Shadow Shepherd (Sam Callahan Book 2)

by Chad Zunker

  “Hebbard has been working on an oil deal involving Senator Liddell.”

  Candace frowned. “Not true. Where’d you get that?”

  Natalie studied the older woman. “You’re telling me that Liddell doesn’t know Rich Hebbard?”

  “I’m not saying he doesn’t know the guy. I can’t account for every single person Liddell knows. I’m just saying he hasn’t been involved with him during the past three years. Not since I’ve been leading his staff.”

  “What about Lex Hester?”

  Candace again shook her head. “Don’t know that name, either.”

  “Francisco Zapata?”

  Another frustrated shake of the head. “Nope. Sorry, but you’re batting zero for three. Never heard of any of them. Liddell has had nothing to do with those names, unless it was way before my time with him.” Candace frowned again, this time with more irritation. “Are we going to play the name game all night, Natalie, or are we going to get around to the point of this meeting? I still have important business back at the office tonight. I’m doing you a favor by sitting here.”

  Natalie pressed. “You’re telling me Liddell hasn’t made multiple trips to Mexico City in the past year to privately meet with Zapata?”

  “I’ve been with Liddell almost every day for the past three years. If he’d made trips to Mexico City, I sure as hell would know about it. I’m his damn chief of staff. I basically know every time Liddell goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, or tries to sneak a shot of whiskey in the morning.”

  Natalie was confused. None of this made sense. She thought about Liddell’s personal e-mail exchange with Hebbard earlier that day. “There’s no chance that Liddell could operate outside of you? Personal travel, personal phones, or a personal e-mail address?”

  Candace sighed. “I control everything he does. Liddell usually doesn’t scratch his ass without me scheduling it for him. I highly doubt he has a private phone or e-mail that I don’t know about. Look, I know how to do my job and protect my boss, so I’m going to ask you one more time, why the hell am I here?”

  “Someone is trying to implicate Liddell in a story. I’m just gathering facts.”

  Candace immediately went into protective mode. “Who? Someone on Hansel’s staff? You can’t trust them.”

  “Not them. I can’t say.”

  Candace softened. “Listen, your source is feeding you lies. You know I’ve always shot straight with you. Don’t go writing anything without talking to me first. I can show you his travel records. I can give you his complete calendar. I can vouch for nearly every second of that man’s life the past thirty-six months.”

  Natalie nodded. “Thanks, Candace.”

  “I’ve got to get back.”

  She watched as Candace walked out of the café. Natalie was stunned. They had so much information connecting Liddell with Zapata and Hebbard. They had hotel records, photos, and of course, they had today’s personal e-mail exchange with Hebbard. Yet she believed Candace. Natalie had become quite an expert at reading people’s faces. She’d even had professional training in that area. In this town, you had to be an expert to be good at her job, as DC was the single largest collection of the greatest liars in the world.

  Candace Velasco was telling her the truth.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Gerlach was furious. From the beginning, it was clear he hadn’t been given all the cards. Someone else was playing dealer, and that didn’t sit well. If something like this had happened in the past, he would have made sure a client paid for it with his life. This was a different situation altogether. He should never have taken this job. It was a mistake. But his own ego pushed him into it. Feeling exposed, Gerlach’s instinct was to bolt town; however, his brazen pride had kept him in the game. His target had proved to be a worthy adversary. Twice now he’d somehow evaded Gerlach’s reach. That was damn near unheard of. Gerlach had never left a job unfinished—that made him the best in the game. His 100 percent completion was what had put tens of millions of dollars into more than a dozen secret offshore bank accounts. That was what allowed him a free pass inside some of the most ruthless countries in the world. He couldn’t walk away now.

  Gerlach stood in front of the mirror of his hotel bathroom. He was bare chested but wore khaki pants and cheap brown loafers. Staring at himself, he carefully placed the blond toupee on his bald head, situated it just right. The adhesive would seal it in place. He’d already lightened the eyebrows. A thin mustache matched the toupee. Turning around, he pulled a short-sleeve white button-down shirt off a hanger, sliding it on over his arms. He buttoned it halfway up and tucked it into the pants. He grabbed a rolled-up bath towel and stuck it down inside the shirt before buttoning it to the top. He patted his new paunch. He easily looked thirty pounds heavier. The gold horn-rimmed glasses were last.

