Deadfall (50 page)

Dillon frowned. “Will I see you again?”

Hutch pushed his smile wider. “Oh, absolutely.” He took in Laura.

“If your mom lets me, I'll come see you, and maybe you and she can come to Colorado. I'll give you a tour of
my
stomping grounds.You and Logan would get along great.Would you like that, to come see me?”

Dillon nodded.

He didn't want to spoil whatever brief respite from the pain they had going on here, but he had to know. He lifted his gaze to Laura's. “Terry?”

She shook her head.

The respite was gone. It would return, he knew. First, the darkness would grow less black. Eventually, over a lot of time, he would notice more light than not, a sort of twilight of the heart.Then, one day, the sun would break through.

He had been too caught up in his own dismal night to recognize that Logan and Macie were braving a bleakness he had helped create. He would remedy that, if he could.

Displaying the impeccable timing Hutch had come to think of as something more than coincidence, Dillon embraced him again. It was a balm to his spirit. He remembered something the child had taught him while they were fighting for their lives: in giving comfort, it was impossible not to receive it.

He pulled Dillon closer and hugged him.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My heartfelt thanks goes to the following people, without whom this story would not exist:

My longtime friend and newfound researcher, Mark Nelson.Years ago he introduced me to the beauty and ruggedness of Canada's backcountry. An early discussion about this story revealed his rich vein of knowledge regarding northern Saskatchewan and roughing it in the wilderness.When I asked for his help in researching this project, he dove in with enthusiasm and astounding aptitude.Where my descriptions of locations and bow hunting prove accurate, he deserves the credit.Where they fail, blame my ignorance and misplaced sense of artistic license.

My gratitude and apologies to the good folks of Stony Rapids, which became the fictional town of Fiddler Falls as I moved it across the river and tweaked its physical characteristics. I hope I preserved Stony's hearty and charming spirit.

Once again,my editor, Amanda Bostic, and publisher, Allen Arnold, for their encouragement and advice. Both possess keen insight into the art of storytelling and the hearts of authors. And the other staff at Nelson—particularly Jennifer, Carrie, Natalie, Lisa, and Mark—whose hard work and talent remind me time and again of how fortunate I am to be part of their team.

LB Norton,my copyeditor. Every author should be so fortunate to have someone like her fixing his literary missteps.

My indispensable agent Joel Gotler and his partners at Intellectual Property Group, especially Josh Schechter.Their friendship and good sense have saved me from myself more than a few times.

John Fornof, Mark Olsen, Mae Gannon—readers, advisors, and best of all friends.

My wife, Jodi, whose love and support have always girded me for long days of writing. She is my first reader, editor, and sounding board. And as my soul mate, she is more precious than rubies.

My children: Melanie, Matthew, Anthony, and our newest blessing, Isabella. Hutch learned the hard way what I've always known: time with them is worth fighting for.

“A compulsive read. A top-notch thriller. A writer of immense talent.”

—Douglas Preston, coauthor with Lincoln Child
of
The Relic
and
The Book of the Dead

WHITE KNUCKLE INTENSITYTM

visit RobertLiparulo.com

“A riveting thriller that spins effortlessly off great writing and a demonic villian real enough to have you looking over your shoulder.”

—David H. Dun, author of
The Black Silent

WHITE KNUCKLE INTENSITYTM

visit RobertLiparulo.com

An Excerpt from

COMES A HORSEMAN

Five years ago

Asia House,Tel Aviv, Israel

H
e waited with his face pressed against the warm metal and his pistol gouging the skin at his lower back. He thought about pulling the weapon from his waistband, setting it beside him or even holding it in his hand, but when the time came, he'd have to move fast, and he didn't want it getting in his way. He'd been there a long time, since well before the first party guests started arriving. Now it sounded as though quite a crowd had gathered on the third floor of the big building. Their voices drifted to him through the ventilation shaft, reverberating off its metal walls, reaching his ears as a jumble of undulating tones, punctuated at times by shrill laughter. He would close his eyes for long periods and try to discern the conversations, but whether by distortion or foreign tongue, even single words eluded him.

Luco Scaramuzzi lifted his cheek out of a pool of perspiration and peered for the hundredth time through the two-foot-square grille below him. He could still see the small spot on the marble floor where a bead of sweat had dropped from the tip of his nose before he could stop it. If that spot were the center point of a clock face, the toilet was at noon, the sink and vanity at two o'clock, and the door—just beyond Luco's view—at three. Despite the large room's intended function as a lavatory for one, modesty or tact had prompted the mounting of walnut partitions on the two unwalled sides of the toilet. It was these partitions that would allow him to descend from the air shaft without being seen by a person standing at the sink—by his target.

