The Last Widow: The latest new 2019 crime thriller from the No. 1 Sunday Times bestselling author

by Karin Slaughter

  Cathy clearly hated Will. There was no sugar-coating it. Eddie was making more of an effort, but Will wasn’t sure that would last for much longer. The truth was that he had never expected to fit in with Sara’s family. His only hope had been that eventually, possibly, he would end up like that stray piece of a jigsaw puzzle that no one could find a place for, but no one could bring themselves to throw away.

  The last time Will had seen Cathy Linton, she couldn’t even say his name.

  The van hit a rut in the road. Beau sniffed himself awake. He scratched his balls, used his sleeve to wipe the drool off his mouth. He opened the cooler. He slammed it closed. “Which one of you pencil dicks drank the last Gatorade?”

  “There’s one by the door,” Three said. “It’s a little warm.”

  Beau saw through the trick. He kicked Three in the shin. “You think I’ve never had to drink piss, boy?”

  No one laughed. They were contemplating how desperate a man had to be in order to drink his own urine.

  Four asked the question Will had been dreading. “What was it like over there?”

  Beau nodded toward Will. “He’s the one who saw the real action.”

  Will kept his body still so that he wouldn’t punch Beau in the neck.

  Three said, “Come on, dude. What was it like?”

  Will looked up at the dome light. He cleared his throat. These kids were armed. They were heading into a possibly dangerous situation. Their biggest fear was making a mistake because their buddies would laugh at them. Death was not a concept they could hold in their little minds. They hadn’t been hurt enough by life to understand that it was precious.

  He told them, “I didn’t watch my buddies die so I could entertain a bunch of pissants with stories.”

  Beau chuckled. “True dat.”

  Their disappointment was palpable. Four groaned. Three tapped his head against the metal wall. Two started biting his fingernails. One shifted, trying to stretch out a cramp in his leg without making physical contact with anyone else.

  The back of the van was tight, but One through Four had left inches of space between them. At that age, you didn’t touch another guy unless you were hurting him. You talked about screwing girls who had never even heard your name. You bragged about flipping your skateboard or crashing your bike like you hadn’t almost shit yourself when it happened. You were still trying to figure out what to do with all the rage and lust and anger that sparked up like a forest fire for no reason.

  Will had been exactly like them at that age—so damn desperate for someone to show him how to be a man. He’d see a cool guy strolling down the street and try to match his gait. He’d hear another man flirt with a woman and try out the line on an unsuspecting girl. Or at least Will would tell his friends that he’d tried out the line. And that it had worked. And that she had been amazing.

  “It sucks,” Will said. “Killing somebody. It sucks, and you hate yourself.”

  Beau didn’t crack a stupid joke. He was listening. They were all listening.

  Will considered his words. He was supposed to be Jack Wolfe right now, ex-Army soldier, disillusioned with life. On paper, the man’s experiences were not his own, but they shared some qualities. Will had no remorse for shooting Sebastian James Monroe, but Monroe was not the first man he had killed.

  He told the boys, “There’s no glory in taking another human being’s life.”

  The air was tense. The only sound was the tires droning against asphalt.

  “People say you’re strong, or that you’re a hero, but you’re not.” Will wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. “Even if the guy deserved it. Even if what it came down to was that you had to kill him before he killed you, you feel like shit.”

  Beside him, Beau started flexing his hands.

  Will said, “People ask you about it all the time, but you can’t tell them the truth, because that’s not what heroes do.”

  “Damn straight,” Beau mumbled.

  Will leaned forward, because he wanted these stupid kids to hear him. “It’s not cool when it happens. The blood sprays. It gets into your eyes. You can see bone and cartilage. You think you’re ready for that shit because you’ve played Call of Duty ten billion times, but it’s not the same in person. The blood smells like copper. It gets into your teeth. You taste it in your throat. Sniff it into your lungs.”

  “Damn,” Three whispered.

  Beau was looking down at his hands. He shook his head.

