by Gayle Lynds
Ryder stared. His heart pounded. “Eva,” he breathed. For a moment he was overcome by memories, the little things about her that delighted him so. And now here she was, standing there, waiting. And in trouble.
Tucker peeled himself off the wall. “Christ, Eva, what in hell are you doing here?”
“Have you lost your mind?” Ryder’s fear for her erased relief. “We’ve got to get you out of here!” He sprinted up the stairs.
“Hello, Judd. Tucker.” Her voice was too hearty. “I’m really sorry to do this to you—”
The men froze as two armed guards appeared on either side of her. One guard wore a regulation white snowsuit, his face unseeable behind the usual matching white balaclava. He was pointing an M4 at her, his eyes shining black and hard. Wearing khakis and a plaid shirt, the other one aimed an S&W 9-mm at Tucker and Ryder.
“Let’s go, Ryder,” said the one in civilian clothes. “You, too, Andersen.”
So the gunman knew their names. They were expected, which explained why the second shift had arrived ready to fight.
“Move it,” the man in the snowsuit ordered Eva.
When she did not go instantly, he grabbed her arm. She shook it. He pushed his M4 into her side. Her face collapsed. She let him pull her out of sight.
Ryder ran up the last few steps. His throat was dry, his chest tight. Keeping his eye on the S&W, he heard Tucker breathing hard behind him. At the top of the stairs, they stepped onto plush carpeting the dark color of blood. The hall was wide, with antiques placed along the wainscoted walls. A few feet distant, the man in snow gear released Eva’s arm.
“Come here.” He nodded at Ryder and Tucker. “Give me your weapons.”
“I’ll take them,” said the other. “You’ve got your hands full with her.” He gestured at Eva.
The man in white hesitated, then nodded.
Without comment Ryder and Tucker turned them over to the guard wearing indoor clothes.
Tucking them under his arm, he asked the man in the snowsuit, “Why in hell don’t you take off those snow clothes? You’ve got to be hot.”
“If you’d been outside as long as I was tonight you’d want to bake, fry, and broil yourself any which way you could. I can’t get the cold out of my bones.”
The other man gave a curt nod of understanding. “Okay, cocksuckers. Gotta search you. You’re mine, Ryder. Don’t try anything cute. You won’t like the price your friend Blake pays.”
“You”—the guard in the snowsuit nodded at Eva—“sit on the floor. There. No, dammit, you’re in no position to argue. Do it.”
Her face a thundercloud, Eva slid down the wall beside a sideboard. Calming his feelings for her, Ryder gave her a quick smile of encouragement. She closed her eyes a moment and smiled in return, a small one, but real.
While hands roughed him up, Ryder thought about summer camp on the Chesapeake the year he turned twelve, long swims in the cold bay, pounding nails into siding as he helped to build a shelter. He glanced over at Tucker, who had a faraway expression on his face as he endured being frisked, too.
“Shit, all he’s got is a billfold and a smartphone,” said the man in white, who had done Tucker.
“Yeah, that’s what mine has, too. Let’s go, morons. Time to meet the boss.”
Tucker was having trouble getting his jacket zipped. With a shrug, he gave up.
Ryder and Tucker walked ahead, the S&W at their backs. Eva and the guard in the snowsuit brought up the rear. Somewhere a clock ticked, one of those monotonous noises that made jumpy nerves worse.
“Stop, fuckers,” the guard behind them ordered. “Turn left and face the door. Ryder, stand in front of the peephole.”
The wooden door was broad, paneled, classic. Judging by its location, it opened onto the room Ryder and Tucker had seen alight from the road. He faced the peephole.
The guard in khakis pressed a cell phone to his ear. “I’ve got Ryder. And I’ve got Andersen and Eva Blake, too.” There was a pause. “Of course I’m damn sure. They match the photos you e-mailed. Check out Ryder in the peephole. He’s alive, just like you wanted.”
36
With Ryder in the lead, they walked into a bibliophile’s dream. Thousands of books lettered with decorative inks and paints filled three tall walls. Ryder stared. His father had had a private library like this, a library that both of them had loved.