A gust of pungent wind blew past him, turning his stomach and forcing him to gasp for air through the grille. The building was home to several embassies, an art gallery, and a restaurant—enough people, food, and trash to generate some really awful effluvia.When the cooling system was idle, the temperature in the ventilation shafts quickly soared into summer-sun temperatures, despite the nighttime hour, and all sorts of odors roamed the ducts like rabid dogs. Then the air conditioner would kick in, chasing away the smells and freezing the perspiration to his body.

Arjan had warned him about such things. He had explained that covert operations necessitated subjecting the body and senses to elements sane men avoided: extreme heat and cold; long stretches of immobility in the most uncomfortable places and positions; contact with insects, rodents, decay. He had advised him to focus on a single object and think pleasant thoughts until equilibrium returned.

Luco shifted his eyes to a perfume bottle on the vanity. He imagined its fragrance, then thought of himself breathing it in as his fingers lifted hair away from the curve of an olive-skinned neck and felt the pulse with his lips.

He heard the bathroom door open and pulled his face back into the darkness. He held his breath, then exhaled when he heard the click of a woman's heels. Her shoes came into view, then her legs and body. Of course she was elegantly dressed. Not only did the nature of the gathering demand it, but this room was reserved for special guests—the target, his family, and his entourage: people who were expected to look their best. The woman stopped in front of the vanity mirror, glanced at herself, and continued into the stall. Turning, she yanked up her dress. Hooked by two thumbs, her hosiery came down as she sat.

The top of the partition's door obstructed Luco's view of her lap, and during the bathroom visits of two other lovely ladies, he had found that no amount of craning would change that fact. So he lay still and watched her face. She was model-beautiful, with big green eyes, sculpted cheekbones, and lips too full to be natural. She fin-ished, flushed, and walked to the sink, where she was completely out of view. This reassured him that the plan had been well thought through. She fiddled at the sink for a minute after washing her hands—applying makeup, he guessed—and left.

He waited for the click of a latch as the door settled into its jamb. It didn't come . . . Someone was holding the door open. Masculine shoes and pant legs stepped silently into view. Luco's breath stopped.

Watch for a bodyguard,
Arjan had told him.
He'll come in for a look. He may flush the toilet and run the water in the sink, but he won't use anything himself.The next man in is your guy.

He would recognize his target, of course, but getting these few seconds of warning allowed his mind to shift from vigilance to readiness.

He could see the bodyguard in the bathroom now, a square-jawed brute packed into an Armani. The guard stepped up to the vanity to examine each of the bottles and brushes in turn. He dropped to one knee, with more grace than seemed possible, and examined under the countertop and sink. The bathroom had been thoroughly checked once already, earlier in the day, but nobody liked surprises. Luco smiled at the thought.

Standing again, the guard glanced around, his eyes sweeping toward the grille. Luco pulled back farther, fighting the urge to move fast, which might cause the metal he was on to pop, or the gypsum boards that formed the bathroom's ceiling to creak. He imagined the guard's eyes taking in the screws that seemed to hold the grille firmly in place. In reality, they were screw heads only, glued in place after Luco had removed the actual screws. Now, a solitary wire held up the grille on the unhinged side.

The guard inspected the toilet, the padded bench opposite the sink, and the thin closet by the door, bare but for a few hand towels and extra tissue rolls. Every move he made was quick and efficient. He had done this countless times before—probably even did it in his dreams—and never expected to find anything that would validate his existence. He didn't this time either. After all, his boss was the benign prime minister of a democratic country with few enemies. A grudge would almost have to be personal, not political.

Or preordained,
thought Luco.
Preordained
.

The guard spoke softly to someone in the hall.

The door closed, latching firmly. Someone set the lock. The target walked into view. He drained a crystal glass of amber fluid, almost missed the top of the vanity as he set down the glass, and belched loudly. He fumbled with his pants, and Luco saw that his belly had grown too round to let him see his own zipper, which could present a problem with the superfluous hooks and buttons common to finely tailored slacks.The target left the stall door open. He stood before the toilet with his pants and boxers crumpled around his ankles, his hips thrust forward for better aim, the way a child pees.

A confident assassin may have done the deed right then, just pulled back and shot through the grille into the target's head. And, certainly, he could have hired such professionalism. Arjan would have done it; had even requested the assignment.

But it has to be me. If I don't do this myself, then it is for nothing.

Given that requirement, Arjan had set about preparing his boss for this moment, arranging transportation and alibis, securing timetables and blueprints. Arjan had made him train for five weeks with
Incursori
loyalists. They had worked him physically and filled his mind with knowledge of ballistics and anatomy, close-quarters combat, the arts of vigilance and stealth—at least to the extent that time allowed. Arjan had explained that using a sniper's rifle and scope was infeasible, considering the deadline.