by Ward Larsen
DeBolt rose for his second breath on the backside of a wave, and on the third he ventured a look shoreward. In the black night he could make out none of the assailants. He was at least fifty yards offshore now, and he knew they wouldn’t follow him. Swimming in conditions like this bordered on insanity. Yet it seemed to be working. He was escaping … but to where?
A hundred yards to sea he no longer bothered to stay submerged. The shore was only visible in glimpses on the rise of each wave. He could tell he was being pulled north by the current, away from the cabin, but he was also being dragged out to sea. Sooner or later, he would have to swim clear of the rip and return to shore. Probably sooner. In recent days, even wearing the wetsuit, his swims had been getting shorter, the water temperature having dropped markedly. Now, with no protection, no sun for warmth, the beginnings of hypothermia were already evident. Shivering, a racing heartbeat, his muscles becoming sluggish. Soon the most dangerous element would take hold: his decision-making would become impaired. The upside for DeBolt was that he was an expert, not only in the clinical presentations of hypothermia, but knowing from experience the sequence in which his own body would shut down.
He reached down and felt his right calf. There was definitely damage of some kind, but for now adrenaline overrode the pain. He drifted around a bend and the shoreline was barely visible. The cabin lights disappeared. Had it been five minutes? Ten? Would the attackers organize a search up and down the beach? How far would he have to drift to get clear? Soon, he knew, it wouldn’t matter. The cold would kill him just as surely.
A rogue breaker caught him in the face, and he sucked down a lungful of the frigid brine. He coughed and spewed, and sensed he was moving faster than ever. Then, in an awful moment, he lost sight of shore. DeBolt spun his head left and right. He pulled himself up in the water, yet saw nothing but black sea and foam. He had no moon or stars for reference, the storm blotting out the sky.
Safety lay to the west. But which way was west?
The question looped in his head, again and again.
Which way is west?
And then suddenly, incredibly, an answer arrived. It displayed clearly amid the blackness, like some divine vision—a tiny compass and arrow. West was on his left shoulder. Could it be true? Or was he hallucinating, his mind playing tricks due to the cold?
Apparition or not, it was all he had. Without understanding, without caring how or why the answer had come, DeBolt used the last of his energy to pull in that direction. His arms lost any sense of a rhythmic stroke, more clutching at the water than a means of propulsion. Time lost all meaning, and there was only one thing … stay up, keep moving! The waves began to lift him, and it was all he could do to keep his head above water, keep his lungs charged with buoyant air. Finally, salvation—in a bolt of lightning, he caught a glimpse of the shoreline. It gave him a reference, a thread of hope.
His feet touched sand and he was elated, then a tremendous breaker threw him into a cartwheel and his head struck the bottom. Tumbling and churning, he fought back to the surface and gasped when he got there, sucking in as much water as air. He glimpsed the shadowed outline of the beach. There was no sign of his attackers, although at this point it hardly mattered—he would go wherever the sea threw him.
The muscles in his arms burned, and his good leg began to cramp. He tumbled though another breaker, and the water became shallow. Under his knees he felt a change in the bottom, not sand or bedrock, but a field of loose stone—the foreshore shelf that existed on every beach. DeBolt half rolled, half crawled the last yards, careless breakers pushing him on like a wayward piece of driftwood. With his knees on the rocks he coughed up seawater, and dragged himself higher up the slope. He only relaxed when his hands found the trunk of the first tree.
He leaned against it and searched the night. There was no sign of the assault team. Assault team. It was the only name that fit. In that moment, as he lay frozen and spent, a disquieting notion came to DeBolt’s cold-soaked mind—whoever they were, they had not come here tonight with the aim of killing a nurse.
They had come to kill him.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to express my deepest appreciation to those who helped with Assassin’s Code.
As always, thanks to my editor, Bob Gleason, for telling me what to fix, but allowing me to fix it. Your rich imigination and in-depth knowledge, not to mention your apocalyptic predilections, offer the perfect sounding board for ideas.
The staff at Tor were instrumental as ever, including Linda Quinton, Elayne Becker, and Emily Mullen. And of course, thanks to the inimitable Tom Doherty for what you have built on Flatiron’s 14th.
All appreciation to my agent, Susan Gleason, for your unfailing enthusiasm, dedication, and, of course, the wine. You have been, and will remain, essential.
I also would like to thank Ileen Maisel and Lawrence Elman at Amber Entertainment for their ceaseless efforts to bring this series to the big screen. Along the same lines, executive producers Bob and Patricia Gussin. The finish line, we all hope, is near.
I certainly could never have completed this book without the steady support of my wife and children. For the eighth time, and with no less enthusiasm than the first, thank you.
Finally, I would like to recognize those on the receiving end of my stories. This series could never have become what it is without the support, feedback, and word-of-mouth recommendations of so many readers. From the bottom of my heart, thank you all for helping me bring Slaton to life.
ALSO BY WARD LARSEN
The Perfect Assassin
Assassin’s Game*
Assassin’s Silence*
Assassin’s Code*
* Published by Forge Books.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WARD LARSEN is a USA Today bestselling author and four-time winner of the Florida Book Award. He has also been nominated for both the Macavity and Silver Falchion Awards. A former U.S. Air Force fighter pilot, Larsen flew more than twenty missions in Operation Desert Storm. He has served as a federal law enforcement officer and is a trained aircraft accident investigator. His first thriller, The Perfect Assassin, is currently being adapted into a major motion picture by Amber Entertainment. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Seventy-Two
Seventy-Three
Sneak Peak: Cutting Edge
Acknowledgments
Also by Ward Larsen
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ASSASSIN’S CODE
Copyright © 2017 by Ward Larsen
All rights reserved.
Cover design by jetdesignltd.com
Cover images by Depositphotos
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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Forge® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-8580-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7653-8582-6 (ebook)
eISBN 9780765385826
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First Edition: August 2017