  Will said, “The man you shot, he had a family, just like you have a family. He had a life. You have a life. Maybe he had kids. Maybe he had a fiancée or a girlfriend or his mother was sick or he ached in his balls to go home the same way you ached to every second of every day.” He looked at each of them, One through Four. Their eyes were wide. They were hanging on every word. “That’s why it sucks. Because—”

  Will shook his head. He had told them the because. He hoped to God they would never find out for themselves.

  Beau sniffed again. He wiped his nose.

  Two was the first to break. “Because what, dude?”

  Will stared at the blacked-out window. He could hear Beau’s raspy breathing.

  Two repeated, “Because what?”

  Beau said, “Because when you kill somebody, you kill a part of yourself.”

  The tires droned in the silence. There were no more questions. Will marked the passage of time on his watch. Ten more minutes. Fifteen. He felt the van take a soft turn. They were leaving the highway, merging onto an exit.

  He stared at his watch.

  7:49 p.m.

  The van slowed for another turn. Sharper, probably onto a side street. The turn sent Will’s shoulder into Beau’s. Across from them, the kids struggled to maintain the space between them.

  The van’s speed stayed around thirty for a few minutes. Will listened for the sound of other vehicles. He heard the occasional hum of traffic. They were still close to the highway. Or maybe it was an interstate. Or maybe he’d been in this van so long that he’d lost his sense of hearing.

  The floor felt like it was dipping. The van was going up a ramp. Will heard the rumble of an idling diesel engine. Close by, probably parked next to the van. There was a whirring sound. A motor, chains hitting metal. The click-click-click-click of a brake preventing a gear from rolling back.

  Will recognized the sound. He had worked at a shipping company to help pay his way through college. He knew what a receiving dock door sounded like when it was rolled up for a delivery.

  The van shifted as Gerald got out of the front. He was talking to someone. Will couldn’t make out the words. He assumed money was being exchanged.

  Not a lot of risk. We’ve done it before. There’s a guy on the inside.

  The doors to the van finally opened. Will had expected a blinding light, but all he got was more darkness. Gerald had backed directly into the receiving bay. The thick black seal around the open door blocked Will’s chances of seeing the outside. A man who looked like he’d just come from the gym was walking toward the exit. His back was to Will. He had an envelope in his hand that was so stuffed with cash that the flap wouldn’t close. Red ball cap, baggy shorts, black Nike T-shirt, thick in the waist.

  “Let’s go.” Gerald kept his voice low as he waved for them to hurry.

  One through Four quickly scrambled, pairing off in different directions. They kept their hands on their firearms as if any second, this could turn into the O.K. Corral.

  Will’s eyes darted around the warehouse as he climbed down from the van. Most of the lights were off, but there were spots to see by. The warehouse was around the size of a football field. Rows of metal racks contained stacked, sealed cardboard boxes. They were all the same dimensions, around thirty inches square. Each was stamped with numbers that corresponded to the different signs on the racks below. Every single box had a plastic sleeve with a shipping label inside.

  Will had to get one of those labels. The contents, shipping and receiving address
es, company names and contacts would be on the forms.

  “Beau.” Gerald nodded him toward the rear of the warehouse.

  The Glock was already in Beau’s hands. He walked in a low crouch, weapon pointed down, looking for security guards or anyone who might cause trouble.

  “Wolfe.” Gerald’s hand was on Will’s shoulder. He spoke quietly. “That way.”

  Will saw the bathrooms, an employee breakroom, the shipping office, a door that probably led to the administration side of the warehouse. He drew his Sig, pointed it down at the ground, and crouched his way toward the bathroom.

  Before he went inside, he glanced behind him. A second bay door was open onto the back of a box truck. Cardboard boxes that looked identical to the ones on the racks were packed to the ceiling. Two and Three started unloading them. Whatever was inside was heavy enough to require two men per box. Gerald went to the racks. He had a piece of paper in his hands. He was looking for a corresponding number. He pointed to a row in the middle. One and Four got to work taking them down.

  Why break into a warehouse to replace a bunch of boxes?

