The Assassins (The Judd Ryder Books)

by Gayle Lynds

  “There’s too much turnover here,” the man said irritably, studying Ryder. “Can’t keep track of the hires. Damn Troy.”

  Ryder made his voice hearty—and conspiratorial. “Yeah, if I was you I’d be pissed, too. My name’s Roger C. Graves. Call me Rog. What’s yours?” As Ryder talked, he noted three file cabinets, a worktable with folding chairs, and a long, narrow desk beneath the monitors. There was no outside window.

  “Matty Perkins. I babysit the security screens.” Keeping his gaze and weapon on Ryder, he walked toward the desk.

  Planting a friendly smile on his face, Ryder followed, narrowing the gap. The phone was sitting on the desk to the left of the chair, which was on casters. It should roll easily.

  “Hold it.” Matty snapped up his M4 and aimed between Ryder’s eyes. “Keep your distance. What d’you think you’re doing?”

  * * *

  Opening the back door, Tucker hurried into the mansion’s warmth. His eyeglasses clouded over. Pulling off his balaclava, he removed the glasses and flexed the frozen fingers of his gun hand.

  His vision was hazy, but he could see he was in a short hallway, just as Judd had described. He padded forward, passing an archway that led into a kitchen. From the opening sounded the distant thud of a cleaver hitting a butcher block. Putting on his glasses again, Tucker saw a closed door on the right—again as Judd had said. It should lead to the guards’ locker room. Cracking it open, he scanned and stepped inside. Where was Judd?

  Tucker texted him again. As he waited for an answer, he tossed the locker room, finding only the usual deodorant, shaving lotion, and underwear. Worried, he sat down on a bench, took off his boots, and massaged his aching legs and feet. Plowing uphill through the snow had been harder on him than he had expected. And now that he was warming up, his legs ached even more. He had fond memories of being twenty-five. Hell, forty-five.

  Putting on his boots again, he left, heading down the short hall. He looked at his handheld—still no text from Judd. Judd had always been a wild hare, and probably this time was no different. Or at least he hoped it was, and Judd had not gotten himself into a dark hole of trouble.

  32

  In the security center, Ryder watched Matty’s thick eyebrows lower in suspicion and his eyes narrow. Ryder had moved too close.

  Ryder stepped back, positioning himself on the other side of the rolling desk chair. “Guess I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Damn straight you weren’t.”

  As Matty glared, Ryder glimpsed what he did not want to see—one of the screens showed Tucker walking down the short hall, Browning in hand, still wearing his feed-store jacket. Fortunately, Matty had not seen Tucker yet.

  Trying to keep the guard’s attention on him, Ryder asked, “You going to call Troy or not?”

  “Yeah.” Matty’s focus shifted to the phone. He took a step to the only place from where he could comfortably reach it—the other side of the desk chair.

  Ryder kicked the chair hard. It flew forward on its wheels and clipped Matty’s side, throwing him off balance. Ryder dropped the clipboard, hefted his M4, and rammed the butt into the man’s temple. Blood spurted. Matty reeled, his head thrown to the side. Ryder ripped away his weapon, but Matty was reaching behind, pulling out a knife. Ryder slammed his M4 into the man’s skull again.

  Matty crashed back against the wall. His eyes were open, glazing in an unmistakable look of pain and confusion. Blood washed down the side of his face as he closed his eyes and fell limp. His fingers unfurled. He was unconscious.

  With the butt of his M4, Ryder smashed the security equipment, taking the surveillance cameras offline. As he turned to go to Tucker, the phone on the desk rang. He hesitated. If he did not answer, whoever was calling would be suspicious. On the other hand, if he did answer, the caller might be “Troy,” and Troy apparently was the authority on who should and should not be in Chapman’s house.

  * * *

  After listening at the hall door, Tucker stepped into a long corridor. A phone was ringing ahead from an open doorway. Before he could move, the ringing stopped, the room went dark, and Judd stepped out and closed the door. Judd looked quickly around and ran toward him.

