The Book of Fate (54 page)

Closing my eyes, I see it all, another black-and-white newsreel. Back at the Mannings’ house, she knew I was watching—when she was crying, showing me the letter from Boyle—and then the note on my car. That’s why the handwriting matched. She . . . and The Roman . . . oh, God.

I stare back down the path at Lisbeth, who’s in just as much shock as I am. It was her idea that we switch places before Boyle showed up: I’d be the lure to bring him in; she’d be the friendly reporter who’d give him more incentive to stay. But Boyle’s not coming. He never was.

The Roman steps toward Lisbeth, who straightens up, trying to look strong. But the way she watches his gun . . . and backs up, colliding with the tall clay-colored headstone . . . she knows she’s in trouble. We all are. Unless I can get some—

Spinning back toward the fence just behind me in the graveyard, I pull my phone from my pocket and sprint as fast as I can. But before I press a single digit, I slam face-first into the chest of a tall, slim man facing the distant light. He has thin expressionless lips, buzzed black hair, and tiny chocolate eyes that seem almost too close togeth— My cheek burns like it’s on fire. I know him immediately. From every one of my nightmares.

Nico snatches my phone from my hand, chucks it to the ground, and buries it in the mud with his heel. Reaching out and seizing me by the ear, he puts the barrel of his gun against my cheek, right against the scars he created all those years ago.

“You’ve been corrupted by the Beast, Wesley,” he says calmly, almost kindly. “Now tell me where Ron Boyle is, or you will again face God’s wrath.”

105

Y
ou didn’t know she was The Fourth?” Boyle asked.

“I said
that’s enough
!” the guard shouted, gripping his gun with two hands. He had a build—and a face—like a rhino, but as he stepped closer, Rogo saw the guard’s feet shuffle with hesitation. Eight years ago, Ron Boyle was an accountant. Today, he was clearly something more.

“Who’d you think it was? The President?” Boyle added.

“He really ranked me that low?” Dreidel asked.

“Why’d you think you were fired?” Boyle asked.

“I wasn’t fired. I got promoted.”

“Sure you were.”

“I’m counting to three!” the guard warned Boyle.

“Listen, please,” Rogo begged, turning to the guard. “You need to call the police . . . my friend’s about to be killed!”

“You hear me, Boyle?” the guard said.

“Didn’t you realize who you were up against?” Boyle shouted at Rogo. “You should’ve called the cops days ago.”

“We did! We thought we did!” Rogo replied. “Micah and O’Shea said they were—”

One . . . !” the guard shouted.

“Or at least called in some favors,” Boyle added, turning to Dreidel.

Turning away, Dreidel was silent.

Rogo raised an eyebrow.

“Two . . . !” the guard continued.

Boyle watched them both carefully, then rolled his tongue, more annoyed than ever. He’d worked in the White House for nearly four years. He’d seen that look before.

“You did, didn’t you?” Boyle challenged.

“And you did anything different?” Dreidel shot back. “Spare me the judgment.”

“Wait . . .
what?
” Rogo asked. “You went for help without telling us?”

Before Dreidel could answer, the guard pulled back the hammer on his gun.

Still locked on Dreidel, Boyle ignored the threat. “Who’d you run to first? NSA? FBI? Or’d you go to Bendis at—?”

“The Marshals,” Dreidel blurted. “I went to the Marshals Service.”

Hearing the words, the guard turned toward Dreidel. And took his eyes off Boyle.

That was the end.

Leaping forward, Boyle slammed the guard from behind, wrapping his left arm around the guard’s neck and gripping his stringy brown hair with his right.

“Are you—? Get the hell off!” the guard screamed. He reached back to grab Boyle—which was exactly what Boyle was hoping for.

Seizing the momentum, Boyle threw himself backward, taking the guard with him as they plunged toward the floor. It wasn’t until they were in mid-fall that the guard realized what he was in for.

“Boyle, don’t—!”

Pivoting at the last second, Boyle spun to the left, twisting around so that instead of falling backward, the guard was falling forward. Straight toward the salmon-colored marble floor. At the last second, with a sharp tug of brown hair to steer the ship, Boyle turned the guard’s head to the side, so his right ear was facing down.

“Get off me, you lunati—!”

