by John Sneeden
“Who lives on Harvard Street?” Raymer asked.
Drenna felt the answer was floating somewhere in her thoughts, but she couldn’t quite pull it out. She was about to ask him to just give her the answer when it hit her. She lifted her eyes and held Raymer’s gaze. “Nathan. That’s where Nathan lives.”
He nodded slowly.
Drenna had been to her boss’s house on several occasions: twice for Christmas parties and one or two times to talk about things they didn’t want to discuss in the office. It was circumstantial evidence, but when combined with the other piece of circumstantial evidence—her meeting Trevor on the same night she was having dinner with Sprague—it was powerful, perhaps even conclusive.
She looked across the table at Raymer. “You’re absolutely sure that’s the store where the phone was purchased?”
“One hundred percent. What I can’t prove is that Nathan bought the phone, although I think we both know that’s too much of a coincidence.”
Drenna shook her head in disbelief. “It’s all so surreal. I never would’ve imagined Nathan was capable of something like this.”
“I don’t work for the man, but I do know he has a stellar reputation.”
“Do you have anything else?” Drenna asked.
He took a sip of coffee before answering. “Croesus. The name you said was in Petrov’s contacts. I’m pretty sure I know what it means.”
Before he could continue, the lights went out, plunging the kitchen into darkness. They both sat perfectly still as the rain beat down on the roof.
Raymer cursed under his breath. “We have the worst electrical grid in the District.” He picked up his phone, turned on the flashlight app, then set it on the table. “That will have to do for now.”
Drenna looked out the bay window to her left. The large branches of an oak tree were twisting in the wind.
Raymer cleared his throat. “Anyway, about the name.”
A loud pop sounded outside, then a windowpane shattered. Drenna flinched. The wind must have hurled something toward the house. A pine cone or limb.
“Drenna…”
She looked at Raymer. His face was barely visible in the phone’s glow. He stared at her blankly.
“Geoff?”
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but only a gurgling sound came forth.
Drenna stiffened. “Geoff, what’s wrong?”
As she started to get up, his head fell to the table.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
After realizing Geoff Raymer had been shot, Drenna dropped to the floor. She squirmed over to his side of the table and eased him off the chair. Cradling him, she looked at the right side of his head. Blood oozed from a massive hole. There was no need to administer any aid. He was dead.
She rose to one knee, careful to keep her head out of sight. She understood what had happened. It wasn’t the storm that had cut the power. When a lightning strike was involved, a full outage was usually preceded by a flickering of lights. In this case, they had simply gone out in an instant.
Someone had cut the power then moved into position outside the window. From there, they had simply shot Raymer through the glass. His head was illuminated by the glow of the phone, which made him an easy target.
Drenna also found it interesting that someone had pulled the trigger at the very moment when Raymer was about to reveal information about Croesus. Was that a coincidence? Had the assassin been listening in on their conversation? There were a number of listening devices that could be attached to panes of glass.
A loud click drew Drenna back to the present. She turned and looked behind her. The sound had come from a hall that ran down the back of the house. She guessed the attacker was trying to come through the back door.
The click was followed by a scraping sound.
He’s picking the lock.
Drenna looked around the room. She saw a cutlery set on the kitchen counter. She could grab one of the knives then try to get to the door before the attacker got in. Although it might work, she decided it wasn’t worth the risk. If she didn’t get there in time, the knife would be useless against a pistol.
Pistol.
She suddenly remembered that Raymer’s Sig Sauer semi-automatic was still sitting on the coffee table at the front of the house. If it was loaded—and she assumed it was—she would be able to defend herself.
As she stood, she heard a door groan in the distance. He’s coming inside.
She went down the hall and into the living room. It was dark, but after feeling around on the table, she finally closed her hand on the Sig Sauer. She enabled her phone screen then used its glow to check the gun’s magazine. To her relief, it appeared to be full. She pulled the slide and chambered a round.
She stood silently in place. What next? What if there was more than one attacker? Should she retreat and live to fight another day? It would be easy to slip out the front door and leave the danger behind.
No, retreat wasn’t an option. She had come too far to just run off. She needed to know who had killed Raymer because it might be the same person who had ordered her death.
Thunder growled outside as the rain continued to beat down on the house. The noise was good and bad. It would mask her movements, but it would also mask the sounds of the person coming after her. She needed to find a place to hide, a place that would allow her to see the intruder as he searched the house.
As she looked around, Drenna saw a set of stairs that ran up to the second floor. That would be perfect for what she had in mind. She crossed the room and went up the steps until they disappeared from view of anyone standing in the living room. She sat down and leaned forward until she could see into the room below.
A slight creak came from somewhere in the house. Drenna thought it sounded like the hall. He was getting closer.
Soon after, she heard the light thump of a booted foot. The man was somewhere in the room below, but she couldn’t see him yet.
