He pulled into the driveway behind the lighthouse, got out, then grabbed the mail from the box and walked around the deck to the back door. A wind was coming up and he could smell rain in the air. The hanging baskets swung in the breeze.
Leaving the screen door open for some fresh air, he dropped the mail on the kitchen counter then checked his voice mail. There was one message: Oaken had found Andrew Galbreth Hadin’s descendants. His three great-grandchildren, the oldest of whom was the director of the Hadin Museum, all lived in Long Island, New York.
“I didn’t contact them,” Oaken said. “Thought you’d like to do that yourself. Anyway, gimme a call when you get a chance, and I’ll give you the info. Bye.”
Tanner almost hated parting with Hadin’s diary; it had been his constant companion over the past several weeks as he’d sat in the hospital’s whirlpool or laid for hours as the flexor machine stretched and contorted his leg. He read and reread the diary from cover to cover, each time feeling a bit closer to Hadin. Their stumbling upon the Priscilla had not only saved their lives, but possibly hundreds of thousands of others as well. In a way, Hadin was again the dashing hero, albeit eighty years after his death.
Tanner grabbed an apple from the fridge, then shuffled through the mail. Bills, junk mail, a mailer insisting that he “may already be a winner” … and a padded, manila envelope. He checked the front; there was no return address. He tore open the top.
Inside was a black, unlabeled, VHS tape.
Curious now, he took the tape into the living room, slipped it into the VCR, then grabbed the remote and hit Play. There was ten seconds of blackness, then the picture swam into focus. A dark object swung before the lens. The camera retreated until he recognized it: a shoe.
The angle widened and began to pan upward.
“Good God,” Tanner murmured.
The shoes had feet in them. The camera skimmed up past a pair of calves, then thighs and torso, then finally to the neck and face.
Briggs felt his stomach heave into his throat. Oh, God. No, no …
Suspended from a noose, her face bruised and bloody, was Lian Soong.
Tanner snatched up the envelope, turned it over. The postage stamp bore no cancellation mark. Someone had delivered the envelope in person.
“She hardly struggled at all,” a voice called behind him.
Briggs felt a shiver trail down his spine. He turned around and looked up.
Standing at the loft’s railing was Xiang. He held a small-caliber automatic in his right hand. It was leveled at Tanner’s chest.
Briggs stared at Xiang, unable to speak. The room swirled around him. He glanced back at the television; Lian’s face filled the screen. After a moment, the screen went black.
Tanner turned back to Xiang. “You did that?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Why? For God’s sake, why?”
“She’d served her purpose. I was done with her.”
You’re lying, Briggs thought. Xiang had killed Lian as punishment for her silence at the paddle wheel. Her refusal to pinpoint their location had bought Hsiao and her father the time they’d needed to get away. Whatever her reasons, in that last act of defiance, Lian had again become the daughter Soong had thought he’d lost, and the woman Tanner had feared never existed.
And Xiang had killed her for it.
Briggs felt a ball of hot rage explode in his chest. Focus, Briggs. He’s come here to kill you. Think! Tanner took a step forward, blocking the television screen. He fingered the remote’s volume button to it’s highest setting. Set on the VCR channel, the screen flickered silently.
“You came all this way for revenge,” Tanner said. Play him along, Briggs.
“That’s right!” Xiang growled. “Why not?”
“I’ll say this much: You plan a pretty lousy invasion, but you sure can hold a grudge.”
“Shut your mouth! You destroyed my life! I can never return to China. I’ll be hunted until the day I die. Everything I struggled for is gone, and it’s your doing!”
“Glad I could help.”
“Tell me: Where did they put Soong and the other one—the guard from the camp?”
Holding the apple in his right hand, Tanner held it up for Xiang to see, then took two slow steps to the left and set it on the dining table. The door was seven feet away now.
“That’s your plan?” Tanner said. “Once you’re done here, you’re going to hunt them down?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll never find them.”
