The Final Twist

by Jeffery Deaver

  “Just take it easy, Droon.”

  “What is this? What’s going on?”

  “Hush, there, Miss Julia,” Droon scolded.

  “How do you . . .” Her voice faded.

  “Sit tight. I’ll get to you in a minute, Lovely.” He turned to Shaw. “Now, Righty, use that left hand of yours and pluck that sissy Glock off your hip and toss it in the bushes there. I want to see fingers out, like you’re sipping tea from a dainty little cup.”

  “If I do that, it might go off and hurt someone.”

  “Now, now, you know better’n that. Those Austrians’re too clever for accidents. Be a good boy and behave. Miss Julia’s looking a little queasy. We don’t want to upset her. Be a sorrow and shame. Go on, go on.”

  “What is this?” she repeated, her voice quavering.

  Droon snapped to Shaw, “Pistole, son.”

  Shaw did as he’d been told, tugging his shirt up, revealing the weapon.

  “Look at those abs. You must work out till the cows come home.”

  Shaw pitched the gun to the ground.

  “Pull those jeans cuffs up too, would’ya, boy? You look like an ankle holster kind of guy.”

  Shaw complied.

  “Goody good. Now. You, Miss Julia, you can stay fully clothed, much to my disappointment, don’tcha know? I heard you say you’re not packing heat.”

  “You heard?”

  Shaw glanced at the plumbing van. “They were listening. They know about the cassette. The analysis.” He looked to Braxton. “After you stole the voting tally I thought you’d forget about us.”

  “We couldn’t afford to do that.”

  Droon said, “You’re our favorite number-one reward-seeker, Mr. Colter Shaw.” He chuckled. “It’d hurt too much to say goodbye.”

  Helms waved his hand to silence the irritating man and stepped forward. “I wanted to see you in person, Shaw.” He looked him over, and the man seemed enormously unimpressed. This was mutual. “The Shaw family . . . you’ve caused me nothing but grief.”

  “Grief?” Shaw laughed cynically. “My mother’s a widow, thanks to you.”

  He sighed. “That again. It wasn’t supposed to happen the way it did. We thought Ashton had found the vote tally certificate. Our man was simply going to pay him a lot of money for it.”

  “Your representative for those quote ‘negotiations’ was an armed trespasser on our property at three in the morning, tracking my father in the woods. What you meant to say was torture him until he told you where it was hidden, and then kill him. You’re tedious, Helms.”

  “Tedious?” The handsome face darkened. The word had insulted him. Shaw realized whom he resembled: a younger Warren Beatty. His voice honed: “The Endgame Sanction. It’s going to change the country fundamentally.”

  “Stalin changed Russia fundamentally. I don’t think that’s the kind of standard you want to be touting.”

  “BlackBridge didn’t vote on Proposition Oh-Six. Mr. Devereux didn’t vote on it. We were hired to locate a document that’d been duly passed by the citizens of the state in a legal election. We’re just enabling the will of the people.”

  The words sounded like they came from a spokesperson at a press conference.

  Helms continued, “Just think, Shaw. The amendment gives any corporation the right to run for office. A do-good nonprofit.”

  “You’re not the shining light of social conscience, Helms. You’re destroying neighborhoods with your Urban Improvement Plan.”

  Helms shrugged. “I never held a gun to anybody’s head and said, ‘Here. Take these drugs. Or else.’”

  The big man with pale skin, the van driver, just watched everything quietly. Maybe he was the hitman who’d been brought in to replace Blond. The man who had his sights on the SP family.

  Irena Braxton appeared impatient. “We knew that Gahl had found the voting tally and hid it.” She glanced toward the white envelope. “We never knew he was sucking up evidence too.”

  “The tape recorder was in our safe house when you broke in,” Shaw said. “You had a chance to get it then.”

  Helms muttered, “Well, better late . . .”

  A nod toward Droon, who said, “Now, Miss Julia. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to give us that envelope and your purse—or wallet, if ‘purse’ is too sexist a thing to say. Sorry for the offense. I’m going to get your partic’lars, find out where you live and your family or, if you prefer, loved ones live.”