Seconds later, a shadowy figure came into view. Although she couldn’t see the man’s features, Drenna could tell the man was extremely large. He was at least six foot four and had a solid build. That alone ruled out almost everyone she worked with. So who was it? She guessed it was another hired assassin, someone who had been brought in to clean up the mess. Those types of men usually possessed far superior skills to the ones who couldn’t get the job done in the first place. They commanded a higher price but were extremely good at what they did. Drenna had found that most were retired Special Forces soldiers. Men who knew how to kill.
A moment later, the man stepped farther into the room. Like a programmed robot, his head turned quickly in several different directions. He seemed to be checking off hiding places one at a time, ready for any threats that might pop up. The couch. The recliner. The bottom of the staircase.
Lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating the room below. A cold chill ran down Drenna’s spine as she got a better look at the intruder. He was armed with a machine pistol, possibly a Heckler & Koch MP7. Short-stroke piston gas system. Up to forty armor-piercing rounds in a box magazine. Dominantly effective in close quarters, particularly if modified to fully automatic.
But the machine pistol wasn’t the only thing she had seen. Even more troubling was the bulky apparatus that was affixed to the man’s head. Night vision goggles. The attacker’s ability to detect heat signatures in the dark was a game changer of the worst kind.
Drenna considered her next move. Should she try to make a headshot, or should she retreat up the stairs? A head shot in a dark house was much too risky. He might locate her in the time it took to take aim. Then again, if she retreated up the stairs, it would likely give away her position. Neither option was good.
A moment later, the decision was made for her when the man turned in Drenna’s direction. Even though only part of her was exposed, it would be enough to register the orange glow of her body heat.
Left with no other option, Drenna fired twice in the general direction of the si
lhouette then scrambled quickly up the stairs. As she did, a massive hailstorm of bullets rained down on her position. Hot rounds chewed through the drywall and carpet behind her.
Modified automatic.
Drenna kept moving. Even though she was an expert marksman, this was a fight she didn’t want to have. The intruder likely had forty rounds at his disposal, with another magazine in his pocket. At this point, her best option was to find a place to hide and shoot the man before he had time to react.
At the top of the stairs, she found herself standing in a hallway that ran down the back of the house. There were two doorways along the left-hand side. Bedrooms or bathrooms.
Footsteps sounded below. The gunman had reached the stairs, so she moved farther down the hall. She was just in time. Another barrage of rounds sprayed across the wall where she had been standing.
Drenna entered the first room on the left. The furnishings were simple: a bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. Unfortunately, they were positioned in a way that wouldn’t give her any protection when the man came in. It was too late to try the other rooms, so she rushed over to the window, a dormer. She looked out and saw a short stretch of roof below. If she could get out before the attacker arrived, she could slide down the roof, hang for a moment, then drop to the ground.
The thump of footsteps came from the stairwell. Drenna undid the catch and tried to pull the lower section of the window up. Despite straining with all her strength, it wouldn’t budge. She leaned forward for a closer look. The house had probably been built in the forties or fifties, and it looked as though this particular window hadn’t been opened in at least a decade. Temperature expansion, rotten wood, and years of grime filling the seams had sealed it shut.
The footsteps arrived at the top of the stairs.
Drenna looked around. Unless she could think of something else, she would have to hide behind the bed and hope to get off a head shot before the attacker unleashed a lethal spray of rounds.
Bed.
Her eyes went back to it, and a plan formed. “That’s it,” she whispered. It was a crazy idea, but it might be her only chance of surviving.
She slid the pistol into her pocket then pulled the comforter off the bed. It was thick and fluffy, which was perfect for what she had in mind. She folded it in half, wrapped it around her body, then took a few steps back.
Seeming to sense he was closing in on his prey, the attacker charged down the hall.
After taking a deep breath, Drenna ran into the dormer’s alcove at full speed. About two feet out, she launched into the air and hit the window with her side, her body smashing through the glass and rotten wood. Once she was through, she let go of the comforter as she tumbled down the roof. When she hit the edge, she reached out and managed to grasp the gutter with one hand. The cheap metal tore away from the roof. It wasn’t enough to prevent her from going down, but it did succeed in breaking her fall.
A second later, she landed on her side. Pain scorched through her rib cage as she rolled across the wet grass. After coming to a stop, she looked up. Lightning flashed as the attacker arrived at the window. For the first time, she saw his head. He had close-cropped blond hair and a square, masculine jaw.
The man’s gaze seemed fixed on the comforter, which was on the ground about twenty yards away. As his head began to turn in her direction, Drenna rose to one knee, drew her pistol, and fired twice at the window.
Without waiting to see the results, she stood and sprinted down the side of the house.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Drenna drove to Georgetown University and pulled into the first empty parking lot she could find. She backed into a space at the rear of the lot, even though she was reasonably certain she hadn’t been followed.
She killed the engine then let her mind run over the events of the last hour. The more she thought about it, the more she believed she had seen her attacker somewhere before. Even though she couldn’t explain how she came to that conclusion, she believed he was Scandinavian. His appearance certainly fit—his height, the pale skin, and the blond hair. But it was also possible she had met him before and simply knew he was Scandinavian. Sometimes, small pieces of the puzzle filled in one by one.
