locker room. Hurry.

  His back to the garage, Tucker stood where he had a 180-degree view of open space, trees, and a parking lot behind the barn, where there were a dozen cars and pickups—probably the employees’ lot. Farther away was Chapman’s airstrip and the hangar, a blocky silhouette. A narrow road led to it from the parking lot.

  To Tucker’s left was a large wood cart, the kind for hauling small equipment or hay. Snow heaped high and untouched on it while the snow on the ground alongside it was trampled. He moved closer, gazing down, following little speckles black against the snow. He checked under the cart. Another corpse in a white snowsuit lay there, face up, eyes open, iced over. Frowning, Tucker gazed around then crouched, examining the red blotch frozen on the dead man’s neck—a single knife thrust to the jugular again. What in hell was going on?

  He texted Judd:

  Another dead guard knifed behind garage.

  As he rose, the noise of one car engine then another crackled across the still hilltop. He hurried back to where he could see the employees’ parking area. As he watched, steam curled up from the tailpipes of parked cars, and an SUV rolled off. Two bundled men ran from the barn to a car and fired up its engine, too. Members of the staff had finished for the day.

  As he watched, his handheld vibrated again. He dug it out. Judd at last:

  Figure 4 live guards inside. Watch out.

  As the noise of approaching engines grew louder, Tucker hustled back around the barn and ripped off his snowshoes. Ramming them deep into a snowbank until they were out of sight, he ran full tilt across the drive to the mansion’s rear door.

  30

  In the library upstairs, the three armed guards had not moved from their posts at the door, while Eli Eichel and Martin Chapman had taken to wingback chairs, drinking bourbon and branch water and waiting impatiently to find out where Judd Ryder was.

  Chapman drank. “Are you married, Eli?”

  Eli felt a dull ache in his chest. “Not now. My wife died thirty years ago, in childbirth. The baby died, too. Young love, young death, end of story.” He remembered Madonna Millman, whom he had erased in Mayfair with a single shot between her eyes. He had not been told she was pregnant. He had always wondered whether he would have accepted
the job if he had known.

  “I’m married to a good woman,” Chapman was saying. “Beautiful. Smart. Nice. She’s usually visiting friends in St. Moritz or Cabo San Lucas or Paris. You get the idea. She thinks I don’t understand the reason she travels so much is that she’s lonely for me. I don’t spend much time with her even when we’re under the same roof.” He shrugged. “It’s my fault, my weakness. You must know about loneliness.”

  Before Eli could respond, Danny said, “Eli lives with me. He can’t be lonely.” He stopped beneath a large crystal chandelier. Staring up, he clasped his big hands behind him and muttered, growing lost in one of his calculations.

  “I imagine all assassins are lonely,” Chapman said.

  “My money keeps me warm,” Eli told him, “as I’m sure yours does you.”

  The phone rang. Chapman picked it up, checking the caller ID. “It’s Senator Leggate,” he said with obvious relief. Then into the phone: “Hello, Donna. I hope your investments with us are paying well.” He listened. “I’m glad. We want to keep a fine public servant like you happy, and in the Senate. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do need another favor. It’s Judd Ryder again. He’s back from Iraq, but we don’t know where.” He paused again. “Thanks, Donna.” Then his tone hardened. “I expect to hear from you quickly.”

  Washington, D.C.

  Scott Bridgeman had been working quietly in his office at Catapult headquarters. He rubbed his eyes and peered out the window at the snowbank that city plows had dumped into the front yard. It was cold as hell out there, but going home to his wife was even colder. He shook his head, miserable. He checked the clock on his desk. He was not leaving until he was damn sure she was sound asleep. Another four hours at least.

  Leaning back in his executive chair, Bridgeman stretched, trying to control his anger. Ever since he got the assignment to run Catapult, he had been working like a demon to inject discipline and accountability into the unit, while Tucker Andersen continued to defy him. Anyone else would have called in by now with a report—even a preliminary report—about the findings at the hunt club. Not Tucker. A half hour ago Bridgeman had looked for him, but he was not in his office or anywhere else in the building, and the day staff had gone, including Gloria. He had left a message on Tucker’s handheld, but of course Tucker had not called back.

  He was just about to call Gloria when his phone rang. God, he hoped it wasn’t his wife. With relief he saw it was Senator Donna Leggate.

  “Hello, Mr. Bridgeman. It’s a pleasure to be in touch again.” She had a strong, deep voice.

  A smoker, he remembered, and a famous one at that. “Of course, Senator Leggate. I appreciate all of your support for Langley’s efforts. How can I help you?” Anyone inside the Beltway who knew anything knew she was not to be crossed. At the same time, as one of the senior members of the intelligence committee, she could be politically advantageous.

  “I’m trying to locate the same former military spook—Judd Ryder,” she said. “Mr. Ryder is in-country but no one seems to know where. I thought someone on your staff might be useful again. You know, his link with Tucker Andersen. If you can find out quickly and without bringing me into it, I would be much … obliged.”

  This was new, he thought with excitement. The pause before the last word told him she was offering him a favor in the future. In the turbulent political waters of Washington, a simple, convenient favor could be a life raft.

  “As you know, I’m delighted to do anything I can,” he said sincerely. “Tell me where you are now with the matter involving Ryder.” The request was pro forma—he needed to make sure the reason she was asking was neither illegal nor unethical. Standards were crucial to him, no matter the cost.

  “Of course. Sorry, I should’ve started with that. The situation has become an embarrassment for my constituent. As you may remember, he’s a banker, and he’s been trying to locate Ryder because Ryder’s father left a sizable account in one of his Denver branches. My constituent still hasn’t been able to reach either Ryder or his mother. Finally, in frustration he called me again. We need continued discretion in this matter. I believe there is, ah, some concern that the money might have an illegal source, and Judd Ryder could know more than he should about it. We don’t want to warn him, do we?”