  “What’s happened?” Tucker asked in a low voice.

  Judd stopped in front of him. “I had to knock out the security chief and smash the security monitors.”

  “Dammit, I told you to wait for me.”

  Judd shook his head. “You were gone so long I could’ve asphalted a highway to Baghdad. Besides, you’re not in charge this time—remember? Did you learn anything about the dead sentries?”

  Tucker did not answer. Behind Judd a guard in green sweats had just burst out of the stairwell and was running toward them, M4 ready. Tucker felt a jolt of energy. But before he could move, Judd shoved him back through the doorway. As Tucker slammed against the wall, Judd crouched, spun, and fired a burst from his M4. The explosive noise reverberated. In the kitchen, someone shrieked, and pans hit the floor with a loud metallic clatter.

  Positioning his Browning, Tucker returned to the corridor.

  The guard’s chin was lifted as if he had just been punched. Blood drenched his sweatshirt. He staggered two more steps, dropped hard to his knees, then fell forward onto his face. Judd was already sprinting toward him.

  Tucker followed, listening to feet rushing away from the kitchen. From the sound of it, the staff was jumping ship.

  Judd squatted beside the wounded man. The metallic stench of blood rose in the air. The guard’s face was turned toward them, one eye visible. It was closed. His breath was ragged.

  “Damn,” Judd said with a sigh. “Lucky to be alive, but unconscious.”

  “How did you know he was behind you?”

  “I heard him running, and I saw you react. You’re slow tonight. Are you all right?”

  “It was damn cold outside, in case you didn’t notice. Let’s move.”

  With a businesslike nod, Judd was back up on his feet and running. Tucker worked to keep up. They were nearing the rear staircase when he heard low voices from the opposite end of the corridor. He listened, gauging how many were coming.

  “Three,” he told Judd in a husky whisper. “They’ll be in sight in seconds. We ought to be able to take three.”

  “We want at least one alive and conscious.” Judd turned back and tried the knob of the door they had just passed. Locked.

  Tucker tried the one they had been approaching. Locked, too.

  Judd passed him. There was one last door, and it was nearly opposite the staircase. Judd pushed it open. Tucker glanced back long enough to see the corridor was still empty. Judd pointed at Tucker then at the door. Tucker nodded. As Judd ducked up into the stairwell, Tucker plunged through the doorway and into darkness.

  33

  Sitting in a wingback chair in the library, Eli Eichel tapped the toe of a boot impatiently. Martin Chapman sat across the coffee table from him, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Suddenly there was the noise of gunfire, a series of loud cracks that seemed to reverberate against the walls of books. The gunfire came from below.

  Eli jumped to his feet. “We need weapons!”

  Chapman jabbed a finger at Troy, the big muscular man who was the lead guard. “The gun cabinet.” He jerked his head toward the west wall of books. “Do it!”

  As Troy ran, Chapman looked at the remaining guard and ordered, “Call Kyle. Find out why the gunshots. With luck he’s caught Ryder and Andersen.” Chapman had sent Kyle downstairs to find out why the chief of security had not answered his phone call.

  With Eli and Danny Eichel at his side, Chapman hurried across the expansive room.

  As usual, Danny’s large face was placid, but there was a flash in his eyes. “What’s happening?” Unless he was personally interested in a subject, he ignored it. The gunfire had gotten his attention.

  “Judd Ryder and his CIA pal Tucker Andersen are here,” Eli told him.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Da
nny said reasonably. “We want Ryder, so it’s convenient if he comes to us. It’s efficient.”

  Eli glanced up at his brother, hiding his annoyance. “The gunshots are what’s wrong.”

  “Kyle isn’t answering his cell, sir!” the door sentry called out.

  So the man they had sent downstairs was off the grid, too, thought Eli.

  “Keep trying, dammit.” Reaching the bookshelves, Chapman glared at Troy. “How in hell could Andersen and Ryder get past your security?”

