End Game

by John Gilstrap

  Boxers pulled the hammer back on his Beretta. It now had a two-pound trigger pull. In trigger terms, that’s a tickle.

  Finally, she got it. The door handle clicked and she shouldered it open. It was still open, in fact, when Boxers stepped on the gas the instant her ass was clear of the seat. Jonathan climbed over the engine cowling that separated the two seats and settled into shotgun, reaching out to pull the door shut.

  Boxers rumbled out a laugh. “Mother Hen is going to love this part of the story,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Jonathan pulled another beer out of the fridge for Father Dom and poured himself another two fingers of Lagavulin. June had arrived, and the Washington Nationals were about to mix it up with the Baltimore Orioles. Neither team sucked yet—though there was plenty of time left in the season for that—so Jonathan’s team loyalty was still up for grabs. The Orioles had been the de facto Washington home team for so many years that he couldn’t turn his back on them quite yet. The Nats could make it a lot easier, though, if they could figure out a way to stitch a whole season together. “May they not humiliate themselves,” he said as he delivered the drink.

  “To coping with reduced expectations,” Dom toasted. “I can’t help but notice that you haven’t yet turned on the television. That usually means you’ve got something on your mind.”

  Jonathan sipped the liquid smoke that was Lagavulin scotch. “A couple of things, actually. First, how is Graham Mitchell adjusting?”

  “You mean Vincent Malone?”

  Jonathan made a face. Under the circumstances, the new name was a lifesaver. Literally. “Yes,” he said. “How’s Vincent Malone?”

  “Physically or mentally?”

  “Yes.”

  Dom scowled as he considered his answer. “Physically, I think he’s fine. He’s out of the cast, and the restrictions have been lifted from his physical activities. He’s cleared to perform to the limits of his capabilities. ” He did finger quotes with his free hand.

  “Why the emphasis?”

  “That’s the segue to his psychology,” Dom said. “He’s by no means stretching his capabilities. He’s been through a lot, and as much as I and Mama Alexander and the rest of the staff try to be supportive, we’ll never get his parents back for him. Every time he looks at that scar on his elbow, he’s going to be reminded of some pretty awful stuff. Think about it. He doesn’t even live under the same name anymore.”

  Jonathan inhaled deeply to prepare for his next question. “Every kid in Resurrection House is damaged goods. How is . . . Vincent on that scale?”

  Dom’s scowl deepened. “Well, I’m not sure how much I like the characterization of the kids in Rez House being damaged—”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “—but I know what you mean. And I don’t know how to answer you. There’s no paradigmatic Rez House resident. Do they all come with baggage? Hell yes, their parents are criminals. Are some more damaged than others? Of course. But I have no way of comparing Vincent’s damage against that of another student. Do I think that Vincent will come out of this experience as a functional adult? Yes, I do. But some damage will be permanent.”

  Jonathan took his time considering the answer. He supposed that would be okay. Jonathan felt a personal responsibility for Graham that he didn’t feel for many others in Rez House.

  “You said there were a couple of things bothering you,” Dom said. Once he fell into psychologist mode, he could be tenacious. Especially so when Jonathan was his patient.

  “Yeah,” Jonathan said. “And they’re related. How much do you know about this Maryanne Rhoades chick?”

  “The FBI agent?”

  “Right.”

  “The one you threw out of her own truck?”

  Jonathan smiled. “That’s the one. I had a chat with Wolverine today. It was about Maryanne. In fact, it was about that entire mess that landed Graham here in the first place.”

  “What did she say?”

  “After a lot of ducking and dodging and denials, Maryanne confessed that she, Maryanne, was the information vector for the Russians. She was the one directing the Russians on how to kill him.”

  Dom recoiled as he test-drove the thought. “Why would she do that?”

  “Apparently, she had a gambling problem,” Jonathan said. “And a big one, at that. To the tune of something like eighty grand. And she was upside down with the Russian mob.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Exactly. I don’t know all the ins and outs but the bottom line was, if she could deliver the codes and the code-keepers to the mob, they’d let her off the hook.”

