Gambit by David Hagberg (fantasy novels to read txt) 📕

thanks for the Bureau’s quick response. You might have saved his life.”

“Any idea who he is?”

“A Canadian, I think, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he was special ops at one time.”

“What’d he want with you?”

“He wanted me dead.”

Duncan pursed his lips. He looked skeptical. “Any relationship to the dead man in the building across the street from your apartment?”

“They weren’t brothers, if that’s what you mean,” Mac said sharply, and he immediately regretted it. “Sorry, but I don’t care much for being hunted.”

“Which is what both of these guys were doing, hunting you. But why? What’s the connection between the two of them?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m assuming for right now that they were hired by the same people, possibly the Russians.”

Duncan was startled. “The SVR or GRU?”

“It’s a thought.”

“From what I understand, they would have cause. But why not send one of their own? Why hire outsiders?”

“Lots going on right now between the White House and the Kremlin, and taking out a former DCI would carry with it some serious blowback.”

“Do you think that there’s a connection between President Weaver’s and Putin’s talks and taking you down?”

McGarvey nodded toward the operating theater. “It’s one of the questions I want to ask him if he makes it.”

“Keep us informed.”

Pete and Mary showed up five minutes after Duncan left. Mac was still in the waiting room having a cup of coffee, and when they came in, Pete gave him a sharply appraising look.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’ll live.”

Franklin, still in his operating scrubs, came down the corridor. He didn’t look happy. “I lost him,” he said. “Just too much damage to his carotid artery. And there were several bullet fragments in his right temporal lobe that we didn’t catch until we had the bleeding under control.”

“We’ll get his fingerprints, dental records, and samples of his blood, saliva, and hair for a DNA analysis,” Mary said. “Same as the South African. Something matching the two of them might turn up.”

Franklin nodded. “Unless you’re going to send me someone else this evening, I’m going home,” he said, and he walked away.

NINETEEN

Hammond and Susan were having a late breakfast in the suite after an energetic night of lovemaking. She was nearly ten years younger than he was and had more stamina. Plus, she was almost always completely absorbed in herself, and there were times that he felt he was getting tired of her.

“Typical Hollywood,” she’d once explained. “A leopard can’t change its spots, and an actor sometimes doesn’t know who the real person is.”

They’d been on his yacht anchored off Cannes a few years ago. It was morning, and they were having breakfast like now.

“I don’t want you to change,” he’d told her, and he’d meant it.

“You’ll get tired of me sooner or later. It’s another Hollywood flaw, or plus, depending on your point of view. Jump in bed for a good fuck with someone new. Marry them eventually, and within a year, you decide someone else might be more interesting, and you drift apart to start it all over again.”

“So let’s be different and never get married to each other.”

She’d smiled and nodded. “Freedom. I like that.”

“Me, too,” Hammond had said.

She took her coffee and went to the window looking toward the White House. “We should have heard something by now,” she mused.

Hammond agreed. “He might have missed, or something may have come up.”

“He’ll want the second payment, and he’ll want to keep you from getting nervous. Maybe you’ll pull the first half from his account.”

“Can’t be done.”

“My people tell me that anything can be done, if the incentive is there.”

It was the first thing Hammond had thought of when he’d awakened this morning. But he’d decided to give it a little time.

He picked up his phone and called Tarasov’s private number. It rang four times, but instead of rolling over to a voicemail option, the call was canceled. He hit the End button.

Susan had watched. “No one home?”

“No.”

She came across, took the phone from him, entered a number, and put it on speaker mode. It rang twice before a woman answered. “Department of Justice, how may I direct your call?”

“Bob Perkins, please.”

“Robert Perkins’s office. Who is calling?” another woman answered.

“Susan Patterson. I just need a moment of Bobby’s time, if he’s fit company this morning.”

“One moment.”

Susan put her hand over the phone. “He’s an assistant director of the DOJ’s Domestic Intelligence Division. He’s a fan, and we’re old pals.”

“Good morning, Susan. Surprised to hear from you,” Perkins said. He sounded breathless as if he’d just run up a flight of stairs, or just excited that a movie star had called. “It’s been a while. Are you in town?”

“I am. And I want to know what kind of an operation you guys are running here. A girl can’t come to D.C. and feel safe on the streets?”

“My God, what happened? Are you okay?”

“I was at a party in Georgetown last night. And all of a sudden, it was like World War III was starting. I mean, sirens everywhere. And maybe even some shooting? I’m telling you, I was frightened out of my mind. I thought it was another Pulse incident.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and she covered the phone again.

“After midnight?” Hammond said.

Susan took her hand away. “Sometime after midnight, maybe.”

“Hold on,” Perkins said.

Susan held out her coffee cup for a refill, and Hammond poured.

Perkins came back, and he sounded cautious. “There was a shooting up near the university, but I’m told it was a drunk with a gun threatening to kill his wife,” Perkins said. “Where was the party?”

“I was just getting in a cab on M Street to come back to the hotel when we heard the gunfire. I’m not shitting you, Bobby, it scared the hell out of me.”

“Not to worry.”

“Did they kill the drunk?”

Perkins hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Okay, well, I feel safer. Maybe next time I’m in town, if you can keep the bad guys at bay, we’ll get