Turning away, he focused on the men who were waiting with their M4s. His gaze locked on to Chapman. The mogul’s silver hair was swept back in waves, and he was as aristocratic-looking as ever. His stance was relaxed, his smile confident, as if handling both a multibillion-dollar equity firm and a lethal M4 were everyday tasks. Fury rose bitter in Judd’s throat. A painful sense of loss swept through him, for his father, for Eva’s years in the penitentiary. For the many people Chapman had ruined or killed.
Lined up next to Chapman were the Eichel brothers. Eli Eichel—olive skin, small, wiry, a deadly fox. Danny Eichel—huge, cagy, aiming his rifle with one large hand. On either side of the trio stood two guards.
Behind Eva, Tucker, and Ryder were the pair of guards who had brought them. They blocked the door—the only escape route back into the corridor.
“Welcome, gentlemen.” Chapman inclined his head toward Eva. “And lady. Have you met my other guests? These are the Eichel brothers, Eli and Danny.”
Eli Eichel was having none of it. “What is this bullshit?” He glared at the guards. “Did you search them?”
“Yes, sir,” the one in regular clothes replied. “No hidden weapons, and no limestone rocks either. Just cell phones and the usual billfolds et cetera.”
Eichel turned his dark gaze onto Ryder. “You’ve got the Padre’s pieces from the tablet. Where are they?”
Ryder frowned and lied, “What tablet? What pieces?”
Danny had been watching Ryder. “He’s hidden them someplace.”
“It’s a good guess, if I had them,” Ryder allowed, “but that’s all it is—a guess.”
“He’s a liar,” Danny said. “The pieces are in his car.”
“That’s logic, not clairvoyance.” Ryder layered indignation into his tone. “The only thing left in our delivery truck—not a car—is the smell of pizza and beer.”
“We’ll decide that for ourselves,” Eli announced. “Danny.” The single word was a command.
Danny grinned and lumbered toward Eva. “She’ll tell us where it is.” His neck was so thick and short his bowling-ball head seemed to grow directly out of his bulky shoulders. But unlike the rest of his thuggish appearance, his black eyes showed intelligence. When he had looked at his brother, his gaze had been accommodating, tender. Now Ryder saw inevitability in his eyes, destiny: He was a killer. Killers killed.
Ryder’s throat tightened. “She doesn’t know.”
“Maybe not, but you do,” Danny said reasonably.
Eva stepped back. “Judd said he doesn’t have the pieces.”
Danny stopped and studied her. “I’m six meters away from you, or almost twenty feet,” he told her. “From now on I’ll slow to a rate of five kilometers an hour, or 1.39 meters per second. That’s about 3.1 miles an hour, which is the average human walking speed. I will need only 4.32 seconds, more or less, to reach you. In that time Ryder has a chance to change his mind and tell us where the tablet pieces are. If not, I’ll erase you.”
Eva angled her body, bent her knees, and lifted her hands, preparing for defensive sword-hand strikes. She exuded defiance. She was not a small woman. Still, Danny dwarfed her.
Ryder had had enough. He moved in front of her. “Back off, Danny.”
She stepped up beside Ryder and resumed her stance. “We’ll do this together, Judd.” She turned flashing eyes on Danny.
A voice boomed from the entry door, filling the library. “Enough, Eli. Call off Danny. Tell us where your portion of the tablet is, and perhaps we can convince Ryder to do the same.”
Surprised, all turned. But instead of homing in on
the voice, their gazes went instantly to the sentry who was dressed in a plaid shirt and khakis. He was sitting on the floor, slouched back against the door, eyes open. Blood was gushing from a mortal gash to his carotid artery, soaking his clothes. While they had been riveted by the tension between Danny and Eva, the man in white snow gear had eliminated the guard in the same manner as the two outdoor sentries had died.
The speaker, his white clothes sprinkled with blood, stood over his victim, aiming his M4 across the library at Eli Eichel.
Eli moved forward, focusing his M4 back at him.
Except for Tucker and Eva, everyone had been caught off guard. Tucker quickly produced a 9-mm Walther PPS from inside his jacket and trained it on Chapman. At the same time, Eva pulled an M4 from beneath her long padded coat and pointed it at Danny.
