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

by Karin Slaughter

  The road came up quickly. The bike lurched against the rear brake. One’s face popped against the back of Will’s helmet. He slid to a stop, used his heel to drop the kickstand, peeled his aching fingers off the grips.

  One stumbled from the bike. His lip was bleeding. His face had gone white. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to throw up or piss himself.

  Will took off his helmet. He counted three houses. The lots were at least five acres each. Will looked at his watch.

  3:58 p.m.

  Faith would be panicked. Amanda would be furious. Especially when she realized that he wasn’t going to turn on his tracker.

  “There he is.” One wiped his mouth. Blood smeared across his chin.

  Will looked up the road. Two was the only kid he hadn’t seen today, but it wasn’t Two who pulled up in a white van.

  Gerald rolled down the window. He told Will, “In the back, Wolfe.”

  Will opened the rear doors. No seats, just a bunch of racks with painter’s supplies. At least the air conditioning was on. Will climbed inside. One shut the doors. The big boy got to ride up in the front this time.

  As with the other van, the windows were blacked out. There was a cooler with ice and water. Will drank two bottles in quick succession. He rubbed the ice along the back of his neck. He dug into his pocket and found the pouch of aspirin. The plastic bag was wet from his sweat. The tablets had turned mushy in the heat. He considered for a moment what all this moisture was doing to the battery in the tracker. He bit off a chunk with his teeth and washed it down with cold water.

  Will closed his eyes. He leaned back his head. He gamed out what would happen when those doors opened again. Gerald was going to shoot him. Gerald was going to take him to Dash. Dash was going to shoot him. Dash was going to welcome him to the IPA. Sara was being held somewhere else. Sara was being held wherever they were taking him.

  Dear Heavenly Father, we ask for your blessing in this time of need.

  Will felt the temperature slowly drop to a bearable number. The rural feel of the terrain did not change. Gerald was using backroads, some paved, some gravel. Gravity told Will they were heading up. Or maybe Will had no idea and Gerald was driving around in circles.

  Almost an hour had passed when the van finally stopped. The gear went into reverse. The van swung around, then the engine was cut. Will had heard dirt kicking into the side panels. They had left any semblance of a cleared road a few miles back.

  5:03 p.m.

  One opened the doors. Will felt like the sun was reaching into his brain. He squeezed his eyes closed. He scooted along the floor of the van until his feet found the edge of the bumper. Will could only look down at the ground as he waited for his eyes to adjust. The van wasn’t the only vehicle that had driven in this area. Deep tire tracks indicated a box truck had recently backed into the grass.

  A box truck had backed up to the motel where Sara had left him the message.

  One said, “Cool, right?”

  Will rubbed his jaw. He looked around.

  Beside him, One did the same. He was something between a sponge and a shadow.

  Will walked, so One walked. He had to double-step to keep up with Will’s longer stride.

  Will had to stop caring about One. They were clearly in a staging area. Five black vans were parked in a row. Two dozen AR-15s were in a rack. Three men were loading magazines, 55 grain, full metal jacket with a lead core and a gray, polymer-coated steel case. The FMJ didn’t expand on impact like a hollow point, so you could hit your target, then accidentally hit another target downrange.

  For unknown reasons, the cartridges were laid out in rows on top of terrycloth towels. The men handling them were wearing black nitrile gloves. The loaded magazines were handed off to more gloved men who packed them into plastic containers about the size of a file box. Eight boxes had been filled so far, about a thousand rounds each. Two men holding clipboards monitored the progress. Two more guys were carrying coolers filled with bottles of Gatorade up the hill. Another group was taking a break at a picnic table. They were all dressed in tactical black, all wearing gloves. Will counted sixteen men total, most of them in their mid-twenties with a couple of gray-haired older men ordering them around.

  The air felt different. No one was joking around. They were doing serious work here. Will got the feeling they were ready to leave this place at a moment’s notice.

  But where, exactly, was this place?

