Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

As Tot hangs up, I scroll to an app called Jupiter.

After the Revolutionary War, George Washington was committed to building our country. But in his personal life, his commitment was given to, of all things, breeding .

Not kids. Washington never had kids.

He had dogs.

According to his papers, he wanted a superior dog, one that had speed, sense and brains . He did it too—after merging a set of hounds that were a gift from the French with a set of tan-and-black hounds here.

His creation was the American foxhound. The ultimate hunting machine.

More than thirty hounds were listed in his journals, with names like Drunkard, Tipsy, Sweet Lips, and of course…

Jupiter.

With a press of my thumb, the screen on my phone displays a map. The circular road shows the roundabout and Memorial Bridge. There’s a tiny green pin, which represents me. There’s also a red pin. That’s the SUV.

When I was in his apartment, Marshall may’ve grabbed my wallet to pick through my life. But when we were in his parking garage—when I was in his SUV—I dropped a small silver beacon into the plastic well on the passenger-side door.

Marshall’s smart. And clearly smarter at this than I am. But he’s not smarter than the Culper Ring.

Based on the map, he’s making his way toward the Key Bridge, headed to Georgetown.

When I was little, my mom said I shouldn’t get out of bed until I said a prayer for something I was thankful for. It’s a rule I carry with me to this day. God bless GPS. And Jupiter, the ultimate hunting machine.

Within ten minutes, I see where he stops.

Ready or not, Marshall. Here I come.

29

St. Elizabeths Hospital

Washington, D.C.

Don’t let them put you in it, Nico ,” the dead First Lady warned.

Nodding at her, Nico squinted down at the floor of the redbrick courtyard, where a section of light beige bricks formed a circular maze pattern.

“So it’s a maze?” Nico asked, his book—with its ten of spades bookmark—tucked tightly under his armpit.

“It’s not a maze. It’s a labyrinth,” Nurse Karina, a short Asian woman with black statement glasses and perfectly smooth skin, offered, motioning her clipboard toward the bricks. “Do you know the difference between a maze and a labyrinth?” Well aware that she wasn’t supposed to let Nico tangle with a problem he couldn’t solve, she quickly explained, “A maze is designed to be an obstacle, with dead ends and wrong turns. A labyrinth will never block you—it gives you a winding but totally clear path right to the center and then back again.”

“So a bad hospital would have a maze?” Nico asked, still eyeing the wide, circular labyrinth that… no question about it… looked like a twenty-foot-wide maze.

“Yes, a bad hospital would have a maze. In The Shining ? That’s a maze. We have a labyrinth. It’s very therapeutic. Now would you like to begin?”

Nico didn’t want to begin. It was cold outside, and even though the courtyard was covered, he didn’t like the cold. But he did like Nurse Karina, who always looked him right in the eyes. Most of the nurses never looked him in the eyes.

“I start here?” Nico asked, entering the labyrinth.

“I can hold your book for you. If you like,” Karina offered.

At first, Nico hesitated. But then he saw her outstretched hand… and the pale pink polish on her thin, crooked fingers. His mother had fingers like that.

“I want it back when I’m done,” Nico said, handing Karina the book as she offered a small smile in return.

He trusted her now. Enough to hand her the book and to step into the labyrinth. Yet as he took his first steps around the outer edges of the circle, Nico couldn’t help but notice the double-pane window that looked out onto the courtyard. Through it, he saw a breakroom, where a group of construction workers were watching the local news. In St. Elizabeths, they never let Nico watch the news.

“Y’know back during the Crusades, walking a labyrinth represented a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. For many, they’re still sacred places,” Karina added, knowing that Nico always responded well to religious references.

Nico barely heard the words. As he followed the zigzag and it led him past the window of the breakroom, his eyes were locked on the handsome news anchor sitting at the news desk. The graphic onscreen said: Shooting At Local Church. But it wasn’t until the camera cut to video footage of Foundry Church that Nico stopped midstep.

“Nico…?” Karina called out. From the angle she was at, she couldn’t see into the breakroom. It looked like Nico was staring blankly at the wall.

“Nico, what’s wrong?”

His body was tensed, his arms flat at his sides. He wanted to say something to the dead First Lady, but with the nurse watching, he just stood there, looking in the window, at the screen. There it was. The message he’d been waiting for. Just as the Knight had promised.

“Nico, look at me!” Nurse Karina pleaded, as if she were saying it for the fifth time.

He whipped around, facing Karina. His chest was pumping, though his sniper training kicked in quickly. You don’t hold your breath as you squeeze the trigger. You learn to breathe into it.

“ Don’t move ,” the dead First Lady agreed. “ Let her get us what we need. ”

Nico nodded. There was still so much to do. Beecher… and Clementine… would be here soon.

“Nico, you okay?” Nurse Karina asked.

He just stood there, frozen.

“Nico, please. I need you to say something.”

His chest continued to rise and fall. Maybe even a little bit faster. The dead First Lady was right. This was how he’d get what he wanted.

“Nico, I’m serious,” Karina demanded. “Please say something.”

30

I find Marshall’s SUV on a narrow side street in Georgetown, just off the main drag of Wisconsin Avenue. The tracker I hid is still in the car, but it only takes a few footprints in the snow to trail him along the lumpy brick sidewalks.

Up the block, there’s a redbrick building with royal blue awnings. The footprints make a sharp left, into an alley just before the building.

I scramble as fast as I can, sticking to the streets so I get a better foothold to run.

With each of my steps, the gray slush leaps from the pavement, arcing up and outward, like synchronized divers. I don’t stop until I’m near the blue awnings; then I look to my left to make sure the alley’s clear.

Darting from the street and toward the sidewalk, I step through a drift of black snow that doesn’t look that deep but somehow swallows my leg all the way up to my ankle. My sock fills with frozen water. I remind myself I’m not a spy. I’m an archivist. A history major.

But that’s the thing about history majors. We know the value of what’s left behind.

In front of me, the alley’s empty. Marshall’s gone.

But once again, his footprints—curving around to the right… behind the building—are right where he left them.

Racing forward, I tear around the corner. The alley widens into an open brick courtyard. But the first thing I see is—On my right. There’s a door. A propped-open door that’s about to slam shut.

It leads into the back of the building. Where Marshall just ducked inside.

I race for the door, catching it just before it closes. With a yank, I pull it open and step inside. A familiar but unplaceable smell wafts through the air. Like I said, Marshall’s smart. But I’m—

Uccck.

His fist hits me in the throat first.

He grabs me. My throat—!

He grips my Adam’s apple with the tips of all five of his fingers. Like he’s plucking it from my neck. The pain is—It’s not just that I can’t breathe… My neck…