The Suppressor by Erik Carter (good books to read for beginners .txt) 📕

the idea of Silence Jones to the old man with every sentence. Sure, Laswell had stepped out of line by offering Rowe a position as an Asset without authorization, but that didn’t make this conversation less awkward.

And the ass-killing chair wasn’t helping anything either.

“So, yes,” Laswell continued, “Rowe was bleeding profusely when—”

Briggs raised a hand. “Wait. Tell me more about the guy, his background.”

Laswell settled back into the chair, shifting his weight. The left cheek tingled a bit. Maybe there was a bit of life left in his ass after all.

“He grew up in a small coastal town in Northern California,” Laswell said. “Father was a chain hotel manager; mother, a homemaker who gave singing lessons on the side. Moved to Pensacola, Florida, at age eight, when Daddy’s company opened a new beach resort. Momma died in a car accident about a year after the move. He was a bright kid, but only so-so in school. After high school, he went to Florida State, average student, got a degree in communications.”

“Communications?” Briggs scoffed. “Bullshit degree. That’s what they put football players in.”

Laswell cleared his throat. “Um, my daughter’s majoring in communications, sir.”

Briggs straightened in his seat, eyes widening, apologetic words forming on his lips.

Laswell mugged. “Kidding.”

Briggs scowled.

The guy really couldn’t take a joke.

Laswell continued. “Rowe moved back to Pensacola. Couldn’t find work for a while.”

Briggs scoffed at this, seemingly a confirmation of his moments-earlier proclamation of communications being a bullshit degree.

“Got a teaching license at Pensacola’s University of West Florida. Four years of teaching high school speech while taking nighttime graduate-level courses at UWF. Got his master’s. Taught three years at a community college. Then a career change into the police.”

“And how long’s he been a cop?”

Laswell grimaced. There had been several points in this meeting when he was hesitant, almost embarrassed, to answer Briggs’s questions about his hand-picked new Asset.

This was one of them.

“A year.”

“A year? You assured me this man is fully prepared!”

Laswell inched back in his seat, scratched at his mustache. “Less than a year, technically. But that’s not what you asked. You asked if Jake Rowe had prior training, and I told you that he had, that he’d been trained both at a police academy and by Nakiri.”

Briggs scowled. “You can be a real manipulative son of a bitch, you know that?”

Laswell smiled broadly, stretching that beguiling mustache of his ear to ear. “Thank you, sir.”

Briggs was right. He could be a real manipulative son of a bitch. He was a lawyer by training, after all.

But, then, so was Briggs.

Briggs shook his head, sighed. “So why did our speech teacher go cop?”

“Hard to say, really. It would appear to me a bit of an early midlife crisis. A chance for adventure and purpose.”

“Teaching wasn’t purposeful enough for him?”

Laswell raised his hands. “I’m only speculating here. Records show he lobbied to use his communications skills to get selected for the undercover position. Not that it would have taken much cajoling, I’m sure.”

“He’s got balls; I’ll give him that.”

Briggs looked away.

To the wall.

Oh, no.

But Briggs was merciful. The moment of reflection was brief. He turned back to Laswell. “Continue. What happened after Rowe fled the Farone mansion?”

Laswell grinned. “Here’s where things get tasty. Here’s where Jake Rowe gets his revenge.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Jake didn’t know how he’d gotten there, why or even if he’d chosen the destination.

He hadn’t been driving since he left the Farone mansion. Other forces were controlling him—working the pedals, turning the wheel. And those forces brought him to his neighborhood.

For the first several miles leaving the country estate outside of Pensacola proper, on the edge of the metropolitan area, his mind was a complete fog. He couldn’t feel his hands, his feet, but somehow he kept on driving.

A few miles later, inside the city, with the other vehicles and traffic lights, his senses faded back into existence. And so did the feeling of dread, the realization of the pain. Whereas there had been detachment, suddenly it was real.

His loss of C.C.

The numb fingers, the dead feet brought him all the way back through town, to the east side, driving for over half an hour, to the quiet neighborhood near the mall and the airport where his rental house was located. The police department had secured the house for what was to be a temporary stay, but as he fell deeper and deeper into his undercover lie, the lease was extended. It became his home, not just a house.

Still, he’d lived there only a few months, and as he approached, the house felt foreign. The tragedy had somehow shined a light on the lie.

This was Pete Hudson’s home. Not Jake Rowe’s.

As he killed the engine of Charlie’s Taurus, putting the stick into first and pulling up on the handbrake, he finally realized why he’d come to the house.

Burton.

At a minimum, Burton would have the place watched—but more likely, he would have posted a man here.

Jake didn’t know what his next course of action was, but he knew it lie on a collision path with Burton.

That’s why he’d come back here.

To get the ball rolling.

He’d parked about a block back, giving himself plenty of space. He leaned over the steering wheel, squinting at the simple ranch-style house. Yellow brick. Gray shutters and door. Bushes along the sidewalk and a sparse, sandy, Florida lawn.

The windows were dark. No signs of movement. He recognized all the vehicles parked along the street as neighborhood regulars.

Pain pulsed from his leg, and he glanced at it. Lots of blood, but the pellet hadn’t lodged in his muscle. It had nicked the taught skin on his calf, which splayed open to a four-inch gash. It hurt like hell, but it wouldn’t kill him. Not yet, anyway. He could very well bleed out if he didn’t get medical attention soon.

He’d get it stitched up.

But not yet.

Blood covered his clothing. So much. Most of it C.C.’s. On a quiet street in a quiet neighborhood, could he make it to the house without someone noticing a