  They were definitely in the mountains. Trees were everywhere. Birds were chirping. A stream or a river was nearby. What caught Will’s eye was a metal storage building just beyond the vans. The doors hung open. Sealed cardboard boxes were stacked inside. All the same size, about thirty inches square. All with packing slips in clear plastic pockets. All with the same number stamped onto the side.

  4935-876

  “Wolfe.” Gerald had finished talking to a man with a clipboard. He waved Will over. “We’re gonna put you straight to work, soldier. That good with you?”

  Will grunted, lifting his chin.

  Gerald said, “Dobie, you, too.”

  “Cool!” The kid Will had named One ran ahead of them.

  Dobie.

  Gerald kept a slower pace going up the hill. Will’s fists were clenched. Everyone was armed. His Sig Sauer had ten in the magazine and one in the chamber, but Will would be dead before he could reach for his holster. He was getting that same shaky feeling he’d had at the car accident. What if Sara was at the top of the hill? What if he found her tied up? What if he found her dead? What if he didn’t find her at all?

  Will’s hand went up to his cheek. The beard had turned into a talisman. All he had to do was rub it, and he changed into Jack Wolfe. “What’s the kid’s story?”

  “Dobie?” Gerald watched him trying to navigate the hill. The kid’s feet slipped in the grass. He jumped up and disappeared over the top. “He’s like all of ’em. Young, dumb and full of come.”

  Will felt his teeth grit. He couldn’t square the idiot kid with what he knew about groups like the IPA. Was Dobie a violent racist who wanted to kill all the Jews or was he just a rudderless young man who’d met the wrong people at the wrong time?

  At this point, it was a distinction without a difference.

  Gerald told Will, “We’ll let you watch a few times before we put you in.”

  Will didn’t ask what the in was, because he saw it for himself at the top of the hill.

  Only the framing existed in the two-story wooden structure. Will could tell by the gray color that the fake building had been left to the elements for at least six months. Plywood served as the floor. There were openings to indicate doors, but no windows. Safety railings marked the upstairs balcony. The stairs were open-backed, too skinny to be practical. They split into a T in the middle, feeding into either side of the balcony. There were cardboard bad guys with targets on them. A patchwork of tarps served as a ceiling. Two layers, one camouflage, the other thermal blocking to defeat heat-sensing cameras. A lot of work had gone into building and hiding the fake building. Will guessed the space was slightly larger than two regulation basketball courts.

  He counted eight men standing watch, all suited up for a raid, only their eyes showing behind clear, plastic goggles. Five more men were already inside the fake building. Two were on the ground floor. Three were running up the stairs to the balcony. Their AR-15s were at their shoulders. Their knees were bent. At the landing, they swiveled in perfect synchronicity and T’d up the next flight of stairs toward the balcony. Another few paces, then the lead man held up his fist to stop. He walked in a crouch. Three steps, then he was at the wall. He pretended to open a door and everyone started firing.

  Will saw Dobie jump at the tap-tap-tap sound.

  The kid said, “So fucking cool, bro.”

  He wasn’t afraid. He was excited.

  Will could tell that this wasn’t the first time the fake building had been raided. The wood was spattered with pinpricks of orange, red and
blue paint. They were using Simunition, a type of non-lethal ammunition. Will had fired the marking rounds during training exercises. The GBI required all agents to complete active shooter simulations inside of school buildings, abandoned houses, warehouses. They hired actors to play bad guys and civilians. Music was usually blaring. The lights flickered constantly, or sometimes they were off.

  You couldn’t do this with real bullets. Your adrenaline ran too high. You couldn’t do it with fake guns, either. The feel had to be the same, so they used blue conversion kits to replace the bolt carriers in rifles and the slides and chamber blocks on nine-mils. The magazines were clear plastic. The dummy rounds had colored paint inside the points so you could tell whether you’d hit a target or killed your partner. Even though the marking rounds weren’t lethal, they hurt like hell. Agents were always made to suit up in black hoods that covered everything but their eyes. Helmets, plastic goggles, padded vests, gloves and padded jocks. There was no better way to train for a real-world force-on-force environment.

  Which was exactly what the men inside of the fake building were doing.

