He headed for the rear of the house and raised the phone to his ear.
83
Jeff sat in the passenger seat of the Suburban as they drove northwest out of the city. He looked over his shoulder, where Singh sat in the back seat beside Delia’s limp body.
Her chest rose and fell in a deep, artificial sleep.
“Is she stable?” he asked.
“For now. The gunshot went through her chest muscle. It didn’t enter the cavity.”
Jeff lifted his secure cell and called Blakely.
“Where is Averose?” David asked.
“He ran.”
A cold silence.
Jeff looked at Delia and the rust-colored blood staining the bandage near her shoulder. “But we have Delia Tayran,” he said.
It would have been cleaner to simply eliminate her—the fewer people out there who knew the truth, the better—but now they might need her as leverage on Nick.
“Bring her here.”
“Are you sure?”
“She’s close to Averose?”
“Like family.”
“Would he give his life up for hers?”
“Without a second thought.”
“Then we use her to get him under control.”
“Are Ali and Karen there?”
“On the way. The others are bringing them.”
Jeff had handed off Karen to two of his men after the ambush so that he could go after Nick. He told her she needed to stay with them, that it was just a way to keep her safe for a while.
“We have everyone who knows except for Averose,” David said.
“The guesthouse?”
“Yes. Keep her out of sight and come in the back way. I’m about to close this, and I can’t have any loose ends.”
84
Nick saw a patrol car pacing him two blocks back, so he turned right. He kept on, driving the exact speed limit, waiting for the cop to come, for the flashers to light up. But it drove straight past him. The escape from Georgetown left him with his face flushed.
He was driving Ali’s Toyota. Delia’s pack full of gear was on the floor in front of the passenger seat. He’d gone into it for a pick and opened the double lock on the cuffs.
He pulled over in Friendship Heights and checked Delia’s computer. A photo of David Blakely was up on the web browser. The malware they had planted on Sam’s phone was still reporting his location. It was stationary now, in the mountains outside Frederick.
He switched the map to a satellite view and zoomed in on the address. It was a compound, ten or fifteen acres, with a massive main building that looked like a retreat center and a guesthouse in the back. Sam was there, and David had said that he was going to keep him close, take him somewhere they would both be protected. That house fit the bill.
Nick pulled out. He didn’t know if Jeff would have taken Delia and Ali there, too. But there might be a way to find out. Nick reached into Delia’s bag and pulled out one of the prepaid phones.
He dialed a familiar number and listened to it ring as he gripped the wheel. The call connected, and he heard the voice of an old friend, Jeff Turner. “Who’s this?”
“Is she alive? Delia?”
“Nick.” He was startled for an instant, but then he kept on, calm. “She is.”
“What do you want?”
“Come in. You can protect her. Protect all of them if you play this right.”
“All of them?”
“Delia, Ali, Karen. We only want you. We want this all to go away. You come in, and they’ll be safe.”
A trade. His life for theirs.
“Where are you?” Nick asked. He heard faint voices in the background.
“No, Nick. I know you. I know what you’re thinking, but coming after us is hopeless. If you give yourself up, they’ll be okay. I swear. I’ll set up a place where we can meet.”
He found himself wishing it were true, a simple sacrifice. He would have taken the deal in an instant if Jeff hadn’t betrayed him twice, hadn’t destroyed and corrupted everything he loved. No, he wouldn’t hand himself over to die, because he knew the others would die with him. Ali was right. Jeff now had everyone who knew the truth. He was drawing a circle around this, burying the past. They could get rid of everyone who knew about Malcolm Widener’s death.
Nick didn’t answer. His tires beat a steady rhythm on the road.
He had no choice. There was no deal. The clarity washed over him like a shower after three days’ march. He wouldn’t die for nothing, for a traitor’s promise. If he was going to give up his life, he would do it by going straight at Jeff and the men he worked for.
Coming after us, Jeff had said.
“You’re with David Blakely and Sam MacDonough,” he said. “They need you to protect them.”
A disdainful laugh from Jeff, but he laughed an instant too late. Nick knew him so well; he had thrown him. Nick was right.
“Don’t get them killed thinking you can fix this.” There was cross talk in the background. “I’ll call you back. Keep your phone on.”
“I’ll call you. It’ll be a different number.”
He smashed the phone down on top of the wheel, cracking it in half, raining plastic shards into the foot well. He dropped it onto the seat beside him and pulled out the board. Of course Jeff wanted him to keep it on. They would try to track it.
Nick pressed down the gas pedal. He was going to that house. He wasn’t 100 percent certain, but it was enough for him to plan his next moves.
Jeff had taken Delia, and Nick had to assume he was at that country house or on his way. Sam was there, and most likely David. If Nick got his hands on those two, he could get the answers he needed in any case. He could put an end to all this. Cut off the head and kill the snake.
He moved by instinct: the simple draw of revenge, of protection. It burned in him, made the skin of his face feel hot and tight, made his heart pump too fast, but the clarity of it brought a kind of solace.
