James Patterson: Truth or Die

The tires screeched, kicking up gravel from the side of the road, as Hellerman frantically grabbed the back of the shotgun seat to hold on. As he watched the speedometer hit forty, then fifty, then sixty, he waited for Not Eddie to elaborate, but nothing came.

“In that case, who was that with you?” Hellerman asked.

“He’s the guy who was going to kill you,” Not Eddie answered. “Right after he got what he wanted.”

“Which is what?”

“You tell me.”

Oddly enough, Hellerman knew exactly what Not Eddie meant. This was all about his new secret, it had to be. “Are we talking about the kid?”

“Yes, exactly... the kid. Where is he? We need to get to him before they do.”

The speedometer was pushing seventy now. The posted speed limit on Route 9 was thirty-five.

“Wait a second,” said Hellerman. He was back to full-blown confused. “Who’s they?”

“The ones who developed the serum. That’s what the kid told you about, right? That’s what he uncovered. The serum.”

“How do you know?”

Finally, Not Eddie was ready to explain. “I’m FBI,” he said.

Had Hellerman actually been sitting in a seat, he would’ve fallen out of it. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re telling me the FBI has an agent working undercover in the CIA?”

“Someone has to keep them in line.”

“By killing one of them?”

“It was either you or him, so I think the words you’re really looking for are ‘thank you.’”

“I’m sorry,” said Hellerman. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. But now you’ve got to help me,” Not Eddie said. “Where is he? Because we can’t protect him if we don’t know where he is.”

Hellerman couldn’t argue with the logic. After all, he was living proof of it. Mr. Not Eddie — or whatever his real name was — had just saved his life.

So he told him what he knew, that the kid had travel plans.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Hellerman.

“And what did he want you to do?”

“Spill the beans internally. Later this morning, I’m supposed to meet with the assistant director.”

Not Eddie, whose real name was Gordon, glanced back at Hellerman in the rearview mirror. “Thanks,” he said with a nod. “I appreciate your telling me the truth.”

“As do I,” said Hellerman.

“Yeah, about that... there’s something else I need to tell you.”

“What’s that?”

Gordon pulled off the road with a sharp tug on the wheel. He turned back to Hellerman and shrugged. “That stuff about me working for the FBI? I lied. ”

And just like that, without the slightest hesitation, he reached for his grande mocha Beretta M9 and shot Hellerman in the head.

Then he turned the van around and went back to pick up his partner, whom he hadn’t really killed.

That was a lie, too.

Had it been anyone else, any other woman, the moment might have registered upward of a 7.6 on the Emasculation Scale, or whatever number it takes to rattle a man’s self-confidence until he crumbles.

But this wasn’t any other woman. This was Claire.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

Right in the middle of our having sex, she’d burst out laughing. I mean, really laughing. The whole bed was shaking.

“I’m sorry,” Claire said, trying to stop. That just made her laugh harder and do that little crinkle thing with her nose that in a weird and wonderful way always made her look even prettier.

“Damn, it’s the sex, isn’t it? I’m doing it all wrong again,” I joked. At least, I hoped I was joking.

As I propped an elbow on the mattress, she finally explained. “I was just remembering that time when you—”

“Really?” I said, immediately cutting her off. “That’s what you were thinking about?”

There was a certain something simpatico between Claire and me that allowed each of us to know what the other was about to say or do, based on nothing more than our shared history. For the record, that history was two years of officially dating, followed by the past two years, during which we were just friends (with benefits) because our respective careers had put a major strain on the officially dating thing.

Oddly enough — or maybe not — we’d never been happier together.

Claire wrapped her arms around me, smiling. “Just so you know, I always thought it was cute,” she said. “Endearing, even.”

“And just so you know, it happened over three years ago and I’m pretty sure I was drunk.”

“You weren’t drunk,” she said.

“Okay, but it was definitely over three years ago. Shouldn’t there be some kind of statute of limitations?”

“On a man’s first attempt to talk dirty in bed? I don’t think so.”

“How do you know it was my first time?”

She shot me a deadpan look. “I want to spank you like Santa Claus?”

All right, she had me there.

“Fair enough,” I said. “Rookie mistake. In my defense, though, it was right before Christmas.”

“Of course,” said Claire, “because that’s the first rule of talking dirty in bed. Keep it topical. ”

“Okay, now you’re just mocking me.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I was mocking you before that,” she said. “Tell you what, though, I’m willing to give you a second chance.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“Charlie Brown and the football, that’s why,” I said.

“I promise I won’t laugh this time.”

“Sure thing, Lucy.”

“No, really.” Claire lifted her head off the pillow, gently kissing my lower lip. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Mr. Mann.”

I stared at her, waiting for her to say she was only kidding. Calling me by my last name was sometimes a tip-off. Not this time, though.

“You’re stalling,” she insisted.

“No, just stumped. Not a lot of holidays in June.”

Claire chuckled, playing along. She always played along. “You’ve got Flag Day next week,” she said. “Maybe something about your pole?”

“Very funny.”

“Speaking of half-mast, though.”

I glanced down beneath the sheets. “Well, whose fault is that?”

Claire suddenly grabbed my backside, rolling me like a kayak. Next thing I knew, she was on top and pushing her long auburn hair back from her eyes.

“Sometimes it just takes a woman,” she said.

She then leaned down to my ear and whispered a request that was easily the dirtiest thing I’d ever heard her say. Just filthy. X-rated. Obscene.

And I loved it.

But before I could show her just how much, we both froze to a horrible sound filling the room.

Now I really couldn’t believe my ears.

Claire unattached herself from me, for lack of a more delicate way to describe it, and reached for “the Stopper” on my bedside table. That was my nickname for it. When it rang, everything else stopped.

“I’m sorry,” she said before taking the call.

“You and me both,” I said under my breath.

In all, Claire owned three cell phones. The first, her iPhone, was for personal use. Friends and family.

The second, a BlackBerry, was for work. Claire S. Parker, as her byline read, was a national affairs reporter for the New York Times.

Her third phone, an old Motorola, was also for work. Except this phone and its number were for a very small and select group. Her sources.

Which was another reason why the Stopper was a good name for this phone. The identity of these sources stopped with her, cold, end of story. Not her editor, not the executive editor, not even Judge Reginald McCabe had ever been told the name of a single source of Claire’s.