Like a cupped hand slapping water, the guard’s ear smacked the ground with a loud hollow pop, followed half a second later by a louder pop as his gun backfired from the impact. Boyle, Rogo, and Dreidel all jumped back as the bullet zinged from his gun, piercing the base of the welcome desk and lodging in the marble wall. Before they’d even realized what happened, the guard’s head slumped unconscious against the floor, blood trickling out from his burst eardrum.

“What’re you,
on drugs
!?” Dreidel demanded as Boyle climbed to his feet.

Without answering, Boyle motioned to the door. “We should go. He’s got backup coming.”

Still in shock, Rogo just stood there, his eyes hopping from Boyle and Dreidel to the limp figures of O’Shea and the guard. “I don’t . . . I’m not—”

“Dreidel, you don’t live down here, do you?” Boyle asked.

“No, but I can—”

“I need you to show me the fastest route to the cemetery,” Boyle said as he turned to Rogo.

Rogo nodded, first slowly, then faster, his eyes eventually settling on Dreidel, who quickly approached to make peace.

“Rogo, before you say anything . . .”

“You made a deal, didn’t you?” Rogo challenged.

“Just listen—”

“What’d the Marshals offer you?”

“Rogo . . .”

“What’d they offer you, you cancerous little parasite!?”
Rogo shouted.

Dreidel shook his head as his jaw shifted off-center. “Full immunity.”

“I
knew
it!” Rogo said.

“But it’s not—”

“And what was the trade? That you’d spy on us—help them catch The Three—as a way to prove your own innocence?”

“I
am
innocent!” Dreidel snapped.

“So is Wes! So am
I
! But you don’t see us running to the authorities, making private deals, and then tattling on our friends
without telling them
!”

“Rogo—both of you—we need to go,” Boyle insisted.

Enraged but well aware of Wes’s current situation, Rogo spun back to the main entrance, followed Boyle through the sliding doors, and burst into the parking lot with Dreidel right behind him.

As flicks of rain bombarded from above, Dreidel quickly caught up so they were running side by side, heading for Boyle’s van. “I didn’t tattle on you,” Dreidel said.

“So you never told them what we were up to?” Rogo shot back.

“I didn’t have a choice, Rogo. Once Wes came to my hotel room that first day . . . I needed the help. They said if I kept my eyes on you and Wes—kept them informed on where you were—they’d do their best to keep us protected as well as keeping our names out of the papers.”

“And that’s not spying on your friends?”

“Listen, don’t be mad at me for being the only one smart enough to realize that in an emergency, you’re supposed to break the glass and call for help. C’mon, Rogo, think for a second. I can’t afford—” As they approached the white van, he explained, “I’m running for State Senate.”

Rushing around to the passenger side of the van, Rogo felt his fingers tighten into a fist. He almost bit through his own lip as he fought to contain his rage. “Let’s go—open the door,” he called out to Boyle.

“I swear, Rogo, I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” Dreidel insisted.

As the locks popped, Rogo ripped open the passenger door, reached inside, and hooked his arm around to pound down the lock on the van’s sliding door.

“What’re you doing?” Dreidel asked. “Unlock it!”

Rogo didn’t say a word as he leaped into the front passenger seat, which was covered with thick piles of cluttered files, photocopies, old newspapers, and a brand-new digital camera. Leaning in Rogo’s door, Dreidel stuck his arm behind the passenger seat and tried to open the lock himself. Without even hesitating, Rogo tugged the door shut. Dreidel tried to pull away. He wasn’t fast enough. The sixty-pound door chomped down, sinking its metal teeth into his manicured fingertips.

“
Gahhhhh!
Open it!
Open it, motherf—!
”

“Ooh, sorry,” Rogo offered as he nudged the door open, and Dreidel tucked his hand under his own armpit. “I swear, Dreidel, I wasn’t trying to hurt you either.”

Staring downward from his seat in the van, Rogo shot him the kind of glare that comes with an ice pick. “Don’t pretend you’re Wes’s friend, dickface.”

With a hiccup, the van roared to life, and Rogo slammed the door shut. Dreidel just stood there, pelted by the rain.

“C’mon, we going or not?” Rogo shouted at Boyle.

“Don’t bark orders at me,” Boyle countered. “I didn’t shoot your friend in the face.”

“But if you—”

“I didn’t shoot him, Rogo. They shot
me.
And if I really wanted to see Wes hurt, I wouldn’t be running to save him right now,” Boyle said as he shifted the car into reverse and jammed his foot on the gas.