  “No, please!”

  “Yes, please!” he mocked. “Then you’re going back to the office and you’re overwriting every single bit of that digital copy of that cassette. ‘Overwrite’ is the key word. ’Member that. Nothing really gets deleted ’less you overwrite it, as you probably know, being in this business.”

  Braxton said, “No calls to the police. Or my associates’ll drive straight to your house.”

  “No!” Her voice choked. “I have children!” Her hand kneaded the envelope manically.

  Droon said, “Settle there, Lovely. You make sure everything’s gone and . . . promise never to say a word about this again. And your little ones and hubby’ll be fine.”

  “How could you do this?” she raged.

  Droon frowned as if he didn’t understand the question. He turned to Shaw. “I want the original cassette too, don’tcha know? Where is it? And don’t be playful. We don’t have all day here.”

  Shaw’s face darkened. “All right.” He held up his right hand—indicating no threat—and reached into his jacket pocket with his left, removed the cassette.

  “Lookee. Wasn’t that easy and painless? Toss it here.”

  Shaw did and the man picked it up.

  In that giddy, grating tone, Droon said, “All right, Miss Julia, the sooner you hightail to the office, the sooner—”

  “Wait.” The urgent word came from Braxton. Her head was angled, eyes squinting. “Wait.”

  Helms was frowning, and Droon turned toward her.

  “You were scanning his safe house when you picked up the call from Julia, right?” Braxton asked.

  Droon said, “Well, yup.” There was an uneasiness in his voice, as he looked at his boss’s powdered, troubled face.

  “What phone did he pick up on? What was the number?”

  “I . . .” Droon was thinking. “It started with eight-four-five or eight-four-something, I’m pretty sure. I can look up—”

  “Jesus Christ!” Braxton’s voice raged. “That’s his iPhone!”

  The woman would know that Shaw had been using his encrypted burner—the Android platform—since he’d been in San Francisco because he knew BlackBridge could listen in on the iPhone, which was unprotected.

  If Shaw had picked up the call about the audiotape on the Apple, it was because he wanted them to hear the conversation.

  “It’s a trap! There’s nothing on the tape. The static? That was just bullshit. He’s got people here.”

  The pale man and Droon lowered their stances and scanned around them, weapons extended.

  Shaw was disappointed. He had hoped to play the game out a little longer to get more information from Droon and Braxton—and more incriminating admissions.

  Braxton whispered to Helms, “Get back in the truck, Ian. Now.”

  Colter Shaw then gave a nod.

  From the woods nearby, the “park ranger,” who was, in reality, Ty, Russell’s associate from his group, called, “You with BlackBridge, hands where I can see them! Drop the weapons. Lie facedown on the ground! If you present with a weapon or any threat, you will be fired on.” He let loose a burst of rounds from his silenced H&K submachine gun. Dirt kicked up ten feet in front of the BlackBridge crew. “Now!”

  The pale op did exactly as told, tossing his pistol away as if it were burning his skin. Braxton, grimacing, unhooked her macr
amé hippie purse from her shoulder and dropped it. She began kneeling. When finally down, she eased face forward to the dirt. Ian Helms followed suit.

  Ebbitt Droon began to do the same, making a show of reaching out to set his gun gingerly on the ground. But he suddenly reared backward, putting the plumbing van between himself and Ty. He looked right at Shaw, his eyes both sadistic and amused. “No, sir, no, sir.”

  He began to lift his gun toward him. Shaw instinctively crouched, hands forward in a defensive posture.

  Which is when the woman beside him—not audio expert Julia but Shaw’s friend Victoria Lesston—pulled the trigger of Shaw’s Colt Python .357, which was in the white envelope. Because she wasn’t able to aim, the big round missed Droon by a few inches and blew apart the side-view mirror of the plumbing van. Droon stumbled backward and fell, his gun flying into the brush. He rose and fled into the woods.

  Victoria offered Shaw the Colt, but he said, “No, cover them.” Nodding toward the BlackBridge crew. He didn’t waste time searching for his Glock. Shaw turned toward the well-trod footpath Droon had disappeared down and sprinted after him.