This wasn’t him. But he had no choice. He would become everything he hated: the threat, the assassin. David Blakely’s estate would surely be locked down like the White House. David was careful, and Jeff knew how to turn a site into a fortress.
He didn’t know how many guards they would have. Going after it on the fly was suicide. But that didn’t matter anymore. He passed a car, his speed climbing, ordering the rest of the night in his mind, what he was up against, and what he needed, and where to get it.
Acetone and peroxide, maybe black powder, and something he could use to blind them all, to make himself invisible.
85
David strode across the back deck of the main house. He ignored the wind running down the hills, cutting through the wool of his jacket as he watched the rear entrance to the estate.
A black Suburban pulled in and wound toward the guesthouse. David was bringing them all here. He had everyone in hand who knew the truth, and with them he would be able to control Nick Averose.
He could shut this whole mess down tonight. This property was safe, secluded, surrounded by guards and completely under his control. That was why he had brought Sam MacDonough here. Jeff Turner was arriving now. He’d known Nick Averose for decades. He could anticipate him, counter him, play on his psychology.
But David hadn’t brought Sam here only for his protection. David had brought him here to protect himself. Sam had tried to make a move against him with that recorder, a predictable and understandable panic, but still a threat.
He wanted him here tonight under watch. He wanted him close and complicit for these final steps, so that Sam would be just as exposed as David was, so that he could never leave David holding the bag. It was a way to renew the unspoken pact they had made twenty-five years ago.
David watched one of his guards patrol the fence, then stepped back inside. He went into the library, where Ambler and Sam were talking, and closed the door silently behind him. Sam gave him a smile as David stood just inside, looking over Ambler’s shoulder.<
br />
“One last question, Sam,” Ambler said. “Your life is about to be under a microscope. Is there anything you need to tell me? Anything that might come out during the campaign that we need to prepare for? I’d rather find out now than on the front page of the Times.”
Sam thought for a moment, his lips pressed together, then shook his head. “I’m an open book.”
Ambler let out a breath. “Great. You wouldn’t believe the shit I hear.”
They rose, both understanding that their conversation was drawing to a close. Ambler walked toward the door.
“Did he pass?” David asked.
Ambler grinned. “I have to go. I need to make some calls from the car, but I think we’re in excellent shape.”
“I’ll walk you out,” David said. He strode with Alan through the foyer while Sam hung back near the library.
“So?” David asked Alan.
“I think you have this. I need to take a couple of people’s pulses again, but I’m all in. I’ll call you back in, say, a half hour or so and let you know the verdict from the rest of the committee.”
“If you had to bet?”
“I’m confident. Start thinking about the best way to make the announcement.”
86
Nick changed clothes and cleaned himself up in a gas station bathroom before hitting the first spot on his list: Sally Beauty. He bought a pint bottle of concentrated hydrogen peroxide—sold as a liquid developer to lighten hair—along with a tube of hair dye and a bag of cotton balls for show. He gave the clerk a compliment on her gels—a diamond on each finger—and walked out two minutes before the place closed.
He found an open armory. A bell rang over his head as he pushed into the store and the man behind the pistol case looked up. Nick nodded his head solemnly. There was always an air of unspoken violence and ugly but necessary duties in a gun shop.
He browsed long enough to not seem desperate and looked at a few pistols with the unrushed manner of a man indulging a hobby, not arming for battle. He still had the gun he’d taken from the man in Dumbarton Oaks, though he hadn’t been able to pick up the suppressor in the rush from the hospital. Nick preferred the other pistol, the one he’d bought before he cornered Sam MacDonough in the apartment. It was a striker-fired Smith & Wesson .357 SIG, the same gun he normally carried. All he needed was ammo—a hundred and fifty rounds of jacketed hollow-points—four extra magazines, a cleaning kit, and two mag holsters for his belt.
He eyed an AR-15 carbine, the weapon like a second limb from his time in the military, but buying a gun would raise red flags. He could do a lot more damage with a rifle, but that was fine. He would be in close anyway.
Next was Walmart. He moved with a cold efficiency, taking care as always with prep and gear. A bullhorn. A knife. Acetone. Blackhorn 209 powder. A little green box from the garden center. A few cheap metal thermoses. And as he checked out with the cashier, a young mumbler with gauges in his earlobes, Nick looked at the locked cabinets full of pregnancy tests and Sudafed and cigarettes.
“And a pack of Camel Wides,” Nick said.
He threw his purchases into the back of Ali’s car while scanning the lot, thinking about his preacher friend from this morning. If ever he needed a blessing, it was now.
He climbed into the driver’s seat and headed for the mountains.
They rose higher as he drove. The highway began to climb and fall, tracing the first foothills, the ridges shadow upon shadow across the night sky.
He exited the interstate and wound along country roads, climbing through switchbacks, heading for the top of a long ridge. The trees grew so dense they blacked out the stars. He avoided the main routes. He had to come at them unseen.
A yellow sign warned of a sharp turn ahead, and Nick pulled into the narrow shoulder of the hairpin turn.
He could see the lights of an estate in the valley below. David Blakely’s house.