“I will if you tell me.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“It could mean the difference between living and dying,” Xiang said.
“Even if I believed that, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Are you certain you don’t want to reconsider?”
Tanner shook his head.
“Very well.”
His gun never leaving Tanner’s chest, Xiang started toward the stairs.
Behind his back, Tanner aimed the remote at the TV. Wait … wait …
Xiang reached the head of the stairs, placed his foot on the top step.
Tanner punched the channel selector. Static blasted from the TV. Xiang flinched, spun that way.
Tanner sprinted for the door. Four shots boomed. The French doors shattered. The paneling beside Tanner’s head splintered. Half hobbling, he put his head down and bulldozed into the screen. With a ripping sound, the mesh parted. Entangled in his arms and legs, the frame ripped off its track.
He lurched onto the deck, shrugged off the frame, then turned and staggered to the beach stairs.
“Stop!”
Crack!
The balustrade beside him shattered.
He was five feet from the top step when he felt a stab in his calf. Pain seared up his thigh. Only partially healed, it was more than his leg could bear. It buckled beneath him and he collapsed.
“Don’t move!” Xiang ordered. “Stay right there!”
Footsteps clicked on the wood behind him.
Don’t give him the satisfaction, Tanner thought. Get off your knees.
Briggs reached up, grabbed the deck railing, and struggled to his feet. His calf burned as if coated in acid. He shifted his weight to his good leg and rotated himself around.
Xiang was standing a few feet away, gun leveled. “Almost,” he said.
At close range Tanner now recognized Xiang’s gun. It was a compact .25-caliber Sig Sauer. Seven- or eight-round magazine? he wondered. Seven. Xiang had already fired six. The man had just broken a cardinal rule: count your shots; know your reserves.
It was cold comfort. No matter what Tanner did, he was going to get shot. At this distance, Xiang couldn’t miss. The only question was, Could he cross the gap fast enough, throw off his aim enough to avoid a fatal wound? There was only one way to find out. Tanner steeled himself for it.
“Do me a favor,” he murmured, letting his shoulder slump.
“Why should I?”
“Because you’ve won. You can afford to be gracious.”
“What is it?”
Tanner pointed to his forehead. “Make it quick.”
Xiang considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “Have it your way.”
Xiang jerked up his pistol. As the barrel came level with his chin, Briggs ducked and pushed off the railing with everything he had, aiming his shoulder for Xiang’s belly. The gun roared. Tanner felt a hammer blow to his chest. His shoulder slammed into Xiang’s solar plexus. They stumbled backward. Before his leg could buckle, Tanner wrapped him in a bear hug and pushed off, driving Xiang back.
Xiang began flailing with his gun hand, pounding the butt into Tanner’s neck and face and shoulders. Briggs felt the skin on his cheek split open. He held on. Xiang cocked back his leg and slammed his knee into Tanner’s groin. Pain erupted in his belly. He reached up, groping for Xiang’s eyes, his throat, anything. Hold on, Briggs.
“Bastard!” Xiang roared.
He kneed Tanner again, then again, then a third time, driving him backward across the deck.
Tanner felt his foot slip off the edge of the deck and onto the top step. He glanced down between his legs and saw his foot teetering on the edge of the step. Below him, the stairs dropped sharply to the beach. You’re going, Briggs, he thought. Take him with you …
He took a breath, corralled his last bit of strength, and pushed off into his good leg. He lifted Xiang off the ground, turned, and pitched himself down the stairs.
Locked together, they tumbled end over end. His vision became a blur of dark sky, steps, wooden railing, and flashing foliage. The impacts came one on top of the next, the wood gouging into his head, shoulders, and back. Tanner bit his tongue, tasted blood. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Then, suddenly, it was over.
He lay motionless for a few moments, then forced open his eyes. He was lying ten feet from the bottom of the stairs. Somewhere in the distance, a thousand miles away, he heard the swoosh-hiss of waves. Then, another sound: a gurgling.