  Gerald caught his eye.

  Will went into the women’s bathroom. He checked the stalls. He needed something—a name tag, a newspaper, that could help pinpoint his location. There were lockers, but they were all unlocked and all empty. He cleared the men’s room with the same bad luck. He went back into the warehouse. More boxes coming out of the truck. More boxes being taken down from the racks.

  The door to the shipping office was locked. Will looked through the glass. Papers were everywhere. It was too dark to make out any logos or addresses.

  Behind him, the kids were working quickly. The boxes were out of the truck. Half of the new boxes had been loaded in. They were working by rote. They had all done this before. They were afraid, but not terrified. Their nervous energy came more from the excitement of being criminals.

  Will entered the breakroom. Vending machines, kitchenette, sink, two refrigerators, tables and chairs for around thirty people.

  One person sitting at the table by the Coke machine.

  Security guard.

  At first glance, he could’ve been dead, but Will realized that the man was asleep. His head had dropped back against the chair. His mouth gaped open. His hat covered his eyes and nose. His hands rested on his large belly. The uniform was black cotton. No logos or name tag. Black work boots. White gym socks.

  Will started to edge out of the room, but then he clocked the ID badge on a lanyard around the man’s neck.

  The card was turned around. The back was white. The other side of the card would show the man’s name, the company, the address.

  Will debated.

  He could hear a bay door rolling closed in the warehouse. They had loaded up the semi. They were probably looking for him.

  Will tucked the Sig into his holster. He flicked open his knife.

  He took a step toward the sleeping guard. He was snoring hard, had probably been out for at least an hour.

  Will took another step. He clicked his tongue, testing the amount of noise he could make before the guard woke up. The rolling door hadn’t stirred him. The smell of hard liquor was pungent as Will got closer. He clicked his tongue again. The man did not stir.

  Will took another step. He reached out with his blade to cut the ID card off the lanyard.

  “Ssst!”

  The noise had come from behind Will.

  Gerald was in the doorway. He furiously shook his head, motioning for Will to leave the guy alone. There was something like fear in his eyes.

  He’d thought that Will was going to stab the guard.

  “Wolfe.” Gerald waved for him to leave.

  Will looked down at the ID card. He was so fucking close.

  But Gerald had told him no. Will’s mission was not to locate the address to a warehouse. He was here to work his way into the IPA.

  He kept the knife in his hand as he backed out of the room. He stared at the ID card with the same kind of longing he felt for Sara. He scanned the room for identifying features. The usual signs about choking and chemical burns on the walls. An eye-washing station. A first-aid kit. There was nothing that would differentiate this breakroom from every other breakroom inside the hundreds of thousands of warehouses in the country.

  Will jogged behind Gerald to the van. His eyes found the boxes on the metal rack. They all had the same number: 4935-876.

  “Wolfe.” Gerald’s hand went to Will’s shoulder. His voice was low. “Next time, check with me before you do something like that.”

  Will nodded. He climbed into the van. One through Four were already inside. Beau had taken his place behind the driver’s seat. He was silent, looking down at his hands. They were all quiet. They had all expected, maybe even hoped, for the worst to happen, and they didn’t know what to do with the letdown.

  The drive back to the nursing home passed in silence. Four hours, by Will’s watch. One through Four had fallen asleep. Beau stayed tensed beside him. He was thinking, probably planning how he was going to get out of this once the van stopped. Run. Fight. Kill.

  Will was thinking, too, but not about that.

  4935-876.

  The numbers on the sides of the boxes.

  He kept chanting them in his head like a mantra. The tires kept rolling. The kids kept sleeping. Will’s tailbone started to ache from the metal floor. The display on his watch had flipped to midnight by the time the van finally slowed to a stop.

  The kids did not wake up. Beau grunted as he edged along the floor. The shrapnel in his back was probably killing him. He’d stopped reaching into his pocket about an hour ago. Either his pills were gone or he wanted to be clear-headed for what was about to come next.

