Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

Onscreen, it clicked from 9:24…

… to 9:25.

On the floor, a needlepoint carpet covered with green and yellow leaves kept the office warm and mostly silent. The oak floor creaked from a nearly imperceptible shift in weight.

Then the Knight pulled the trigger. Twice.

The pastor’s body convulsed as one of the bullets entered his back.

Another mission complete. For the second time, history had repeated itself.

14

Six days ago

Ann Arbor, Michigan

Sir, you ready to order?” the thin black woman with splotchy skin asked from behind the counter.

“Not yet. I’m waiting for someone,” Dr. Stewart Palmiotti replied from the bright red booth as he again scanned the small fast-food restaurant located just inside the entrance of Target.

He knew why she had picked it: It was well lit and safe, with plenty of people watching them. Plus, by doing it in Ann Arbor—Wallace’s alma mater—the message was clear. If the President didn’t deliver, she’d take apart every piece of his life.

“You need to try the hot dogs,” a female voice eventually announced behind him. “They’re better than you think.”

Before Palmiotti could turn, a woman in a stylish brown overcoat was standing over him, looking down. Her hair was short and dyed blonde. But he knew that grin: same as her father, the presidential assassin known as Nico.

“Y’know, after your funeral, I read your obituary. They made you sound nicer than you really are,” Clementine said, sliding into the empty seat across from the President’s oldest friend and most trusted doctor. “By the way, I mean it about the hot dogs,” she added, pointing to the counter, where a dozen thick hot dogs twirled on the grill’s treadmill. She was enjoying herself now, which annoyed Palmiotti even more.

Both A.J. and the President had warned him about this. Everyone thought that Nico was the monster, but it was his daughter who had tried to blackmail them, threatening to expose their secret unless she got the information about her father. And in the end, during her escape, it was Clementine who fired the shot that nearly killed Palmiotti.

But Clementine was different from Beecher, and far more dangerous. If they had any hope of containing this, they needed to make peace, not war.

“The blonde hair looks good,” Palmiotti offered. “Quite a change from the black.”

“Same with yours,” Clementine said, pointing at his own dye job. “Though I also like the scar on your neck. Isn’t that where I shot you?”

Palmiotti cupped his hands, intertwining his fingers, refusing to take the bait. “Y’know, I remember the last thing you said to us: about the cancer that was eating at your body. I lost a niece to brain cancer. She was four years old. When her hair fell out, she used to cry, ‘Why can’t I have pigtails?’ So you can talk as tough as you want, but I’m a doctor. From your skin alone… I’m guessing oral chemo, yes? I know what it does to you. I’m sorry for that.”

Across the booth, Clementine studied him, her eyes narrowing. “Did you bring what I asked for or not?”

“Of course I did.” From underneath his coat on the bench, Palmiotti pulled out a thick manila envelope.

From the back of her pants, Clementine took out a similar envelope that looked slightly thinner, with a water stain on it.

“And this is everything you found?” Palmiotti asked, lifting the flap, where he saw a familiar name typed on the file folder that was tucked inside. Wallace, Orson.

True to her word, this was everything: the complete file that, two months ago, Beecher had tracked down in the Archives. As far as they knew, this was the only proof of what he and the future President did all those years ago, when they attacked and eventually took the life of that man with the eight-ball tattoo.

“How do we know you won’t say anything, or that you didn’t make copies for yourself?” Palmiotti asked.

“You don’t,” Clementine said as she reached for the envelope that Palmiotti had brought in return. Undoing the figure-eight loop, she added, “How do I know this is his real military file?”

She waited for an answer. Palmiotti didn’t give her one. But he didn’t deny it was.

Back by the counter, one of the hot dogs sizzled and popped, spitting a fleck of grease against the protective glass. Clementine smiled. With enough pressure, everything pops. Even a President.

Freeing the brown accordion file from its envelope, she read the name that was typed on the peeling blue-and-white sticker in the corner. Hadrian, Nicholas. Her father.

“You know Beecher’s been looking for you,” Palmiotti warned as she started flipping through the file.

Clementine nodded, licking her finger and flicking to a new page. She’d waited too long not to take a peek. But what caught her eye was the logo at the top of the page: an eagle gripping a metal anchor. The logo of the U.S. Navy. It made no sense. Nico wasn’t in the navy.

“Beecher’s not searching alone,” Palmiotti added. “He’s got help.”

“Who? Tot?”

“And some others,” Palmiotti said, resealing his envelope.

Across from him, Clementine was flipping faster than ever, skimming through the pages—letters of recommendation… physical profile… record of induction—glancing through details of her father’s lost life. But as she read the date of Nico’s induction into the military, three years before she was born, Palmiotti saw the way her hands started shaking.

For so long now, Clementine had waited for this moment: to have details… documentation… the proof of what they did to him, and by extension, to her. Whatever they put in Nico’s body, it was the only way to explain the unknown cancer that she had today. Her doctors said they’d never seen anything like it. That her type of cancer… that it didn’t exist… it was a new mutation. But as Clementine thumbed to the pages labeled Psychological & Medical Records , she felt a swell of tears that surprised even her.

“You okay?” Palmiotti asked.

Clementine looked up, caught off guard by the question. He already had what he wanted.

“What does he have on you?” she blurted.

“Excuse me?” Palmiotti asked.

“I meant it before. I read your obituary. To do what you did, to let the world think you’re dead… You had to leave your wife—”

“Ex-wife.”

“—and two kids—”

“My kids haven’t spoken to me in years.”

“But your life ,” Clementine said, her eyes back down on the file. “You left your entire life behind, and for what? For a President? For one man? What the hell does Wallace have over you?”

“You’re questioning me ? What about your own life? You’re hiding in Michigan. You have no home. And for what, Clementine? To get Nico’s files?”

“He’s my father .”

“Don’t play the wounded child. We all know that’s not why you did this,” Palmiotti challenged. “All the hurt you caused… that wasn’t for your father . That was for you , Clementine. You did all that for you . And now that you got the files and everything you wanted, you really think it matters how we got here? You wanted something so you did what you had to do to get it. The only thing you have to ask is, was it worth it? ”

Clementine stared down at the file folder, rereading the peeling blue-and-white sticker with her father’s name. She thought about how she still had two more days in her chemo cycle, which meant the tingling in her toes, the hideous nausea, and the loose diarrhea would only be getting worse. So. Was it worth it?

“Depends what I find,” she shot back, slapping the file shut and sliding out of the booth. As she was about to leave, she turned back and added, “No matter how much of a piece of garbage your boss is, I’m sorry you lost your life over this.”