Judd noted that Chapman and his guards were standing off alone, spectators in a contest that apparently had nothing to do with them. Judd itched for a weapon. Think for yourself. You have responsibilities—live up to them. Judd yanked the M4 from Eva, slammed his shoulder into Danny, and squeezed the trigger, laying a line of automatic fire across Chapman and his two guards.
The rounds ripped through the men’s torsos and burst out their backs. Books exploded from the shelves behind them. Shredded paper rained down. But all that Judd saw was one perfect moment of retribution—Chapman’s death. He had corrected a mistake. For a brief moment, he felt peace.
There was an immediate response. Danny lunged at Judd, and Judd hit the floor so hard he released his M4. Gasping for air, he rolled, chasing the weapon.
“Stop!” the voice roared from the killer at the door, the man in white. “Ryder is under my protection.”
The library was suddenly still.
“Eli, tell your brother to back off.” Again it was the voice from behind.
Danny’s hulky shoulders quivered. “Eli?”
“Do it, Danny,” Eli told him. “You can have fun later.”
With the deliberation of a dance master, Danny took a step back, then another and another, his M4 pointed down at Ryder.
Ryder snatched up his M4 and got to his feet.
Eva was staring at him, shock in her eyes. “Jesus, Judd.”
He shrugged then turned to the man in white at the back of the room. “What’s going on here?”
Eva frowned at the man, too. “You waited a long time, Frank. That’s not how we planned it.”
“You planned this?” Judd said.
“Yes. I met Frank at the service gate, and he filled me in.”
Now Ryder understood how Eva and Tucker must have gotten weapons: “Frank,” the sentry in snow clothes, had given Eva the M4 earlier, and then when he supposedly searched Tucker for weapons, he had slipped him the Walther.
Ryder did not know who Frank was, even when he peeled off his white balaclava and walked toward them. He had a large Roman nose and thick gray hair that showed the vestiges of having been carefully tousled. A man of moderate height and stocky build, there was something dapper about him, about the casual but confident way he moved and held his M4. Despite having apparently scrubbed three men tonight, he seemed completely relaxed, and somehow the more dangerous for it.
His gray beard jutting, Tucker glared at Frank. “Thanks for the Walther. But who in hell are you, and what are you doing in the middle of my operation?”
“What?” Eva said. “Tucker, you asked for Frank’s help—”
“Like hell I did.”
Frank Smith said nothing. He was gazing steadily at Eli Eichel.
The corners of Eli Eichel’s mouth twitched.
Frank Smith gave a wicked smile.
Eli laughed. It started small then turned into guffaws. “Dammit, you’ve done it again.” He laughed more, enjoying the joke. He glanced around at Eva, Tucker, and Ryder. “Don’t you know who saved you?”
The man in white lifted two fingers and touched his forehead in a brisk salute to the three.
Frowning, Ryder searched his memory for the gesture.… And then it was vivid.
Eva inhaled sharply. “My God, he’s the Carnivore. Frank Smith is the Carnivore.”
37
As Eva watched, the Carnivore laughed. “There are few times in our profession when one is amused,” he told Eli Eichel. “I wondered how long it would take you. How did you know?”
“After all these years, I damn well better know,” Eli said. “First, it’s the Walther PPS you gave Andersen—your favorite pistol. But others like the same gun, so that wasn’t enough. The clincher was your walk. You’re tough, because you change yours with almost every role. But I remember you were using your ‘Frank Smith’ walk when we ran into each other in London in 1986.”
The Carnivore’s face froze. Whatever had occurred then, he had not liked it. Without moving his M4 from Eli, he glanced at Judd, Eva, and Tucker. “Good to see you haven’t forgotten me. On the other hand, knowing me hasn’t turned out to be the best luck for you. I’m in a hurry, so here’s the bottom line. This isn’t a reunion. It’s just a momentary intersection of needs. You can call me Alex. Alex Bosa.”