  Dom shook his head. “Good Lord. So, she sold out a kid?”

  “No, not initially,” Jonathan said. “At first, the targets were his parents, via their rebel friends. Somehow, she talked herself into believing that it would be bad guy versus bad guy. No harm, no foul. But when things went wrong, and Graham’s mom passed along the code to him, he became the target.”

  “You mean Vincent’s mom.”

  “Goddammit. Yes, right. Vincent’s mom. I mean, think about that—she knows he’s got this photographic memory, and she gives him this death sentence on purpose. While his dad was working with the FBI, his mom never had any intention of doing so.”

  “So, either way, he was doomed.”

  “Right. So Maryanne hired Security Solutions because she genuinely felt for the kid. She launched a footrace between the Russians and me to see who would get there first. That’s a lot of gaming with people’s lives.”

  Dom took another pull of beer and leaned in closer. “I’m sensing something out of you that I don’t often see,” he said. “You’ve seen the world as a dark place for a long time, yet this incident seems to have surprised you.”

  Jonathan waved that off. “No,” he said. “Not surprised. Disgusted.”

  “So, why share this with me?”

  “You’re a priest and a shrink.”

  “Which I’ve been for a long time, and we don’t often have conversations like this.”

  Jonathan sipped the Lagavulin. “I thought you should know,” he said. “You make the call whether or not to share the details with Gr—Vincent. I thought you should know.”

  Dom nodded. “Okay.”

  Jonathan checked the clock and thumbed the remote.

  As the picture arrived from the ether, Dom said, “Is it true what I hear about Boxers? He’s got a girlfriend now?”

  Jonathan smirked and made a rocking motion with his hand. “I’m not sure the G-word is appropriate, but Jolaine certainly has the hots for him.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Nothing happens without the constant, undying love of my wife, Joy. She is my strength, my beauty, my . . . joy.

  You dear readers who have been with me from the beginning remember stories of my great pride in my son, Chris, who was barely eight years old when Nathan’s’s Run was published. Now he’s twenty-eight, and my pride in him continues to bloom. Way to go, kid.

  Jolaine Cage made a generous donation to the Youth Quest Foundation to have a character named after her, and for that I am grateful. For the record, she bears no resemblance to the character who bears her name, yet I still feel compelled to apologize for what I put her through.

  Lee Lofland, the proprietor of the wonderful Writers’ Police Academy, gave me a valuable lesson on how to steal a car. Thanks for that, Lee. Jolaine thanks you, too. (The fictional one, not the real one.)

  Special thanks to Michelle Gagnon, who agreed to set aside her own very busy writing life to read an early draft of End Game and lend some well-needed advice. All along the way, my dear friends Art Taylor, Ellen Crosby, Alan Orloff, and Donna Andrews—collectively known as the Rumpi (ask them why when you see them)—have lent a guiding hand to the pile of pages that ultimately melded together into this book. Thank you all so much.

  My team at Kensington is becoming more like family with every book. In Michaela Hamilton, I have the best, most suppo
rtive editor a writer could ask for, and none of that would be possible without the tireless work of publisher Laurie Parkin. Arthur Maisel is my production editor, Adeola Saul my publicist, and Alexandra Nicolajsen is my own Venice Alexander. She makes the computerized world work for me. They all work for Steve Zacharius, who has been a vocal supporter of mine from way back in the early days—long before I boarded the publishing vessel he runs so well.

  Last, but never, ever least is my good friend and agent, Anne Hawkins. She’s the guiding hand of my career, and I’m honored that she does it with such charm and grace and ferocity. Thanks. (Yes, Anne, I’m working on the next manuscript! Jeez.)

  Don’t miss John Gilstrap’s next breathtaking thriller

  starring Jonathan Grave

  AGAINST ALL ENEMIES

  Coming from Pinnacle in 2015!

  Keep reading to enjoy an exciting excerpt . . .