  67

  Shaw caught up with the wiry man fifty yards away.

  Breathing hard, Droon turned back, drawing the SOG knife from the scabbard on his belt.

  “Okay, Reward Man. Pretty much had it with you, don’tcha know?”

  Shaw ignored the words and assessed the terrain. A flat grass-covered clearing. Fair ground for both of them.

  Never fight from a downhill position.

  Droon moved quickly, dancing back and forth, the knife hand—his right—always in motion.

  Shaw tried, and he only tried once. “It’s over, Droon. You know it. Don’t make it harder on yourself.”

  “Haw, you’re a funny man to speak, Shaw.” He lunged and swept the blade back and forth. Shaw easily dodged. “We debated finishing you in the camper in Tacoma. I was for that. But Irena said you might have something else for us. Something helpful.” Another swipe. “And damn if you didn’t. You found that certificate. That made her day, my oh my.”

  Shaw was paying no attention to the words. Let him talk, let him use up oxygen. What he was doing was studying Droon’s arms and hands. That’s what you always watched in a knife fight. He kept his own in front and kept dancing away from Droon, making the small man come to him, then backing off.

  Instinctively, Shaw was thinking of the rules of combat with blade.

  Rule One: If you’re attacked by someone with a knife and you’re unarmed, run.

  Not an option here.

  Droon, laughing, giddy, eyes filled with glittery light, kept jogging forward and back, sweeping the knife between the men. Shaw moved back, but returned immediately, keeping his own hands up and open—to avoid breaking a finger—and slammed them into Droon’s right arm, knocking it aside. As soon as the blade was past, Shaw cuffed Droon painfully in the face. Then moved back.

  This infuriated the man, and his resulting expression accentuated his rodent features.

  At one point Shaw, thinking the ground behind him was flat, stumbled on a root he hadn’t seen. He didn’t fall, but lost balance momentarily. Droon sprung and Shaw felt pain as the blade slashed the back of his hand.

  Rule Two: You will be stabbed in a knife fight. Accept it and try to present non-vital portions of your body.

  Shaw continued to dance away every time Droon lunged. Shaw kept up the palm slugging at his opponent’s face, stunning him.

  He didn’t go for the knife.

  Rule Three: Do not try to get the knife away from the attacker. He has a religious connection with it and no martial arts move will cause him to drop it.

  Droon was no longer smiling. Shaw was not playing fair, dancing in and out, cuffing ears and eyes. Another slash to the upper arm. The jacket took the brunt.

  Droon would pounce and Shaw would leap back, but every time he did so his right palm or left would connect with Droon’s face, which was now red in places and bleeding. That was his only target. In fast, out fast.

  “How’d you like . . .” Droon took a deep breath. “. . . to be blind, son? That suit your way of life?” Like a fencer he thrust the knife forward. Shaw saw it coming. He stunned Droon with a blow to the ear. Hard enough and such a move can render your opponent unconscious. This strike didn’t do that but it disoriented him.

  “I’m tired of you, Shaw. Let’s finish this.”

  Rule Four: When the attacker draws back, counterattack to the eyes and throat.

  Droon leapt forward, and the blade missed Shaw’s chest by inches. The second that the scrawny man turned slightly and drew the blade back, Shaw was on him, gripping the knife wrist in his left hand and clawing at the eyes. The man howled.

  Shaw pressed his advantage and, still holding the knife hand, gripped the man under his right knee, lifted him into the air and slammed him onto his back on the hard, rock-strewn ground. His breath went out of his lungs.

  The knife tumbled to the ground.

  “No, son, no.” Droon held up his hands, as if for mercy, but then pressed forward and seized Shaw’s throat. Though he wasn’t a large man, there was formidable strength in the grip.

  As his vision began to fade, Shaw picked up the SOG knife and, holding it firmly in his right hand, plunged it into Droon’s neck.

  “No, wait, no.” He seemed surprised. Maybe he thought that for some odd cosmic reason Colter Shaw didn’t have the right, or wasn’t able, to stab him with his own blade.