  He studied himself in the mirror, felt satisfied.

  He walked into the bedroom, found the silver case on the dresser. Opening it, he took out the black gun and silencer, screwed them together, and shoved the weapon into a small holster on the flat of his back, beneath the khaki pants. The handgun was a strategic move. He wanted to be up close and personal to ensure he finished the job. No more shooting from a distance. Not with this target and his uncanny ability to somehow evade a sniper shot. Gerlach was not concerned with witnesses. He could strip the entire costume within seconds and disappear. He lifted the camera and strap from the dresser, draped the device around his neck.

  Another peek in the dresser mirror. Bob the Tourist.

  Gerlach checked his watch. Darkening the lights, he moved to the hallway. At the elevators, he was joined by a young mom with her two small boys. The boys stared up at him. He gave them a wink and a smile, pretended to take their pictures with the bulky camera. They smiled shyly back at him.

  “Cute kids,” he told the mom, who grinned and said thanks.

  They rode down to the lobby together. Gerlach let the family out first, then moved into the corridor behind them. He spotted one federal agent at the front check-in desk, hounding a hotel staffer, another by the front door, watching hotel guests as they came in and out. The agents were anything but inconspicuous. Gerlach walked right past the agent at the main glass doors without a second blink, got nothing from the man in return. They were such amateurs compared to him. Gerlach couldn’t fault them—he was the very best.

  It was time to finish the job.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  The cab dropped Sam a block away from the Phoenix Park Hotel. He walked to the street corner, his heart already in his throat. Not because he was afraid for his life. After all, inside this hotel room was just a politician and an old lawyer. However, after everything Sam had discovered the past two days, his nerves had more to do with finally coming face-to-face with a man who, by all accounts, was indeed his real father. He felt his hands trembling, both with angst and anger. If the man in fact knew Sam existed, where the hell had he been Sam’s whole life? A life that had been filled with so much deeply scarring pain, both physical and emotional. Standing there, Sam couldn’t help but reflect on every tumultuous foster-care situation he’d somehow survived—like a barrage of bad movie scenes spinning on a reel through his mind. Every swing of an angry fist. Every cigarette burn to the arms and legs. Every bruise in the name of discipline. Every angry word spit in his direction, telling him he was worthless garbage.

  He felt overwhelmed by the moment.

  Sam had already been through many of these same emotions with his mom. He’d somehow survived that and found healing. But there was a soft spot with her from the beginning. He wasn’t sure why—maybe because he knew his mother had also endured a painful life. They were on equal footing. Something felt very different with his father. The pain felt more intense, and the wound ran even deeper. He’d never wanted to take a swing at his mother, no matter how angry he was with her in the beginning. Sam knew it might take everything within him to not immediately aggressively unload on his father as soon as Sam walked inside t
he hotel suite. Standing there, he wanted nothing more than to crush the man’s nose with the full velocity that twenty-six years of pain could muster.

  He took a deep breath, exhaled. He glanced up North Capitol Street, where he could see the glow of the Capitol Building a few blocks away. He thought about Senator Liddell, wondered what he was about to walk in on. Sam understood that this moment was more complex than just an angry abandoned son who was meeting his long-lost father for the first time. This moment was all wrapped in a political conspiracy that reached the height of power and corruption, where innocent people were being killed. He had to control his emotions.

  Sam would need to keep his boxing gloves in the closet for now.

  He stepped across the street toward the green awning at the main entrance of the Phoenix Park Hotel. Several people were out and about on the sidewalks—it was a busy area, with Union Station and the National Postal Museum nearby. His heart began beating faster with each step closer to the front doors. The two men should be inside the hotel suite by now. He was within sixty seconds of standing outside their door.