Staring dead ahead as they squealed out of the spot and away from Dreidel, Rogo rolled his jaw, forever looking for the fight. For once, he couldn’t find it. “Just tell me one thing,” he finally said as he motioned back toward the modern building with the thermal security cameras. “What the hell is that place, and why’d they have a bed and conference table connected to the bathroom?”

“Didn’t you hear who Dreidel made his deal with?” Tapping the glass of his own window, Boyle motioned to the four-story building that was perfectly located two miles from the airport. “Dr. Eng’s just the name that lets them hide in plain sight. Forget what it says on the front door. That’s a WITSEC safehouse.”

“Wit sack?”

“WITSEC. As in
Witness Security.
”

“You mean like the Witness Protection Program?”

“Exactly like the Witness Protection Program—which, along with judicial protection, is run solely under the jurisdiction of . . .”

“. . . the Marshals Service,” Rogo said, shaking his head and finally realizing why Dreidel hadn’t wanted to come.

“Starting to stink now, isn’t it?” Boyle asked. “But that’s how they work. They’ve got fake offices in every city in America. The only difference here is, it’s Witness Protection 2.0. Instead of just putting you in hiding, they make everyone think you’re dea—”

Overhead, a 747 shredded the night sky, buzzing down toward the airport and drowning out Boyle.

Rogo stared at the frosted-glass building as the adrenaline from fighting with Dreidel drained away and the dread of his new reality seeped into his system. “So when the guard called on his radio, he . . .”

“. . . wasn’t just calling his buddies,” Boyle agreed as they tore past the front of the building. “He was calling the United States Marshals Service. And unless we get out of here, we’re gonna get a personal introduction.”

106

L
isbeth’s elbow scraped against the jagged granite as she backed into the clay-colored headstone with the Celtic cross on top.

“Tell me where Wes is hiding,” The Roman demanded, his gun so close to her head, she saw her own distorted reflection in the tip of the barrel.

When she didn’t answer, he asked again, but Lisbeth barely heard the words. All her attention was still focused just over The Roman’s shoulder, where the First Lady read Lisbeth’s shock for herself.

Soaked by the falling rain, Lisbeth tried to back up even further, but the headstone held her in place.

“Wes?” the First Lady hissed like an angry cat at The Roman. “You brought me to see Wes?”

“I told you to stay back, ma’am,” The Roman said, never taking his glance or his gun off Lisbeth.

“And I told you to never contact me again—but that didn’t stop you from showing up at my house—entering
my home
! Do you have any idea what kind of risk that—?” She cut herself off as the consequences sank in. “Good God! He’s—Wes is here right now?” She anxiously looked up the stone path, scanning nearby headstones. “You brought him here t— Is that why you had me give him that note?”

The Roman stared at Lisbeth, then glared back at the First Lady. “Don’t play for the reporter, Lenore.”

“
Playing?
That’s not—
Why didn’t you tell me!?
” the First Lady exploded, her umbrella jerking wildly with each syllable.

The Roman laughed softly, his sandpaper voice grating. “No different than a decade ago, is it? You’re telling me you really wanted to know?”

The First Lady went silent as the rain tapped on her umbrella. Across from her, Lisbeth stood unprotected, the drizzle slowly soaking her red hair, which flattened and dangled across her face like wet yarn.

“Please tell me they blackmailed you,” Lisbeth pleaded, her voice cracking and her eyebrows knotting.

The First Lady ignored the question, still searching the lot for Wes. Just in front of her, The Roman flashed the smallest of grins.

“And that’s it? You just did it?” Lisbeth asked.

“I didn’t do anything,” Dr. Manning insisted.

“But you knew. He just said it: Even if you ignored it, you—”

“I didn’t know anything!”
she screamed.

“That’s because you didn’t want to!”
Lisbeth shot back.

The First Lady did her best to stay calm.

“They came to me through the Service, saying they could help on security issues—that our senior staff was holding us back by not paying for
Blackbird
and other good tips. Back then, I . . . we needed to show we were strong.
I thought I was helping!
”

“And so you just did whatever they said?”

“Are you listening? They were from the Service!
From our side!
” she insisted, her voice booming. “I figured they knew best—d’you understand? I never thought they’d—
I was helping!
”