  The pressure on Shaw’s neck continued.

  Colter Shaw thought of his father.

  Thinking of one word:

  Survival . . .

  He twisted the blade, opening the rent in the man’s neck wider. Blood propelled.

  “Look . . . No . . . I . . .”

  The arms dropped.

  In no more than ten seconds, the man had gone limp.

  Breathing hard, Shaw rolled off him, rose and stepped away ten feet. He kept a firm grip on the knife.

  Never assume even a downed enemy is no threat . . .

  Droon coughed once. Then his breathing ceased. Shaw watched him, motionless, his unblinking eyes staring upward. They were aimed toward an oak bough, not far overhead, stark in the gray sky, thick with clusters of early-season acorns, which were a pleasant green in color, a deep shade.

  Colter Shaw thought: Not a bad image to carry with you in your last moments on earth.

  68

  Got ’em on the wire,” Ty said to Shaw. “Listen.”

  The operative, no longer in the park ranger hat, was playing the recording he’d made of the conversation among the BlackBridge crew as they’d waited in the plumbing truck.

  Braxton: We can’t do anything with a damn ranger there.

  Droon: We’ll hope he leaves. If he doesn’t, well, accidents happen, don’tcha know?

  Braxton: No. We wait till he’s gone. I want it as clean as possible.

  Droon: We’re going to have two bodies ’ventually. Three can’t gum up the works any more.

  Helms: Not the ranger.

  A fourth voice was that of the pale man, whose name turned out to be George Stone, a BlackBridge employee. He’d been a mercenary in Africa and the Balkans, Ty had learned.

  Stone: We kill Shaw now?

  Droon: Does that make sense? Don’t you think it might be better to wait till she comes back from the office, then take them out together?

  Helms: All right, all right . . . Maybe make it look, murder-suicide.

  Droon: Now there’s an idea for you.

  Helms: Gahl. That son of a bitch. How did he even know about the money laundering? He was research.

  Stone: He overheard something. Was in the old building. Nobody was separate then.

  Braxton: Right. Was years ago.

  Helms: At least ha
lf the finance infrastructure’s still in place. Most of the banks’re the same. And the contractors? Maybe he knew about taking out the councilman. Maybe there’s an email, a note. Jesus, that info could burn us to the ground.

  Droon: Yeah, the councilman. Todd Zaleski. Forgot all about that. Now that job went smooth as oil.

  Helms: Droon. Jesus. This isn’t a performance review.

  Droon: Sure, sir. Sorry. Oh, lookee here. S’that woman. Julia. Get ready to move.

  Ty shut the recorder off.

  “That should be enough for the Bureau to get started,” Shaw said.

  “I’d think. Conspiracy to commit murder, extortion. Admission of murder. That’s a sweet one. The councilman.”

  Shaw told him that the death of Zaleski, his father’s protégé, was what had started Ashton Shaw on the trail of BlackBridge, all those many years ago.

  Helms snapped, “Did you have a warrant for that recording?” His wrists, like those of the others, were zip-tied behind him.

  Ty glanced at him briefly, the way you’d regard a fly that buzzed a bit close. “You just executed an illegal wiretap, you extorted Mr. Shaw and Ms. Lesston here under threat of force and your associate tried to kill two people and got killed himself. That means you’re guilty of felony murder. And I haven’t even got near conspiracy yet. Oh, by the way, we didn’t trespass in your vehicle to plant a listening device. Your window was open, and my microphone just happens to be very good. So, no warrant needed.”

  Shaw gazed over at Braxton. He took satisfaction in the fact that the woman who was responsible for his father’s death looked truly stricken. Her overly made-up face was taut. She was no longer grandmotherly, but ghostly.

  Helms muttered, “I want an attorney.”

  Ty said in an oddly formal voice, “That will be arranged, I’m sure.”

  The takedown operation had been improvised and more than a little rushed. But no matter. It had worked. They now had everything they needed to get BlackBridge. Shaw texted Russell then walked up to Victoria, who was rubbing her shoulder—the one she’d injured last week. “You okay?”