  Sam felt him before he saw him. It was a strange sensation, but part of the odd way his mind always worked. The man walked out from the shadows. Sam could immediately feel all of the man’s focus directly on him. Sam stopped walking, looked straight over at the guy. Twenty feet away. At first, Sam thought maybe he was wrong. It was just a normal-looking guy in a white shirt, glasses, camera hanging around his neck. Then Sam locked in on the eyes behind the glasses, and he knew his instinct was right. He’d seen those eyes before—just a few hours ago, while tucked under a cypress tree behind a thick curtain of Spanish moss.

  The Gray Wolf.

  Panic gripped him. Sam knew he had to react first, or it was over. As if in slow motion, he saw Gerlach reach around to his back. Sam turned, jumped off the sidewalk, darted into the busy street. A taxi swerved, honked its horn, barely missed crushing him. He never slowed. More cars swerved, honked, as he skirted the intersection. Sam broke into an all-out sprint straight toward the front of Union Station, where he knew he’d find a mass of people and potentially hundreds of places to get himself lost—if he could only get inside without a bullet hitting him in the back first. He skipped up on another sidewalk, threaded a group of people who were standing outside on the sidewalks around Columbus Circle.

  Sam took his first chance to look back over his shoulder. The man in the white shirt was not far behind. Sam dashed forward again, causing people to turn and stare. But he couldn’t slow down. He knew the Gray Wolf would kill him right out in the open. The assassin had already made that perfectly clear. The only safety for Sam was getting away completely.

  Sam burst through the doors of Union Station’s main entrance, hustled inside the massive main concourse. Union Station was packed with shoppers, diners, and travelers. Sam ran straight into the middle, his mind immediately sending him a dozen different maps with alternative escape paths. He circled through the crowd, raced toward a descending escalator. He pushed his way in front of some shoppers, drawing their ire and complaints, and hopped onto the descending escalator.

  Another peek behind him. The Gray Wolf was still there. Fifty feet back but coming on strong. Sam shoved his way through more people as he hurried down the escalator without waiting. He reached the lower level and spilled out into the food court—another crowded area. Again, people began stopping and staring at the guy who was running like a crazy man. Sam heard more yelling from behind and knew that Gerlach was aggressively pushing his way through the same crowd.

  Sam swiftly zigzagged across the entire food court, at one point hurdling a small child who stepped out in front of him. He never saw the custodian with the mop and bucket just ahead of him. His shoes hit the wet floor and flew out from beneath him. Sam fell hard, slid twenty feet, causing people to gasp all around him. Then he heard panicked screams.

  Someone yelled, “He’s got a gun!”

  Sam turned back, spotted Gerlach stomping right toward him, gun in hand and pointed in his direction. Sam pushed off the floor, hustled forward. The first shot hit the floor a few inches behind him. Massive panic swiftly rippled through the crowd, as more screaming ensued, more chaos. With an active shooter now in play, everyone in the food court was making a mad dash for safety, for an exit, somewhere far away from the madman.

  Sam found his way to a twisting stairwell, where groups of people were already ducking behind the short wall. He climbed the stairs four at a time, bounding over and around people, his head ducked low, his feet propelling him forward. As he found his way up, he could feel the assassin climbing up behind him. When Sam reached the top, a stone vase with a plant on a display stand exploded just a foot away from him, causing Sam to dive and hit the floor again. He quickly picked himself back up. The chaos had reached the main concourse, and a sea of shoppers and diners were scrambling about in all directions, many of them pushing each other down, their only care their own safety, more yelling and screaming.

  Sam ran like hell, wondered if this was the end.

  When he neared the main entrance of Union Station, a dozen men and women in dark windbreakers suddenly stormed in through the front doors, each of them with guns already drawn. Sam skidded to a stop a few feet away from them, stunned by their explosive entrance. One of the larger men immediately tackled Sam to the ground, quickly followed up by two other men, creating a protective barrier over him.

  “Stay down, Sam!” the big guy instructed.

