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

“Anything else,” O’Brian asked.

Evarts didn’t ask about the escort service lead because if there had been anything he could share on the phone, O’Brian would have already told him.

“Yeah, could you run down this guy’s background and have it couriered over to the hotel.”

“Unclassified only,” O’Brian said. “Probably there this afternoon. What’s his name and residence.”

“John Smith. He lives in Georgetown—”

“John Smith? The lobbyist?”

“Yes,” Evarts answered.

“Oh shit. He’s probably the most connected person in this town and he’s a courier for those special packages.” There was a pause. “You coldcocked him?”

“We need to talk in person,” Evarts said.

The phone went quiet again, then O’Brian mused, “He’s got to be pretty high up.”

Evarts didn’t respond.

“Unless he objects, take him into ER for a checkup,” O’Brian said. “Ask if he’ll met me for dinner at the hotel. Make him accept the invitation. In the meantime, play nice.” There was a pause. “And Greg, don’t make the mistake of believing his reach doesn’t extend to Santa Barbara.”

“Got it.” Evarts took a guess. “Jim, you think his prowess as a lobbyist may come from his position in what Trish calls a boys club.”

“We need to get off the phone. We’ve said too much already. I’ll send over any additional instructions with the couriered background info. Goodbye.”

The phone went dead. That was the first time Evarts had seen O’Brian spooked.

Chapter 69

The MPs had withdrawn on instructions from O’Brian, so Evarts and Baldwin helped Smith to his feet. He appeared more shaken than angry. As he rubbed his jaw, he insisted that he was okay and didn’t want to go inside the hospital. Now some anger was starting to show. Entitled people don’t abide being mistreated by people below their station.

“You’ll pay for that. The punch, my arm, my wrist, the restraints, the lot of it. You’ll rue the day you met me.”

Evarts needed to exert control over the situation by rocking Smith back on his heels.

“I already do. You’re a shitheel in a five-thousand-dollar suit. How can you threaten me further? How? You’ve already sicced the Ikhwan on me and my wife. Big time. That’s why I punched you. Make no mistake … I wanted to kill you. We don’t care about your damn Templars … and at this point, we have nothing to lose. A million-dollar bounty doesn’t give us much choice.” Evarts stepped into Smith’s face. “This is personal. Your so-called status won’t protect you. I wanted to show you that a punch or a bullet hits a Seville Row suit just as hard as it hits a jerk wearing a wife-beater.”

Evarts poked him in the center of his chest with a single finger.

Smith backed away from him. “I’m sorry. I understand we treated you badly, but you need to understand, you’re a soldier in a much bigger struggle. A struggle between good and evil. If we don’t win against this enemy, civilization will end. The future will become as bleak as the Dark Ages. Feudalism the order of the day. Devout Muslims live in the past and want to drag all of us back with them. If they win, we’ll be forced to submit to them or die like dogs. Listen, in the bigger picture, we’re not threatening you, we’re your savior.”

Baldwin got into the act. “Since you fancy yourself a crusader against the pagan hordes, we should be grateful to die for your cause? Greg, maybe—”

“They’re not pagans,” Smith interrupted.

“What?” Baldwin asked, surprised he took offense to that word.

“I said Muslims are not pagans. Our beef with Muslims is not based on faith, but upon the bastardization of faith by very human leaders. They worship a single God. From a faith perspective, that’s all we require. Ask your husband. He’s a mason. Admittance is predicated on an avowal that there’s but one God. That’s all. We don’t care what you call it or how you worship, but you must acknowledge that there’s a single Supreme Being. Muslims believe in one God, so they’re not pagans and may petition to join.”

“But few have,” Evarts said.

“Not because of mason animosity toward Muslims. The reverse. Catholics and Muslims are taught to hate Freemasons. But unlike Catholics, Muslim extremists will use violence to express their hatred. In 2016, the FBI stopped an attack on one of our masonic lodges in Milwaukee. A young Islamist told the authorities, ‘We are Muslims, defending Muslim religion and we will eliminate everyone.’”

Baldwin grabbed Evarts elbow. “He’s running us down a rabbit hole.”

Evarts nodded. “Mr. Smith, here’s the point of this discussion, General O’Brian has invited you to dinner. You will accept the invitation. If you don’t want to see a doctor, we can grab a cab to our hotel and enjoy a cocktail while we wait.”

“No! I’m not going with you.” Smith gave Evarts the stern look he probably used to cow underlings. “And I’m not meeting O’Brian. I have affairs to tend to. Release me and I’ll be on my way.”

Smith half turned so Evarts could cut his restraints.

Evarts let him stand there, twisted like a pretzel until he spun back around with an indignant expression.

Evarts said evenly, “When news of this aborted attack blows up on Monday, we’ll tell the media that you were going to distribute those bombs to House and Senate members. The media will ask if you’re a suspect. Our answer will be that we don’t have enough information at this point to determine if you were an accomplice … or a dupe.”

Smith’s expression turned livid.

“If you defame me, I’ll sue your ass off.”

“Me?” Evarts said, hands thrown wide. “I was speaking metaphorically. It won’t be us.” Evarts shifted a finger between himself and Baldwin. “It will be the government of the United States of America. Good luck with suing them.”

“I have powerful friends.”

Baldwin laughed. “Not after they learn you were going to bomb them to hell and gone. The leaking of your membership in some imprecise secret organization won’t help your situation either.”

“I’m a Templar, not an