Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

“Shhh,” Nico whispered, still focusing on Rupert and Dr. Gosling.

“ Nico, do you even know how lucky you got? ” the First Lady asked. “ With all the money they spent on this building, the doors still aren’t thick enough to mask the sound. ”

Nico nodded. That’d be useful. “It’s good to know when someone’s coming.”

“ Sure is ,” the First Lady said. “ And it’s even better to know about the bang before the bang happens. ”

Refusing to take a sip of his apple juice, Nico looked down at the leather book that he’d intentionally left in the downstairs restroom. Thumbing through it, he stopped on the playing-card bookmark: the ten of diamonds on here. Behind it was another card. A new card. The ace of clubs.

Message received. The third Knight was on his way.

51

Tot was tired as he followed the checkerboard floor down the long basement hallway. He wanted to go home. He needed the rest. But right now, in the basement of the National Archives, he needed something else even more. If the Knights of the Golden Circle were truly back…

He picked up his pace. He’d have the answer soon enough.

Checking one last time over his shoulder, he stopped at the room with no room numbers on it—the thick glass door with beige horizontal blinds.

He knew the glass was bulletproof. He knew the treasures that were stored inside. And he knew better than to knock. The hidden camera above the doorjamb already announced his arrival.

Underneath the door, the lights were off. Tot didn’t budge.

Sure enough, within seconds, there was a muffled click and the heavy door opened.

“You really are a pain in my ass,” a man in a crisp white lab coat said, running a manicured hand over his perfect, brushed-back blond hair. Daniel “the Diamond” Boeckman. The head of Preservation, and a master of ancient documents. “This better be life-or-death,” the Diamond added.

From his jacket pocket, Tot unfolded a color photocopy of a mottled and worn ace of spades.

“It is,” Tot said as he eased the bulletproof door shut. “Now, how much do you know about playing cards?”

52

Eighteen years ago

Sagamore, Wisconsin

Marshmallow loved sleeping at Beecher’s house.

And not because of the food, which, when you’re twelve years old, is one of the greatest benefits of a sleepover at a friend’s house. Back then, as everyone knew, Marshall’s house was the one with the best food. Cap’n Crunch… Lucky Charms… Fruity and Cocoa Pebbles, plus two different flavors of Pringles and you could drink Yoo-Hoo at dinner, not just as a treat. Forever compensating for having a husband in a wheelchair, Marshall’s mom made sure her son had it all.

When Marshall slept at Beecher’s, he had to slum his way through Honey Nut Cheerios and regular Cheerios.

But as Marshall was all too aware, Beecher’s house had the one thing his house would never have.

A teenage sister.

Two weeks ago, right before bed, Marshmallow was coming out of the bathroom just as Beecher’s sister Lesley stepped into the hallway. She was wearing a sky blue nightgown that came well below her knees. But Marshall could still see her ankles. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. Galactic , he thought to himself.

“If you even say a word to me, I promise your penis will fall off,” Lesley threatened.

Keeping his head down and rushing around her, back to Beecher’s bedroom, the chubby Marshmallow kept quiet.

He was mortified. And already making plans for the next sleepover.

“Beecher, maybe this isn’t smart,” Marshmallow whispered, two weeks later, now regretting that decision. “We don’t even know if they’re coming up here.”

“They’re coming. They have to,” Beecher insisted as the two of them knelt in the dark, peeking out from inside Beecher’s sister’s closet. “Don’t be such a coward.”

They heard the rumbling, like thunder, of half a dozen teenage girls racing up the stairs, and then saw the crowd of them burst into the pale pink bedroom, scattering and gossiping as they stole seats on the bed, at the desk, across the carpet with the daisy edges.

Marshall saw her immediately. At the back of the crowd, walking hesitantly. The last girl to enter the room. The girl who had just moved back to town. Clementine.

Now it all made sense.

“You knew she’d be here, didn’t you?” Marshall whispered.

Beecher didn’t answer, his eyes stuck on Clementine.

“Beecher, can I break the news to you now? She doesn’t like you.”

“She doesn’t even know who I am,” Beecher whispered.

“Doesn’t matter. You oogle.”

“I’m in puberty. I’m allowed to oogle. Besides, you oogle my sister.”

Marshmallow pushed his glasses up on his nose, still focused on Clementine. “How’d she get invited anyway? She’s not friends with your sister,” he whispered, leaning his nose toward the crack of the door.

“My mom felt bad for her—new girl, new school—she told my sister that Clementine had to be invited.”

“And she came? If Andy Levey invited me to his house, I wouldn’t—”

“Shhhh,” Beecher hissed as one of the girls—a short and bossy one named Rita—called out…

“Okay, who’s playing ?”

Within seconds, a small circle formed at the center of the room. Girls scooched in, then out, to make more room. In the best childhood games, no one had to discuss the rules.

Beecher’s sister reached under her bed and pulled out an empty glass Diet Coke bottle.

“Please, God in heaven, I’ll go to church every day if these girls start making out with each other,” Marshmallow whispered.

Beecher flicked Marshmallow’s ear. He took the hint. Be quiet.

With a sharp twist, Beecher’s sister gave the bottle its first spin. A few girls smiled. A few looked terrified. But every girl in the circle shifted with a nearly imperceptible flinch as the bottle twirled past them. Everyone but Clementine, who—as Beecher noticed—was still standing awkwardly, her hands behind her back, by the door.

“ And the winnah is…! ” Beecher’s sister announced.

The girls began laughing, clapping, squealing as the bottle stopped and pointed at the short, bossy girl who just a minute ago had called the game to order. Her wavy brown hair was tied in a messy braid that was slowly coming undone. Rita.

“Sorry, sweetie,” Beecher’s sister sang as Rita got on her knees and crawled into the center of the circle.

From the closet, Beecher saw the forced smile on Rita’s face, and the terror in her eyes.

“Who wants to start?” Lesley asked as Rita sat Indian-style in the center of the circle. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Your house smells like pickles,” one of the girls, a blonde with braces, called out as everyone laughed.

“Your mom drives that dumpy old Mercury Capri,” a girl in a unicorn sweatshirt added as Rita pretended to laugh with the group.

“You look better from far away,” another called out.

The group giggled at that one, but it caused a pause in the action.

Watching from the closet, Beecher assumed that they were now feeling bad—that they had taken the game What’s Wrong With You too far. Until…

“You st-st-stutter when you read out loud,” a girl with a gold cross around her neck blurted.

“I know you stuffed your bra for Reina Pizzuti’s birthday at the bowling alley!”

“You stuffed it for my birthday too!” another girl yelled.

“ Stovetop stuffing! ” the girl with the gold cross added.

“ Stovetop stuffing! ” Lesley repeated.