  “Certainly not.” It would be sweet to have his suspicions confirmed that Judd Ryder was shady. “You’re a good friend of Tom O’Day, aren’t you?” he asked. “I’m a great admirer of his.” Tom O’Day had been Langley chief only a few months, but already word had spread he was knowledgeable, fair, and had the ear of the president.

  “As a matter of fact, I am. I enjoy him and his wife, Marie, a lot. Perhaps you and your wife would like to join us for dinner one night?”

  “Delighted, Senator,” Bridgeman said instantly. “I’ll get back to you ASAP.”

  The senator ended the call.

  Bridgeman sat motionless at his desk, hand resting on his telephone receiver. He snapped it up.

  Using the keyed-in Catapult directory, he dialed Tucker’s handheld and got the recorded message again. “Dammit, Tucker, call me!” He hung up. The last time he had discovered Ryder’s whereabouts for the senator, it had been because he had joined a conversation between Tucker and Bash Badawi. The question about Ryder had been easy to slip in, and Tucker had shown no suspicion. Bridgeman smiled to himself. Badawi was leading the hunt club investigation. He looked up Badawi and dialed.

  “Yes, sir?” Badawi sounded appropriately deferential.

  “Are you still at the Esti Hunt Club?”

  “No, sir. I’m home. Do you want me to come back in?”

  Bridgeman ignored the question. “Why don’t I have your report?”

  “I haven’t written it yet. I gave it verbally to Tucker.”

  “I want to hear it, too.”

  “Yes, sir.” Badawi started talking.

  Bridgeman sat back, surprised. “Let’s be clear. You found no corpses. No blood or other signs of violence.”

  “That’s right. As I said, the place had been sanitized.”

  Or nothing had happened there at all, Bridgeman thought to himself. He drummed his fingers on his desktop. “Where’s Tucker now?”

  “He said he was going to Maryland, to Martin Chapman’s farm.”

  Bridgeman frowned. “Why?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  Bridgeman remembered a rumor that Chapman had ordered the death of Ryder’s father.

  “Is Judd Ryder going to Chapman’s place, too?” Bridgeman asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Are they going there to confront Chapman? Bridgeman wondered. He ended the call then dialed Senator Leggate. He got right to the point: “Judd Ryder and Tucker Andersen are, or soon will be, at Martin Chapman’s place in Maryland.”

  “You’re certain?” She sounded as surprised as he had felt.

  “Absolutely.”

  “You’re a man of your word. I’ll get you together with the O’Days.”

  “Thank you for the opportunity to help you, Senator. It’s been a pleasure.”

  Hanging up, he sat motionless, digesting. He’d had two good wins. First, he had scored big with Senator Leggate, and second, he had caught Tucker operating outside CIA protocols—way out. This time, Bridgeman had him by the short hairs.

  31

  Montgomery County, Maryland

  After inspecting the guards’ locker room in Chapman’s mansion, Ryder changed into a green sweatsuit, slung a bandolier across his chest, and chose an M4 from the gun cabinet. He checked the weapon then paced the guards’ locker room, waiting for Tucker and responding to his texts. Every second increased his chances of being discovered. There was a clipboard hanging near the door. It listed the guards’ schedule. Finally he snatched it and left, following the route he had seen the yawning guard take down the short hall to a closed door.

  Opening it, he saw a long, deserted corridor that extended across the building’s rear. It was just wide enough for a
serving cart—the staff’s passageway. An air of emptiness enveloped him. It felt almost as if no one lived here. Despite the mansion’s vast size, no floorboards creaked, no voices conversed. Guards, cooks, the Eichels, and Chapman were on the premises, but still there was an eerie silence.

  He needed to get up to the second floor. To the left were doors that opened into the front of the house, where there would be some kind of grand staircase. To the right he could see near the end of the corridor what he needed—a stairwell. It would be the servants’ stairs, much less high profile. But before he could reach it, he had to pass an open doorway. Light from it spilled into the corridor, and now at last there was noise. It came from that room—the sound of a chair squeaking.

  He decided to check the front staircase. But before he could turn away, a guard stepped from the room pointing an M4 directly at him as if he had known he was there. The guard’s wiry brown eyebrows were lowered over dark eyes that had the thick look of sleep. His cheek was creased as if it had been resting against something. He was the same man Ryder had seen leaving the locker room earlier. He seemed to have just awakened from an on-the-job nap.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.

  “I’m the new man,” Ryder spoke firmly. “Did you write these damn orders?” He raised the clipboard that listed the guards’ schedule.

  “Troy didn’t say we had a new man.”

  “Troy should’ve told you.” Ryder figured Troy was probably the shift manager. He infused his tone with outrage. “He said I could work inside tonight.” He shook the clipboard at the guard. “But this has me patrolling outside. It’s colder than a polar bear’s cheeks out there. Check with Troy. I want to talk to him, too. Is he with Mr. Chapman?”

  The guard’s gaze narrowed. “I’m calling Troy. Move.” He jerked his head at the room he had just left.

  With a shrug, Ryder walked down the corridor, past the man, and into the room. It had to be the security center. The distant wall held surveillance monitors. One screen displayed the hall Ryder had just entered, which explained how the guard had known to come out with his M4 raised. Others showed the horse farm’s perimeter wall and the interiors of the barn and garage. The mansion’s first floor was also covered. Other than themselves, the only people in sight were in the kitchen, where a chef and a sous chef were stonily at work, their backs to each other. None of the rooms on the second or third floor showed, only long corridors lined with paintings, decorative tables, and closed doors. The house looked almost as vacant as it felt, which suggested the action had to be somewhere behind one of those upstairs doors.