She was certain about only one thing: the man wasn’t the Phantom. He was a hired gun who had been called in to take her out. Based on the information she had, the Phantom was someone who preferred to remain in the shadows while others did the dirty work. In her opinion, he was a coward of the highest order.
Which brought her thoughts back to Nathan Sprague. She had never once thought of him as a coward. Still, all of the evidence seemed to point in his direction. He was the one who had been present when Drenna had first met Trevor. And the phone used to contact Petrov had been purchased a block from Sprague’s house. There was little chance that both of those things were mere coincidence.
A gust of wind swept through the parking lot, sending a sheet of rain splattering against her windshield. The storm seemed a metaphor of the chaotic state of Drenna’s life. Every turn seemed to reveal a new level of betrayal. And while she couldn’t erase that, she could bring retribution to all those responsible.
Drenna was considering her next move when her phone buzzed in the cup holder. She frowned. Only two people had the number, and one of them was dead.
She unlocked the screen and found a text waiting. Her heart beat a little faster as she read the message.
It’s Nathan. I know you’re alive. Look, we need to talk. There is something I need to tell you. I have some information that I believe will help us find the person who tried to kill you.
Chill bumps ran down Drenna’s arms. If Nathan had sent the text, how did he get her number? She thought about it then realized the assassin had probably retrieved it from Geoff Raymer’s phone and forwarded it to Sprague.
A sense of painful resignation rose inside of her. The text was confirmation that her boss—the man she had trusted for so long—was indeed the person behind it all. He was the Phantom.
Drenna read the message again. How should she respond? An idea surfaced in her thoughts.
She typed out a question. Where would you like to meet?
She guessed Sprague would choose a place where it would be easy to kill her without being seen.
His reply came seconds later. Where are you?
She typed out a reply quickly. Foggy Bottom.
She wasn’t at Foggy Bottom, but she needed him to think that. The assassin was close by, which meant he could be sent over quickly once her location was pinpointed.
A half minute later, her phone vibrated. Let’s meet at the Rose Park Playground. I used to take my kids there. I’ll be in the shelter.
Drenna had never heard of the place before, so she pulled it up on her phone. It was located in southeast Georgetown along the Rock Creek Trail. A park would be deserted during the storm, which made it the perfect place for what he likely had in mind.
She sent him a question. When?
In thirty minutes.
She confirmed she would be there then started the car and drove out of the parking lot. But instead of going east toward the playground, she turned north toward Adams Morgan. She was certain Sprague would stay home. Why risk being seen when he could let the hired gun take care of it? She guessed Sprague would stay at home and give himself an alibi by surfing the internet or ordering a pay-per-view movie on his television.
The drive to Adams Morgan took almost a half hour. It normally took half that time, but Drenna took a circuitous route to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Sprague’s house was on Harvard Street, but she decided to park one street over instead. The man might be evil, but he wasn’t dumb. Even though he had set up a trap, he also would be prepared in case she showed up.
Drenna parked her car and hiked one block over to Harvard. The large upscale houses were set on a hill that looked down on the street below. Instead of using the sidewalk, she slipped up into one of the yards. She crept past three houses before f
inally taking cover behind a tall bush. From there, she studied the next home down, which was Sprague’s two-story redbrick. Several lights burned on the ground floor, and a sleek black BMW was parked in the front driveway.
He was still there. He was probably sitting in the back, sipping a drink while waiting for the call that would confirm she was dead.
She examined the exterior for cameras, but as far as she could tell, there weren’t any. And even if there were, she doubted he was watching them.
After removing her pistol, she sprinted across Sprague’s yard. When she arrived at the front porch, she froze. The front door was cracked open. Had he seen her coming? Was it meant to entice her to enter?
She lifted the Sig Sauer with both hands and went up the steps. The soft notes of jazz music came from somewhere inside the house. Her chest tightened. Something wasn’t right. She could feel it. But she couldn’t turn back now.
Drenna shouldered past the door and into the ornate foyer. As she stood there, she thought she heard what sounded like a distant groan, but the music muffled the sound. Was it Sprague? Was it an attempt to lure her to a place where he could shoot her?
The sound had seemed to come from the rear of the house, so she stepped down the hall that ran to the back. Seconds later, there was another groan, this one louder. To her trained ear, it sounded authentic.
“Nathan?” she called out.
A murmur that sounded like a response reached her ears.
She slowed her pace. What if Sprague had known all along that she would come here? But if that was the case, why not hide in the yard and shoot her with a suppressed weapon as she approached the house?
Surprisingly, her gut kept telling her that it wasn’t a trap. Someone was in the house, and they needed help.
Her gun up, Drenna continued down the hall until it opened into a living room and open kitchen. When she entered, her eyes were drawn to a body on the floor a few yards away. A black man was curled up in the fetal position with blood spreading out from underneath him.
Nathan.