  Hotel lobby? Office building? Synagogue? Mosque? The men were entering on the ground floor, not through a basement or loading dock. There would be security, but thirteen guys against two retired cops who were supplementing their pensions was not a fair contest. And that didn’t even include the number of civilians who would be inside.

  They were planning for a massacre.

  Gerald asked Will, “You ready to suit up?”

  Will was ready to turn on the tracker inside his holster. These men were planning a full-scale infiltration. They had to be stopped.

  But what about Sara?

  Will found the tactical equipment piled up on the ground. Guns had been tossed onto the grass. Typical law enforcement-issue Glock 19s, but Will’s Glock 19 was not among them. Nothing looked right. Magazines were half-filled. Some of the AR-15s were caked with dirt. Conversion kits laid around in pieces. Someone had known enough to order the gear, but had not taken the time to instruct them in the proper handling.

  Dobie was already strapping down his helmet.

  “Hood first,” Will told him.

  Dobie turned red. He took off the helmet. His eyes followed Will as he put on the gear, the same way Will had looked to Tessa for cues during Cathy’s prayer.

  The kid was so amped up he couldn’t stand still. Was this why Dobie had joined the IPA? Running around playing soldier was a hell of a kick. But the point of drilling was to prepare you for the real thing. Will knew for a fact that Dobie wasn’t ready for the real thing. Watching the guys in the fake building, he wasn’t confident they would do any better. But it didn’t take skill or even luck to kill a lot of people. Only the element of surprise and a willingness to pull the trigger.

  Will tightened down his belt. He checked his weapons. He made sure the magazines and chambers were filled with blanks because he didn’t trust these people. Technically, he should take the Sig Sauer out of his holster and clear the chamber. During simulated drills, no live rounds were allowed on the premises.

  But nothing about this was a simulation to Will.

  “Wolfe, you’re C-Team.” Gerald pointed up the stairs. “To the left.”

  Will had wondered why the three men had peeled off in the same direction, leaving their rear open to attack. Another mistake. You didn’t drill one team at a time. It was all or none.

  “Dude, it’s cool, right?” Dobie was still bouncing like a meth head. All that Will could see of his face was his bugged-out eyes behind the goggles. His vest had been hit at least six times with Simunition. His jock looked like a multi-colored Rorschach. He should’ve been anxious. This wasn’t a game of paintball. They were going to take this building in real life one day. Probably soon, if Faith’s contact at the FBI was right about the recent chatter.

  Will pulled the hood up over his nose. He adjusted his goggles. He told Dobie, “There’s a difference between shooting a piece of cardboard and killing a human being.”

  “Yeah-yeah-yeah.” Dobie’s breath flexed against the hood over his mouth. “I got it, bro.”

  Will wanted to punch some sense into the little shit. Instead, he showed Dobie how to hold the rifle. “Put your finger here, along the trigger guard. Never, ever touch the trigger unless you’re ready to kill somebody.”

  “He’s right, brother.” Another suited up man had joined them, bringing the team to sixteen. He started firing off orders. “Alpha, take the breach. Secure the first floor. Bravo and Charlie, you’re second wave. Up the stairs. Bravo, go right. Charlie will take the left.” For Will’s benefit, he explained, “You’re Charlie. We’ll go to the rear. We’ll wait for the cue. Dobie will open the door. Let’s go.”

  They didn’t run up the stairs. They all stood outside the fake building. Will looked down. The grass had been worn away from dozens of men standing right here and waiting to go in. The framing was open to the width of a set of double doors.

  They should’ve used real doors. You couldn’t see through walls in a real building. You couldn’t look through doors and spot the bad guys. The paper targets in the middle of the room were covered in paint. They probably hadn’t moved them during a single drill. You had to know a basic set of facts before you stormed a public space. Where was the furniture? What were the obstacles? Roughly how many people were inside? Which direction would they run in when the bullets started flying? Where were your exits? Who was your target? How were you going to keep yourself and your team safe?

  “All right, brothers.” Gerald had a stopwatch in his hand. He shouted, “Go.”