  Jonathan Grave concentrated on his sight picture, forcing himself to ignore the heat of the afternoon sun that threatened to strip the skin off the back of his neck. In Virginia in July, the tropical sun was part of the deal. He lay on his belly on the mulchy forest floor, the forestock of his 7.62 millimeter Hechler & Koch 417 supported on a stack of three beanbags. He pressed the extended collapsible stock against his shoulder and split his attention between what his naked left eye could see and the 10-times-magnified circle from the Nightforce Optics that dominated the vision in his right eye. Somewhere out there in the woods, roughly a hundred yards away, a target would present itself.

  Soon.

  Jonathan told himself to watch his breathing and to relax his hand on the rifle’s pistol grip. When the target showed itself, it would take only a slight press from the pad of his right forefinger to send the round downrange. After that, it was all physics. He watched the movement of the grass for wind speed, and the—

  His naked eye caught movement left-to-right, and he brought his scope to bear in time to see the black silhouette of a man streak from one tree to another. The target was back behind cover before he could commit to a shot, but at least now he knew where the son of a bitch was. If he moved again—

  There! The target darted back to the left, taunting him, but Jonathan was ready for it. He led by a couple of feet and released a round. Then a second. The woods echoed with the rolling sound of the gunshot.

  “Did I get him?” Jonathan asked.

  “You were behind him by two feet on the first shot and probably four on the second.” The critique came from his spotter, a giant of a man named Brian Van De-Muelebrocke—aka Boxers—who had saved Jonathan’s ass more times than anyone could count.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Would you like me to show you the scars on the trees?” Boxers monitored the action from Jonathan’s right, his eye pressed to a Leica spotting scope. “Would you like a warning for the next one?”

  Jonathan felt his ears go hot. “No, I don’t need—”

  The target darted out again from behind a tree, and Jonathan fired two more times. He knew even as the trigger broke that he’d yanked the shots wide.

  “If I’m ever a bad guy,” Boxers said, “will you promise to be the sharpshooter who takes me out?”

  “Bite me.”

  “No, seriously. I’m tempted to go ride the target piggyback,” Boxers went on. “I can’t think of a safer place to be.” As he spoke he pushed the joystick in his hand to the right, sending the target out of hiding again.

  This time, Jonathan didn’t bother to press the trigger. He knew better.

  “Hey Digger,” Boxers said. “How ’bout I give you a baseball bat and you can beat it to death.”

  Jonathan released his grip on the weapon and squatted up to a standing position, leaving the 417 on the ground. “Okay, Mouth,” he said, cranking his head to look up under Big Guy’s chin. “Let’s switch places. I’ll take a turn at the stressful work of pushing buttons. Let’s see you hit Zippy.” The target—Zippy—was a converted tackling dummy that Jonathan had mounted on rails that could be laid just about anywhere. Powered by a remote-controlled electric motor, Zippy was a great training tool.

  Boxers grinned. “Look at you sounding all threatening and shit. Do you want me to shoot with my eyes open or closed?”

  Jonathan held his hand out for the controller, and Boxers handed it over. Big Guy settled on his belly behind the rifle. Jonathan smiled at the slogan on his friend’s T-shirt: Never run from a sniper. You’ll only die tired.

  “Let me know when you’re ready,” Jonathan said.

  “That’s your call, not mine—”

  Jonathan jammed the joystick to the left, and the target took off while Boxers was still speaking. The 417 barked twice. Half a second after each blast, Jonathan heard the faint pang! of a solid hit.

  Boxers didn’t bother to look up as he said, “Hey, Boss, did I hit it?” He rumbled out a laugh.

  Jonathan pulled away from the tripod-mounted spotting scope. “I hate you,” he said. Boxers was the most natural shooter Jonathan had ever known, and he’d been that way since the beginning. It was as if bullets responded to Big Guy’s whims.

  Boxers stood, brushed off the front of his T-shirt and jeans, and held out his hand for the controller. “I push the buttons because you need the practice.”

  As Jonathan handed over the box, his phone buzzed in his pocket. The caller I.D. said UNKNOWN.

  He pressed the connect button and brought the phone to his ear. “Yeah.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Horgan,” a man’s voice said. “This is Cale Cook at the western guard shack. There’s a visitor here to see you. He identifies himself as a Colonel Rollins, and he says it’s important that he speak to you now.”