A few feet away, Xiang lay on his side and stared up at him with bulging eyes. His upper arm hung across his chest while his lower one, pinned against the steps by his body, twitched spasmodically.
For a moment Tanner’s brain couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. Something was wrong … something about the way Xiang was lying. Then he saw it. Good God …
The violence of the fall had wrenched Xiang’s head nearly 180 degrees. His chin was resting on his shoulder blade. He coughed, a wet gurgle. Froth bubbled from his lips. His eyes, filled with a mixture of terror and confusion, darted around him, then returned to Tanner’s face.
Shot, Briggs thought. You’re shot, again …
He touched his chest, expecting to feel warm, wet blood. There was nothing. He probed his jacket until he found the bullet hole and, beneath it, a hard object. He reached into his pocket.
Hadin’s diary. The bullet had cut an oblique groove through the leather cover and half the pages before exiting the spine and punching out the side of his coat. Good ol’ Dashing Andy.
Beneath him, Xiang gurgled again. Wincing against the pain, Tanner scooted forward, dropped to the next step, then another until he was sitting beside him. Xiang’s lips curled into a snarl. He stared into Tanner’s eyes and tried to mouth something.
“What?” Briggs said.
Xiang tried again. This time Tanner caught it: Damn you …
Xiang hung on for several minutes, as each breath became more labored than the last. Tanner watched, unable to tear himself away as the life steadily slipped from Xiang. In the final seconds Xiang locked eyes with him, gave a final cough, twitched, and went still. His dead eyes gazed at the sky.
“Almost,” Tanner murmured. “But not quite.”
Tanner reached up, grabbed the railing, pulled himself upright, and began climbing.
Acknowledgments
To Jonathon, Christi, and the entire Lazear team. I’m a lucky man.
To my editor, Tom Colgan, and the folks at Penguin Putnam, thanks again for everything.
To Trent Fluegel, a fine friend indeed.
To Julie: I love sharing my life with you.
To Pam Ahearn of the The Ahearn Agency and Dan Conaway and the team at Writers House Literary Agency. I wouldn’t be here without you.
To the gang at Diversion Books. New partners, new horizons.
To Asha of Asha Hossein Design for her fantastic cover art. You’re a pro, Asha.
And finally, to Gus, who died a month before my first novel was published Thank you for choosing me as your friend. You stood by me every step of the way. I miss you.
More from Grant Blackwood
End of Enemies
#1 New York Times bestselling author Grant Blackwood introduces Briggs Tanner in a trilogy that Clive Cussler raves is “Pure fun, pure adventure.”
One Man.
Covert agent Briggs Tanner doesn’t like coincidences. In his business, they always mean trouble. So when a man is professionally assassinated right in front of him, Tanner wants answers.
One Mission.
Who pulled the trigger and why? And what is the mystery behind the key the man clutched in his dying hand—the key that Tanner now possesses?
One War Without End.
His search will lead him on an international trail, city to city, from the depths of the Pacific Ocean to the bullet-ridden back alleys of Beirut, all the way to a deadly secret—buried since the end of World War II—that only Tanner can keep from falling into the wrong hands.
Echo of War
The final installment in the trilogy from the #1 New York Times bestselling author.
Dinaric Alps, Bosnian region of Austrian Hungarian Empire, 1918
After four Allied soldiers stumble across a biological weapon that could bring devastation to the world, they take a vow to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. Ever since, the deadly substance—code-named Kestrel—has been guarded by the descendants of those four brave men, each with the mission of keeping its existence a secret.
Chesapeake Bay, August 2003
The wife of former CIA director Jonathon Root has been kidnapped, and no one except Root himself knows who carried out the crime or why. His grandfather had been one of the soldiers responsible for stealing Kestrel, and now a group of Bosnian terrorists are trying to force Root to hand it over.
Enter agent Briggs Tanner. His mission: follow a trail through the Alps, to the heart of where it all began. At risk: Millions of lives lost, starting with his own.
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