I steeled myself and quietly returned to the hallway, padding along on the carpet. At the end of the hall was a door to what looked like a master bedroom. The door was open, but I couldn’t see any movement inside. There was a room kitty-corner to it, also with the door open. I froze when I heard someone cough loudly from that room.
My eyes narrowed as I brought my weapon up in both hands. I took one last deep breath and swiftly entered the room. I was surprised by what I saw.
Gordon Willis sat at a desk, facing the doorway, with his face buried in his hands. A large bottle of vodka sat open on his desk, and I could smell booze in the air. Next to the bottle was a Glock pistol. The room was some kind of study.
Gordon looked up when I entered the room, eyes wide. He swore aloud and reached for the pistol. My revolver roared in the confines of the study. The slug shattered the vodka bottle, blasted through Gordon’s hand, and smacked into his desk. Gordon screamed in pain, clutching his pulped right hand with his left. The Glock was sent clattering to the floor.
He stared at the blood pouring down his arm for a moment, then looked up at me. “What took you so long?” he asked heavily, convulsing with pain. “What are you waiting for?”
“It was a long drive from Nevada,” I said coldly.
Gordon froze and stared at my face intently for a moment. “V . . . Valentine? They sent you?” He paused for a moment, grunting in pain. “Jesus, I should’ve known. Well, just . . . just get it over with.” He looked down at his desk.
“Gordon,” I said slowly, keeping my weapon trained on him, “who is it that you think sent me?”
“What? You mean you’re not . . .” Gordon trailed off for a moment. He then let out a pained laugh. “You picked a hell of a day to show up.”
“What are you talking about?” My patience was running out.
Gordon nodded his head at his computer screen. The Drudge Report had a lead article about Project Heartbreaker and the abandonment of American personnel in Zubara. Bob Lorenzo had come through. He’d leaked Hunter’s flash drive, or at least part of it, to the public. “They told me there was no reason for my family to suffer,” Gordon said slowly, grasping his bleeding hand even tighter. “They let me send my wife away with my little girl. They . . . they told me to wait here. They said they’d come for me.”
“Who?” I asked. “Majestic?”
Gordon managed a sardonic, half-in-shock smile, all while tears of pain were leaking involuntarily from his eyes. “You think you got it all figured out because you found out a name?” He scoffed, wincing in pain as he did so. “You have no idea the forces that are at work here, kid. This is bigger than us. They know everything now. They know about the deal I made with Eduard Montalban. They even found out I was proceeding on Blue!”
“I’m not working for anybody. You don’t know why I’m here, do you?” Gordon looked at me in silence, inebriated from both shock and alcohol. My face hardened. “Her name was Sarah.”
“What? Oh . . . right . . . McAllister. I was sent a report about you two.”
“I know. I read it. She’s dead because of you, you son of a bitch!”
“I know,” Gordon groaned, squirming from the pain. “What do you want me to say? I was cleaning up loose ends. It was part of the deal. But that’s all ruined now. They found out.”
I smiled coldly. “Hunter gave me a lot of information before he died. I made sure it got into the right hands.”
“You? You did this? Do you have any idea the damage you’ve done? Well you’ll find out soon enough. Or not. I don’t know. They’ll probably just kill you. You should’ve taken me up on my offer.”
“And you should’ve listened when I told you not to fuck with me.” Then I shot him through the heart. The bullet punched through the back of his chair in a splash of blood, and Gordon tumbled to the floor.
I stood there for what seemed like a long time, not moving. I slowly lowered my gun. It was done; Gordon was dead. I’d avenged Sarah.
Yet I felt no satisfaction. Nothing had changed, except I’d ended one more life. Ling had warned me that if I went down this road, I might not like what I found when I reached the end. She was right. I’d reached the end, and I felt nothing.
Turning to leave the room, I nearly ran into the barrels of several suppressed weapons. A full squad of men dressed in tac gear was standing in the hall.
“Drop your weapon!” one of the men commanded.
Very slowly, I laid my revolver down on the carpet. I stepped back and placed my hands behind my head. The men in the hall rushed me then. I was turned around and slammed against the wall. My hands were roughly pulled behind my back and cuffed together.
Searing pain shot through me as one of the men shoved a high-powered taser into my back. I gasped for air, my knees buckled, and I fell to the floor. A black bag was pulled over my head, and I was hit with the taser again.
I found myself wondering if they’d come for me, or if they’d come for Gordon. I doubted I’d live long enough to find out.
LORENZO
Somewhere in the Caribbean
August 28
“It has been a month since billionaire philanthropist Eduard Montalban was killed in a tragic plane crash. The FAA has concluded their investigation and have determined that his Gulfstream jet was brought down by a mechanical failure as the pilot attempted an emergency landing at an airport in rural Nevada. According to the National Transportation Safety Board, there is no evidence that the plane was brought down by a surface-to-air missile, as was originally rumored,” the anchorwoman said. Like most cable news people, she was easy on the eyes yet hard on the brain.
The screen switched over to a prerecorded press conference. The caption on the bottom of the shot said Special Agent Robert T. Lorenzo, FBI. Bob looked awkward on camera, enormous behind the podium, and the press spotlights caused a reflection from the top of his bald head. “I can assure you that there is no need to panic. There’s absolutely no evidence that there are any anti-aircraft missiles in the United States. Air travel is perfectly safe.” My brother lied well. It must run in the family. “The reports of a wild west-style gunfight in the Nevada desert beforehand are nothing more than unfounded rumors passed on by conspiracy theorists. Mr. Montalban’s death was a tragic accident. He was a great humanitarian and will be missed by all.”
They showed a file photo of Big Eddie waving to the crowd at some bigwig charity function, supermodel on one arm, poodle in the other.
Good riddance. Freak.
How could such a pathetic shell of a man cause so much suffering? I didn’t think I would ever understand what made him tick, what motivated him to threaten me. The wicked trinket that had cost Train and Carl their lives was buried in a pit of ashes in Nevada. It had gone from one hole in the desert to another. It could rot in those ruins forever for all I cared. It seemed fitting.
The picture changed back to the vacuous reporter. “But with the recently revealed secret files concerning Project Heartbreaker, new questions have been raised. According to the files anonymously placed on the Internet, Eduard Montalban’s older brother, Rafael, was one of their targets in the Middle East and was assassinated by members of the rogue operation codenamed Dead Six. Now members of Congress are questioning the NTSB’s ruling and demanding that the investigation be reopened.”