  More windbreakers entered Union Station, more guns drawn, and they quickly fanned out in all directions. Sam lost count at twenty federal agents. They were everywhere. He lay still on the floor, tried to peer behind him, looking for the face of Gerlach. He didn’t see the assassin anywhere. He squinted, thought he caught a glimpse of white shirt and khaki pants in the far-off distance. The figure quickly disappeared with the blur of the crowd.

  After spending a few minutes pinned to the floor, the big agent helped Sam to his feet. Another much older guy walked up to him.

  “Sam Callahan?” he asked.

  Sam nodded, still dizzy from the chase.

  “Special Agent Spencer Lloyd.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Agent Lloyd surveyed Union Station. His team had secured the entire concourse, and yet still no sign of the Gray Wolf. The assassin had simply evaporated into thin air—like a ghost. One moment right out in front of them, the next gone. Frustrated, Lloyd had just started to question Callahan when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He was prone to ignore it until he saw that it was a direct call from FBI Director Stone, his boss—everyone’s boss. Lloyd thought it entirely strange to be receiving a phone call from the top man at such a crazy moment.

  What the hell could Stone want?

  He stepped away so that he could hear better, answered it. “Sir, Spencer here.”

  “You got Sam Callahan?” Stone barked.

  Lloyd was surprised. “Yes, sir, we do.”

  “Let him go,” Stone ordered.

  “Sir?” Lloyd questioned.

  “You heard me, Spencer. I said to let the kid go. Tell Callahan he should immediately proceed to the Congressional Suite at the Phoenix Park Hotel.”

  Lloyd was baffled. “But, sir, I don’t understand. We’re in the middle of absolute chaos here, with Gerlach still on the loose, and Sam Callahan is at the center of it all. He’s key to my entire investigation.”

  “I’m not concerned with your understanding. Just obey my orders.”

  Lloyd wanted to argue but knew he couldn’t. “Yes, sir.”

  Stone hung up. Lloyd stared over at Callahan.

  Who the hell was this guy?

  SIXTY-SIX

  Sam sat on a bench inside the main concourse at Union Station, surrounded by six FBI agents. It had calmed down some—a swarm of FBI agents securing the area and now a massive police force also on hand. He licked his bottom lip, tasted blood. Other than his arm throbbing in pain beneath all the bandages, a bloody lip
seemed to be the worst of it. He so desperately wanted to pull out his phone and call Natalie, but he was afraid with all the feds around, it might just lead to more trouble. He resisted the urge. He wasn’t sure what was next. Hebbard and Liddell were currently in the hotel suite next door, and he was stuck there with the FBI. After such a long road the past two days, Sam was frustrated. He wanted a chance to finish this, to stand face-to-face with his real father. Would he ever get that chance?

  The man who introduced himself as Special Agent Spencer Lloyd walked back up to him, a pained expression on his face. Looked like bad news. Sam braced for the impact.

  Lloyd said, “I’ve been ordered to instruct you to proceed immediately to the Congressional Suite at the Phoenix Park Hotel.”

  Sam tried and failed to hide his surprise. “How do you know about the Congressional Suite?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Sam stood. “So . . . I can just leave?”

  Lloyd nodded, again looking pissed about it.

  Sam slowly began to walk toward the main doors, taking a couple of glances behind him along the way, wondering if this was all a bad joke and federal agents were about to tackle him again. No one did. He reached the outside, maneuvered through the crowds and police cars, and walked a block over until he was back in front of the green awning of the Phoenix Park Hotel. He peered up and down the sidewalk, making sure he was not about to get ambushed again. He had a dozen different theories bouncing through his head, one of which had the Gray Wolf somehow working with the FBI to have him killed. He dismissed that idea along with all of the others. He simply had no idea what was about to happen.

  Sam entered the hotel, made his way to the elevators, and punched a button for the top floor. Seconds later, he stepped out into the hallway and found the door for the Congressional Suite. Inside, he was supposed to find a meeting between Hebbard and Liddell. Now, after the whole bizarre FBI deal, he wasn’t so sure. He noticed the door to the suite was already cracked open. Should he knock? Was someone expecting him?