87
In the guesthouse at David’s estate, Ali stood as the door opened. She took a step back as two men walked into the suite where she was being held. She recognized one of them from outside Dumbarton Oaks. Singh, someone had called him, before he sent Ali to the ground with a vicious blow to her eye.
They carried a young woman, stumbling between them through the sitting room, moaning quietly in pain. She seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness. Her head swung to the side and Ali saw that it was Delia.
Ali gasped, her hand rising toward her mouth. Singh led Delia into a bedroom. A moment later, Jeff entered the suite and watched through the bedroom door as the two others settled Delia on the bed.
Jeff’s eyes went to Ali, and he strolled slowly toward her across the sitting room. The left side of her face was a mask of pain, and her balance was still off. She reached back and grabbed the arm of a chair to steady herself.
“Why would you go against us, Ali?” Jeff said, moving closer still, his eyes inches from hers.
“I thought it was the right play,” she said, bottling up the fear, her eyes not wavering from his. She looked around the room. “Is this where you brought Emma Blair?”
“It doesn’t have to be like that for you, Ali. The martyr thing.”
He put his hand against her cheek, the skin of his palm soft and cool, and then he gripped it, hard, and the pain made the room spin.
“How much does Nick Averose know?” he asked, squeezing harder.
She cried out but didn’t answer.
“Don’t make me do this, Ali. Who else did you talk to?”
He let go and she took a stumbling step back, put her hand to the wall.
“Ali, please. There’s a way out of this. It’s up to you.”
88
Nick wanted high ground. He wanted the weakest point in the estate’s perimeter. He bumped along on a fire road, fighting the wheel as he climbed the hills behind the compound. A black line of clouds moved across the night sky, far to the north.
Just behind the ridgeline, he pulled over, leaned down, and tugged out the fuse for his running lights. The car was blacked out, and he went on by the moon’s glow, barely crawling until he could see the compound below. He pulled to a stop a hundred yards from the power lines that fed the estate.
The main building looked like a luxury hotel with massive multilevel decks facing the hills and twenty-foot windows along a great hall.
Where are you? Nick thought. He wanted Jeff and David and Sam, and needed to know where they might be keeping the others. He lifted a brand-new spotting scope and scanned the windows and doors. Men in dark suits with military bearings guarded the entrances. Patrols moved along the perimeter. There were at least a dozen guards.
He looked over the fences. Along the front of the estate there were iron pickets, relatively easy to bypass but too exposed. At the rear of the property, down the hill from where he had stopped, the fencing was more secure: chain-link with barbed wire, all well lit. He’d seen worse. Razor ribbon would’ve been more secure but would have killed the refined air Blakely was shooting for.
The guesthouse, a mansion in its own right, stood near the back of the property between Nick and the main house. The guesthouse had a private pool, covered for the season, alongside a pair of tennis courts. He surveyed its rear facade and the windows along one side but saw nothing. All the blinds were drawn.
He and Jeff had once been like brothers. They had trained and fought side by side for years in the marines. Even under threat, pulses pounding but minds calm, they could operate without a word. They knew each other that well.
If Nick were down there, if he knew someone was hunting him and his client, he would have reinforced that guesthouse, set it up in advance so they could hole up if an attack came. It was three stories and seemed purpose-built for protection, a safe house, a fortress. Or a prison if Nick handled this right.
Nick had already loaded his gear into a cheap camping backpack and given the Smith & Wesson a quick strip, clean, and oil.
He checked the action on
the pistol, then drove a magazine in and loaded a round.
He saw a light flash near the fence line: a regular patrol.
He had to be sure this was the right place. He had to know their location. He didn’t have time to wait for his targets to appear. He needed to draw them out, to provoke.
Nick took out his phone.
89
Jeff Turner walked through a hall on the ground floor of the main house. David Blakely came around the corner, pulled Jeff into a room lined with wine bottles, and shut the door. “So where is Averose?”
“I talked to him. I told him we would make a deal.”
“And?”
“He’ll bite.”
“What did Ali say?”
“She had nothing solid on you. No real proof.”
“And who else has she spoken with?”
“Just Nick and the woman he works with, Delia. We have everyone.”
“That tracks with what we picked up from her digital trail.” David’s eyes flared. “All right. So we get Averose and we’ve got our arms around this thing. What will it take?”
“He’s going to call back. Protecting people is his blind spot. With enough pressure, I can bring him in.”
Jeff had seen Alan Ambler’s Mercedes leave the property through the front gate as he walked back from the guesthouse. He knew the kind of stakes that David was playing for. Jeff had watched Blakely operate for years, but he still couldn’t believe his confidence, locking down a presidential nomination in the middle of all this, never losing focus, step by step, as if it were all routine.
“Tonight,” David said. “This is moving quickly. I need the problem gone. Every piece. All of them.”
Jeff nodded slowly. “They’re all connected to Nick Averose, and the law thinks he’s a killer. There’s a story there. It’ll sell. We put the blame on him once he’s gone. You want me to start now?”
Hour of the Assassin Page 20