Eva calmed her pounding heart. “I thought you looked familiar. Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”
“I’d hoped to be able to send you back to the Farm without anyone ever knowing I was here. The Padre found out you were due R and R soon, and he was set on kidnapping you and Judd. He created doubles for both of you to buy him plenty of time to question you. His backup plan was to let it be known he was holding you so I’d get wind of it and try to rescue you. But then I killed Judd’s double, and Judd came home early from Iraq and went looking for you.” His gaze swept the three of them. “I owed you for saving my life. This is payback.”
Eva knew the Carnivore had rules, and within their context he was ethical although seldom moral. One of his rules was to treat like with like, which was why paying back was a priority. Still, she’d had no desire ever to see him again. Dealing with the Carnivore was like having a flesh-eating piranha in your fish tank—exotic, but too close for comfort.
“He’s right,” Judd told her. “The Padre was trying to find him. He thought he could get the information from you or me, and he went to Tucker, too, hoping to trade for it.” He addressed the Carnivore. “No one else has said it, so I will. Thanks for the help.”
The Carnivore looked him up and down. “I thought you were out of the business.”
“I thought I was, too.”
“You’ll live longer if you quit,” he advised. “But after what you just did to Chapman, I don’t know that you can.”
Judd’s face seemed to pale, Eva thought, but his expression remained unchanged, neutral.
Tucker interrupted: “How many of you assassins involved in this thing with the cuneiform pieces are in the United States?”
“To my knowledge, only those in this room,” Bosa told him.
They checked each other from the corners of their eyes, two old pros who disliked each other.
Tucker snorted. “That’s three too many.”
Done with him, Bosa confronted Eli Eichel: “You and I need to talk about Burleigh Morgan. Do you know who planted the bomb under his car?”
“I’m telling you nothing unless you give me your limestone pieces,” Eli said coolly. “You can’t really care about the money. You’re rich anyway.”
“My reputation and life are on the line, too, but perhaps you’re right.” He slid his hand inside his snowsuit and withdrew a cloth box about three inches thick. It looked like some kind of microfiber material, the sort that molded itself to its contents. “I have four of the pieces, as you may remember.” He walked to the library table, set down the box, and lifted the lid. “They’re yours—in exchange for all of your information. No lies. No omissions. Agreed?”
Eva had no idea what the two men were talking about, except that it seemed to involve some deal that had gone terribly wrong.
“Agreed.” Eli padded to the table and grabbed what appeared
to be two of Bosa’s rocks. He raised them to chin level. Using his thumb, he turned them over and around, examining them. Then he put them back and repeated the process with the last two. His face inscrutable, from his jacket he pulled a padded cloth bag that appeared to contain other items—more limestone pieces perhaps. Humming a little tune, he slid two of Bosa’s pieces into the bag, signaling he accepted Bosa’s offer.
So fast his hand was almost invisible, Bosa scooped the remaining rocks into his microfiber box, closed the lid, squeezed the Velcro shut, and returned the box to his pocket. “You can have the rest when I’m satisfied you’ve told me everything,” he said. “Start with Morgan. Do you know who wiped him?”
Eva remembered reading the account of the infamous old international assassin Burleigh Morgan climbing into his gull-wing car in Paris and the driver’s seat exploding under him. Not only had the bombing meant certain death, it also seemed deliberately dramatic to catch the attention of media worldwide, which it had.
“Morgan was too damn good, too well liked,” Eli reasoned. “Worse, he knew too much. But no, it wasn’t me that killed him. Hell, it could’ve been a disgruntled former employer for all any of us know. If you and the Padre hadn’t carried him out, he would’ve died on the museum grounds. He’s been living on borrowed time.”
Bosa shrugged. “Somehow you found out the Padre was going to be at his hunt club, so you had time to set up for a sniper shoot. Knowing how close-mouthed he was, you either turned one of his people or planted one of yours inside his organization.”
“I convinced one of his team to help me,” Eli admitted. “He was feeling underpaid and unappreciated. I took care of both problems.”
“You’ve eliminated him?”
“Of course.”
“Which one of us are you working with?” Bosa asked.
“He’s working with me,” Danny said possessively.
Bosa did not even glance at him.