  Eight men rushed inside. Rifles pointed, knees bent. The two targets were double-tapped. The men split off into teams of two, covering all four walls. They moved silently, stealthily, using hand signals, tapping each other on the leg to stop or go. Fake doors were opened. Triggers were pulled. Paint hit the trees outside the building. Magazines were reloaded.

  “Go!” Gerald repeated.

  The three men in front of Will moved forward. Dobie followed. Will kept his rifle pointed down. Adrenaline shot through his body like fire. His vision narrowed. His heart started pounding. He forced himself to breathe in and out.

  This was why you practiced. This was why you wore the gear and you hid behind walls and you opened real doors because your body was dumb and it didn’t know the difference.

  Bravo team pounded up the stairs and swiveled up the T. Charlie was close behind. Will saw two letters spray-painted on the floor.

  LG.

  Will followed Dobie up the opposite side. They ran down the balcony. They stopped in front of a fake door. There was another letter painted on the plywood.

  G.

  Dobie looked at Bravo. He got the signal. He pretended to open the door.

  Will kept his rifle down. Dobie unloaded into the opening. He kept pulling on the trigger until his magazine was empty.

  Gerald called, “All right, that’s it. Twenty-eight seconds.”

  The whole thing had felt like ten minutes. Will’s heart was pushing its way up into his throat. The heat was getting to him. He took off the helmet, pushed back the hood and goggles.

  “Tell me, brother.” Will felt a hand on his shoulder. “Why didn’t you shoot?”

  Will looked at the man. He’d taken off his gear, too.

  Average weight and height. Brown hair and eyes.

  His thumb was hooked over his belt buckle, but his arm was bent at a strange angle. He wasn’t resting his hand. He was trying to take the weight off of his shoulder because he’d been shot two days ago.

  And then his men had kidnapped Sara.

  Dash tightened his grip on Will’s shoulder. “Major Wolfe?”

  Will had to say something. He couldn’t grunt and nod his way through this. He rubbed his beard, summoning up Jack Wolfe. “Don’t touch the trigger unless you’re ready to kill.” He shrugged. “There was nothing to kill.”

  “Ah,” Dash said. “Followi
ng your own advice.”

  “Training,” Will managed. Every ounce of his energy was being used to study Dash’s face for any sign of recognition. “If you shoot, shoot to kill.”

  Dash said, “Why don’t you walk with me? We’re planning a little celebration. I bet a big fella like you enjoys a rare steak.”

  Will’s stomach rolled itself into a fist. He should turn on the tracker. Dash was right here. The entire plan would fall apart without him.

  But what about Sara?

  “Let’s go.” Dash made his way down the stairs. The men opened up a path around him. He told Gerald, “Drill Team One again. I want them under ten seconds before we breach.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gerald gave him a crisp salute. The men from the staging area were pulling on hoods and helmets. Sixteen more men. Glocks and rifles at the ready.

  Will said, “I’ve never been on the second team before.”

  Dash laughed. “It’s good news for you, brother. The first wave always has the highest number of casualties. The generals call them cannon fodder.”

  He said this right in front of his men. They didn’t seem to mind the casual disregard for their lives. In fact, they looked energized by it.

  Dash told Will, “We’ll take another turn after the celebration.”

  “Celebration?”

  “We go in tomorrow. We have a Message to deliver. It can’t wait another day.”

  Will felt like thumb tacks were rolling around in his gut.

  “Don’t sweat it, Wolfe. I can tell from one run-through that you know what you’re doing.” Dash tossed his gear onto the pile. He didn’t bother to change out his Simunition. The blue plastic frame was like a beacon inside the holster.

  Will recognized the grip of his own Glock 19. Dash had taken his gun out of Sara’s car. He had used it to kill two people and probably to threaten Sara. No matter what happened next, Will was going to take back his gun and jam it down Dash’s throat.

  Dash said, “We’ve trained over one thousand hours for this mission.”

  Will nodded as if the number wasn’t idiotic. SEAL Team Six had only a few days of training before they’d raided Bin Laden’s compound.