  Jonathan didn’t know the security team out here at the compound very well, so Cale Cook could have called himself by any name, but he sure as hell knew who Colonel Rollins was. “Take a picture of him and send it to my phone. I’ll call you back when I get it.”

  Boxers’ face showed that he’d been eavesdropping. “What’s up?”

  “Roleplay Rollins is here.”

  Boxers recoiled at the words as anger settled in his eyes. There was a time not to long ago when Big Guy would have hurried to beat the man to death, and Jonathan would have let him. The three of them had a history that involved Jonathan and Boxers’ last days with the Unit, and it did not end well.

  Jonathan extended his palm to settle his friend down. “Take it easy. Past is past. He saved our asses and we owe him a solid.” His phone buzzed, and displayed a picture of the man the visitor claimed to be. Jonathan called the guard shack. “Send him up to the lodge and have him wait on the porch. We’re on our way.”

  “Should we escort him?”

  “Is he alone?”

  “Alone and unarmed. I searched his vehicle.”

  “No,” Jonathan said. “Let him go solo. It’s hard to get lost when there’s only one road.” He clicked off and looked to Boxers. “This should be interesting,” he said. “Let’s pick up the weapons and ammo. We’ll break the target down later.”

  Boxers pointed through the Hummer’s windshield toward the front porch of the stylishly rustic structure that had started life a hundred fifty years ago as a log cabin, but whose original owners would recognize nothing but a portion of the western wall. “There he is.”

  Colonel Stanley Rollins, U.S. Army, stood from one of the porch’s cane rockers as they approached. He wore jeans and a white polo shirt, and an expression that was impossible to read.

  “Looks like Roleplay is a civilian today,” Boxers said.

  “He hates that name.”

  Big Guy chuckled. “I know. That’s why I like it.”

  “Don’t start anything,” Jonathan said. “Not until we hear what he has to say.”

  “I’ll call him Stanley, then.”

  “He hates that even worse.”

  Boxers looked across the console and grinned. “Yeah.”

  Jonathan opened the door and slid to the ground. “
Hello, Colonel,” he called as he approached the lodge.

  “This is a genuine surprise.” He extended his hand as he closed the distance, and Rollins walked down the four steps to greet him.

  “Hello, Digger,” he said. His handshake wasn’t the bone crusher that it used to be. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Stanley!” Boxers shouted, feigning delight. “Hasn’t someone fragged your ass by now?”

  Rollins didn’t rise to the bait. “Big Guy,” he said with a nod. “Pleasant as always, I see.” He pointed to the Hummer. “And still the environmental conscience that you’ve always been.”

  Dubbed the Batmobile by Boxers, the lavishly customized and heavily armored Hummer H1 was literally irreplaceable. They weren’t made anymore.

  Jonathan smelled trouble in the air, so he placed a hand on Rollins’s elbow to ease him back toward the porch and the inside of the lodge. “Let’s talk inside,” he said. “It’s too hot out here.”

  Jonathan led the way up the steps. He turned the key and pulled the heavy wooden door out toward them. He stepped aside to allow the colonel to pass.

  As he did, Rollins rapped on the door with a knuckle. “Impressive. What is that, oak?”

  “Something like that,” Jonathan said. “I believe in living securely.”

  Inside, the foyer led directly to a living room, fifteen-by-fifteen feet, beyond which a dining area led to a closed door that hid the kitchen from view. A stone fireplace dominated the eastern wall—the wall to the right walking in. In the far western corner, stairs led up to the sleeping levels. In decorating the place, Jonathan had leaned heavily on his experience at Colorado ski lodges. Woodsy artwork hung from exposed pine walls across the way on the north wall, while a rack of eight long guns took up much of the front, southern, wall.

  “Wow,” Rollins said. “I guess I keep underestimating just how friggin’ rich you really are. What is this place?”

  “Pretty much what it looks like,” Jonathan said as he nudged a switch on the wall to wake up two dangling chandeliers made of antlers. “This is a place to escape to, to unwind. Two hundred twenty-five acres of seclusion.”