  Gerald opened the van doors. They were at the mouth of the driveway to the nursing home. He had their wallets, Beau’s phone and keys.

  He said, “Thank you very much for your service. Money’s under the seat of your truck. Good doing business with you fellas.”

  Beau took his belongings, started shoving them into his pockets.

  Gerald headed toward the front of the van. The driver’s door was open. The engine was idling.

  He was going to leave. He couldn’t leave.

  Will asked, “That’s it?”

  Gerald slowly turned around. He studied Will. He couldn’t quite make up his mind. After too many seconds had passed, he said, “You want more, Major Wolfe?”

  Major.

  They had gone through Will’s wallet, run a background check on Jack Phineas Wolfe, honorably discharged, former Airborne.

  Beau cleared his throat. “Come on. Let him go.”

  Will couldn’t tell who he was talking to.

  Gerald asked Beau, “What’s this pussy shit, Ragnersen? You taking away your endorsement?”

  Will held his breath, waiting for Beau to rat him out.

  Beau took his time offering an answer, but in the end, he shook his head. Once. Not emphatic. The equivalent of a shoulder shrug.

  Will thought about the Sig Sauer at his back. He was sweating so hard the leather holster was glued to the tail of his shirt.

  “Come on, Ragnersen.” Gerald clearly wasn’t satisfied. “You think he’s got what it takes or not?”

  Will looked down at the ground. He gauged the distance between him and Gerald, thought about One through Four sleeping in the van, the old folks in the nursing home, the cars that might drive by on the road.

  “Fuck yes.” Beau let his face split open with a grin. “Wolfe had my back over in the sandpit more times than you’ve scratched your balls.”

  Will worked on keeping the anger and relief off his face. He grabbed Beau by the shoulder the way a buddy would, but his fingers dug in hard enough to let him know he was going to pay for this bullshit later.

  Gerald crossed his arms. He asked Will, “How bad is your life?”

  Will shrugged.

  Gerald asked, “Are you willing to give everything up? Leav
e town? Don’t look back?”

  Will’s heart started thumping so hard that he could feel his pulse in his fingers. This was it. His last chance to find Dash. His only chance to save Sara.

  He asked Gerald, “What does it pay?”

  “$250,000.”

  “Shit,” Beau hissed.

  Will asked, “What do I have to do?”

  “You’ll know when it’s time to know,” Gerald said. “You show up, be ready to leave your old life behind. Don’t pack any bags. Don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. The payday is crazy for a reason. You do this job with us, you’ve got to disappear when it’s over. You can’t return to your old life. And if you try to, then we’ll have to deal with you, your family, your woman—anybody who might say the wrong word. You understand?”

  Will pretended to think about it. The money wasn’t just crazy, it was stupid crazy. There were hundreds of bad guys who would strangle their own mothers for a quarter of that. It was the kind of money you offered when you knew you weren’t going to have to pay it.

  Will asked, “When?”

  Beau kicked the ground.

  “Tomorrow,” Gerald said. “Fifteen hundred hours, sharp. Exit 129 off of I-85. There’s a Citgo. I’ll give you a little ride to meet the boss. He’ll test you out, make sure you’re a good fit.”

  Dash.

  Gerald said, “If he gives the thumbs up, you’re in.”

  Beau asked, “And if he doesn’t?”

  Gerald shrugged. He told Will, “Some wars are worth the sacrifice. The boss will fill you in. Believe me, you won’t take much convincing. Maybe you’ll want to go with us when we bug out. The mission you’ll be a part of, the war we’re fighting, it means something.”

  Will clenched his jaw. He had a siren going off in his head, not a warning, but—

  Sara-Sara-Sara-Sara.

  Beau stepped into it. “What’s this mission?”

  Gerald looked surprised. “You want a piece?”

  “Fuck no, man. Not for twice that.”

  Gerald told Will, “Think about it, soldier. No pressure. If you want in, you’ve got to be all in. Show up tomorrow, exit 129, fifteen hundred. You’ll find out what you’re doing when it’s time to find out what you’re doing. That work for you?”