  Troy straightened all the way up to his impressive six-foot-five height. “I don’t know, sir. But there are five of us in this room, plus there will be six new men in the house any minute to start their shift. I called to tell them what’s happened. Even if the rest of our people are down, there are eleven of us against two of them.” His shoulders seemed to grow more broad, and his muscular face took on a feral caginess. “They can’t win.”

  “I want Ryder alive,” Eli reminded him sharply.

  “Yes, sir. Everyone knows that, sir.”

  “You asked about weapons,” Chapman said and gestured at Troy.

  Expecting a secret door in the bookshelves, Eli watched the big guard press his thumb against a spot inside one of the uprights. There was a moment of silence, then the floor beneath Eli’s feet began to move. Swearing, Eli stepped away.

  Danny leaped back as if a rattlesnake had lunged at him.

  As Eli watched the floor, a six-by-five-foot section lowered some five inches. Dividing in half, the two parts slid silently away from each other. He felt a wave of excitement as a dozen gleaming M4s came into view. Arranged uniformly, the weapons lay in a rifle rack inside a polished wood cabinet. Boxes of ammunition were stacked alongside them. For Eli, the weapons were a sight more beautiful than a Michelangelo painting, more impressive than a Cambridge degree, more inspiring than a rabbi’s sermon.

  “This is how protection is secured,” Chapman advised. “Preparation is key, but preparation no one knows about.”

  Danny grumbled, “I’d rather have my Kalashnikov.”

  But when Troy handed up the first M4, Danny was the one who grabbed it.

  34

  While Tucker hid in a room across the corridor, Ryder hunched at the base of the servants’ stairwell. Listening as footsteps padded toward them, Ryder took a small mirror from his pocket and extended it—there were three men. One was in the lead; the two others followed single-file, moving warily, knees bent, pistols up. They wore neither green sweats nor white snowsuits but instead ordinary street clothes—jeans and shirts. Their cheeks were red, their skin shiny, as if they had just come in from outdoors. They were probably with the next shift of guards, and somehow they knew there was trouble in the house.

  With a gesture, the leader directed the second man toward the kitchen door. Then he and the other continued on through the shadows. Ryder could almost smell the tension.

  At the door that led to the short hall, the lead gestured again. But as his man started toward it, it opened, and the second guard reappeared, apparently having gone into the kitchen at one entrance and leaving from the other. Shaking his head to indicate he had found no one, he grinned and held up three M4s, probably taken from the guards’ locker room. In moments, all were armed with the rifles.

  Little is more unnerving than the sound of M4s being cocked. As the ominous noise filled the corridor, Ryder checked across it, to his right. No light showed in the room where Tucker had ducked. The guards would reach Tucker before they reached him, and he was worried Tucker might not hear them.

  But as he stared, the spymaster’s face appeared and faded back into darkness. A pale hand gave a thumb’s-up signal. Tucker was saying he was on top of the situation—not to worry. But Ryder liked neither his wan color nor that he had reacted slowly to the guard who had run at them earlier. Tucker was not moving as fast or as agilely as he usually did.

  Tucker’s door closed slowly, leaving a two-inch opening.

  Peering into his mirror again, Ryder saw the trio had broken into a run, focused on the guard he had shot. The lead dropped beside him and bent his head low. Even if you despised a brother in arms, you did not want him to go down—it reminded you, reminded everyone, that all of you were vulnerable.

  Above the lead, the two others surveyed the corridor.

  Jumping back up to his feet, the lead glanced at them and shook his head. He spoke quietly into a cell phone.

  “Kyle’s unconscious … nothing we can do for him … downstairs back hall. Yeah, sure. If they’re still here, we’ll find them.”

  The lead cautiously opened the first door they came upon—the security office, where Ryder had knocked out Matty and broken up the security equipment. The man slid inside low, M4 first. Within seconds the office was alight, and a snort of disgust sounded. Soon he reappeared, his expression sour.

  The trio ran again. One after another, they opened the next two doors and inspected. Ryder glanced across to Tucker’s door just as it closed completely. He texted Tucker:

  They r coming.

