The Assassins (16 page)

“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.

“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.