The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3) by James Best (read any book txt) 📕

high crime community. He had been a policeman for over a decade, and no one had even tried to draw a gun on him within city limits. The kind of criminals they arrested generally served short sentences for property or white-collar crimes. The occasional homicide was quickly resolved and almost always involved a spouse. Although they would check past cases, Evarts doubted that the attack related to police work.

It had to be Paris.

He let the waves and sea breeze calm him. After a few minutes, a couple of teenagers gingerly made their way down the rock break wall to the water. In his youth, he would have gone out as well, but as he got older, he became pickier. He had a near full thermal cup of coffee and a protein bar in his pocket. He was content to watch the kids as he ate his ersatz breakfast. In a few minutes, one of the teens caught a wave and did an exceptional job of making the most of it. Evarts was impressed.

Surfing was an odd sport. If you competed in games that used a ball, the conditions were normally identical to the last time you played. A court didn’t move around and change with the weather. Outdoor sports, except for football, were normally not played in inclement weather.

Surfing, on the other hand, changed every outing. Sometimes in the same day. Unlike a plank floor or a grass field, the ocean undulated with wind, tide, and swells. A ball game was local to the court or field, but good waves were generated thousands of miles away and traveled to a shoreline at seven to ten miles an hour. The size of the waves depended on the strength of the storm that created them. Where you chose to surf made a difference. A wave breaking on a beach was different from the exact same wave expending itself on a point of land that jutted into the ocean. The angle of the shoreline compared to the direction of the surf made a difference in wave size and the way it broke. The further away waves were generated, the greater the interval between waves and the better the surf. Local wind was another factor. If calm, the waves were smooth. The harder it blew, the more chopped the waves. It also mattered the direction of the wind. Surfers preferred the wind coming from the land side, blowing against the waves to hold them up so they lasted longer.

No other sport compared. Skiing came close. He laughed. For the first time, it occurred to him that skiing was another water sport, one where weather also affected the experience. But skiing had changed since his youth. Now, excessive grooming had made skiing fairly predictable. No wonder helicopter skiing had become the rage. Popular for the well-off, that is. A lift ticket might be expensive, but a helicopter ride to a mountain peak was outlandish.

Evarts sighed. Surfing was simply different—different every time you went out.

The two surfers had ridden several waves as he had mused, but the first had been an outlier. Neither of them got another good ride. That made Evarts feel better. He had made a correct choice to remain on shore.

He swallowed the last of his coffee and checked his watch. He needed to shower, dress, and get to work. He stood, brushed off his rear, and stretched. Better get going. The sheriff awaited.

As Evarts walked the short distance to his van, he felt calm, relaxed, and refreshed. But still perplexed. The attack still made no sense.

Chapter 16

Friday morning, Evarts was escorted into General O’Brian’s office in the Pentagon. Evarts had worked in this building and a few friends continued to work here. He felt a twinge of nostalgia, but it faded when he remembered the politicking in these halls. He smiled to himself. He had it good. A small pond, but he was the chief honcho. Here, he wouldn’t even be a cog. At least not for another ten years.

O’Brian’s assistant immediately led him into the inner office. The general sat behind an imposing desk writing intently. Instead of taking a chair in front of his desk, Evarts took a seat at a small conference table. O’Brian could come to him.

Signing a final document with a flourish, O’Brian handed the sheaf of papers to his assistant and told him to close the door on his way out.

As he rose from behind his desk, O’Brian said, “Okay, deck cleared. We have an hour. Coffee?”

After they each had in hand a mug of army coffee, Evarts asked, “Why in person?”

“You used to work in this department, you know why. Hell, you never know who’s listening to electronic communication.” He smiled slightly. “Maybe even my own people.”

Evarts looked around. “Tidy office.”

“It’s clean of bugs, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Evarts settled back into his chair. “Okay, why am I here?”

“First, any developments in the case?”

Evarts sipped his coffee. He decided to be open with O’Brian unless something made him reconsider.

“The driver licenses were genuine. All the security features in place. Only the names were fake. Probably issued by the Department of Motor Vehicles after being presented with other forged documents.”

“What does that tell us?”

“A lot, as you know. There wasn’t enough time after Paris to secure official licenses in this manner. It reinforces the idea that they were hired assassins. Professionals constantly work to augment their tools of the trade. Good ones have numerous fake IDs at the ready. Or … it could be a black ops team with access to official government documents.”

“What else?”

“We’ve concluded that the assailants were probably not foreign nationals. Fake ID mills in most other counties tend to be shoddy. Cobbling together the first set of false papers required knowledge and research. Our byzantine government record systems are hard enough for citizens to figure out. So … most likely Americans … with time on their hands.”

“Not jihadists?”

“Unlikely, but that can’t be ruled out. Yet. Could be homegrown.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing’s