  The guards closed in on Tucker’s room. The lead turned the doorknob and pushed. But instead of swinging open, the door slid off its hinges and slammed heavily down into the dark room, bouncing twice, making two loud bangs. From the depths of the lightless room, three gunshots rang out.

  All three men were hit, the lead in the knee, another in the shoulder, and the third on the right side. Blood sprayed.

  Ryder slid around the corner, putting him behind the wounded guards as they scrambled for position. The lead had dropped to his belly and was pulling his M4 around to shoot. The guard with the side wound threw himself against the wall beside the door, propping himself up so he could peer inside and fire. The third was closest to Ryder. The back of his beige flannel shirt was soggy red—the bullet must have gone all the way through. He was stumbling away, to where Tucker could not see him.

  As he took in the situation, Ryder heard two sets of footsteps hurrying downstairs. He made a tough decision: If Tucker and he were to survive, there was little chance they could keep one of the trio here conscious and available for questioning, not with more arriving.

  Two of the wounded men were shooting into the dark room. Bright muzzle flashes responded. The man with the shoulder wound who was out of the line of fire seemed to hear the footsteps on the stairs, too. He swung his M4 around—and spotted Ryder.

  Ryder shot him in both thighs. The noise attracted the attention of the two others, and they turned. As they fired, Ryder did, too, explosive bursts from his M4. He had known precisely where they were, while they had shot on the move, looking for him.

  His bullets cut ragged lines across their mid sections. As they went down, the man he had shot in the thighs managed to squirm around, lift his torso up onto his elbows, and fire. The rounds burned past Ryder’s right ear and slammed into the wall. Plaster dust exploded.

  Before Ryder could return fire, one of Tucker’s bullets hit the shooter’s rib cage. It must have pierced his lungs. He exhaled loudly and dropped, gasping.

  There was no way Tucker could know about the men coming downstairs, and Ryder did not have time to tell him. Instead he grabbed the clipboard he had confiscated earlier, jumped up, and sprinted to the foot of the stairwell.

  Dressed in regular clothes and armed with handguns, two men were about halfway down. More relief guards. They must have come in the front door. They quickly registered his uniform and clipboard—then frowned at his face.

  “Who in hell are you?” one demanded.

  Before he could ask another question, Ryder interrupted. “We’ve got a bad situation here. We were able to take down four of theirs, but there’s got to be ten more out back. A couple of our people are completely out of action, including Matty and Kyle.”

  The second one’s eyebrows went up. “Jesus Christ.”

  “They’ll be inside any moment,” Ryder warned.

  The first man gave a curt nod. “Let’s get this problem taken care of
before it gets any worse.”

  As the men rushed downstairs to help, Ryder asked worriedly, “What about Mr. Chapman? We’ve got to protect him. Is he on the second floor?”

  The first nodded. “In the library as usual.”

  A shoulder slammed Ryder aside, and Tucker was beside him, firing bursts of three rounds into each man. Surprise then pain contorted their faces. Wounded in the chests, they wove and fell.

  Tucker gave him a sharp look. “We know where Eichel and Chapman are now. Let’s go.”

  35

  The narrow stairwell was claustrophobic, the stench of cordite stinking the air. Ryder and Tucker climbed. Ryder saw Tucker was sweating so much his eyeglasses had slid down his nose. With an irritated expression, the older man shoved them back up.

  “You win a gold medal for those last two guys,” Ryder said in a low voice.

  “I figured they probably had their guns on you.”

  “You figured right.”

  There were soft sounds above. Ryder peered up again. The doorknob was turning. Tucker saw it, too. The rotation was slow and deliberate, cautious. Without speaking, they separated, flattening back against opposite walls. They aimed their M4s.

  The door opened. But instead of more weaponized guards, in the frame stood a woman with long red hair, wearing a thermal winter coat. The unbuttoned coat showed jeans, a pullover sweater, and a cardigan, Eva’s favorite winter clothes. She just stood there, hands helpless at her sides. No weapon. No purse. A strained expression on her oval face.