End Game (32 page)

Nothing happens without the constant, undying love of my wife, Joy. She is my strength, my beauty, my . . . joy.

You dear readers who have been with me from the beginning remember stories of my great pride in my son, Chris, who was barely eight years old when
Nathan’s
’s
Run
was published. Now he’s twenty-eight, and my pride in him continues to bloom. Way to go, kid.

Jolaine Cage made a generous donation to the Youth Quest Foundation to have a character named after her, and for that I am grateful. For the record, she bears no resemblance to the character who bears her name, yet I still feel compelled to apologize for what I put her through.

Lee Lofland, the proprietor of the wonderful Writers’ Police Academy, gave me a valuable lesson on how to steal a car. Thanks for that, Lee. Jolaine thanks you, too. (The fictional one, not the
real
one.)

Special thanks to Michelle Gagnon, who agreed to set aside her own very busy writing life to read an early draft of
End Game
and lend some well-needed advice. All along the way, my dear friends Art Taylor, Ellen Crosby, Alan Orloff, and Donna Andrews—collectively known as the Rumpi (ask them why when you see them)—have lent a guiding hand to the pile of pages that ultimately melded together into this book. Thank you all so much.

My team at Kensington is becoming more like family with every book. In Michaela Hamilton, I have the best, most supportive editor a writer could ask for, and none of that would be possible without the tireless work of publisher Laurie Parkin. Arthur Maisel is my production editor, Adeola Saul my publicist, and Alexandra Nicolajsen is my own Venice Alexander. She makes the computerized world work for me. They all work for Steve Zacharius, who has been a vocal supporter of mine from way back in the early days—long before I boarded the publishing vessel he runs so well.

Last, but never, ever least is my good friend and agent, Anne Hawkins. She’s the guiding hand of my career, and I’m honored that she does it with such charm and grace and ferocity. Thanks. (Yes, Anne, I’m working on the next manuscript! Jeez.)

Don’t miss John Gilstrap’s next breathtaking thriller
starring Jonathan Grave

Coming from Pinnacle in 2015!

Keep reading to enjoy an exciting excerpt . . .

J
onathan Grave concentrated on his sight picture, forcing himself to ignore the heat of the afternoon sun that threatened to strip the skin off the back of his neck. In Virginia in July, the tropical sun was part of the deal. He lay on his belly on the mulchy forest floor, the forestock of his 7.62 millimeter Hechler & Koch 417 supported on a stack of three beanbags. He pressed the extended collapsible stock against his shoulder and split his attention between what his naked left eye could see and the 10-times-magnified circle from the Nightforce Optics that dominated the vision in his right eye. Somewhere out there in the woods, roughly a hundred yards away, a target would present itself.

Soon.

Jonathan told himself to watch his breathing and to relax his hand on the rifle’s pistol grip. When the target showed itself, it would take only a slight press from the pad of his right forefinger to send the round downrange. After that, it was all physics. He watched the movement of the grass for wind speed, and the—

His naked eye caught movement left-to-right, and he brought his scope to bear in time to see the black silhouette of a man streak from one tree to another. The target was back behind cover before he could commit to a shot, but at least now he knew where the son of a bitch was. If he moved again—

There! The target darted back to the left, taunting him, but Jonathan was ready for it. He led by a couple of feet and released a round. Then a second. The woods echoed with the rolling sound of the gunshot.

“Did I get him?” Jonathan asked.

“You were behind him by two feet on the first shot and probably four on the second.” The critique came from his spotter, a giant of a man named Brian Van De-Muelebrocke—aka Boxers—who had saved Jonathan’s ass more times than anyone could count.

“Are you sure?”

“Would you like me to show you the scars on the trees?” Boxers monitored the action from Jonathan’s right, his eye pressed to a Leica spotting scope. “Would you like a warning for the next one?”

Jonathan felt his ears go hot. “No, I don’t need—”

The target darted out again from behind a tree, and Jonathan fired two more times. He knew even as the trigger broke that he’d yanked the shots wide.

“If I’m ever a bad guy,” Boxers said, “will you promise to be the sharpshooter who takes me out?”

“Bite me.”

“No, seriously. I’m tempted to go ride the target piggyback,” Boxers went on. “I can’t think of a safer place to be.” As he spoke he pushed the joystick in his hand to the right, sending the target out of hiding again.

This time, Jonathan didn’t bother to press the trigger. He knew better.

“Hey Digger,” Boxers said. “How ’bout I give you a baseball bat and you can beat it to death.”

Jonathan released his grip on the weapon and squatted up to a standing position, leaving the 417 on the ground. “Okay, Mouth,” he said, cranking his head to look up under Big Guy’s chin. “Let’s switch places. I’ll take a turn at the stressful work of pushing buttons. Let’s see you hit Zippy.” The target—Zippy—was a converted tackling dummy that Jonathan had mounted on rails that could be laid just about anywhere. Powered by a remote-controlled electric motor, Zippy was a great training tool.

Boxers grinned. “Look at you sounding all threatening and shit. Do you want me to shoot with my eyes open or closed?”

Jonathan held his hand out for the controller, and Boxers handed it over. Big Guy settled on his belly behind the rifle. Jonathan smiled at the slogan on his friend’s T-shirt:
Never run from a sniper. You’ll only die tired.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” Jonathan said.

“That’s your call, not mine—”

Jonathan jammed the joystick to the left, and the target took off while Boxers was still speaking. The 417 barked twice. Half a second after each blast, Jonathan heard the faint
pang!
of a solid hit.

Boxers didn’t bother to look up as he said, “Hey, Boss, did I hit it?” He rumbled out a laugh.

Jonathan pulled away from the tripod-mounted spotting scope. “I hate you,” he said. Boxers was the most natural shooter Jonathan had ever known, and he’d been that way since the beginning. It was as if bullets responded to Big Guy’s whims.

Boxers stood, brushed off the front of his T-shirt and jeans, and held out his hand for the controller. “I push the buttons because you need the practice.”

As Jonathan handed over the box, his phone buzzed in his pocket. The caller I.D. said
UNKNOWN
.

He pressed the connect button and brought the phone to his ear. “Yeah.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Horgan,” a man’s voice said. “This is Cale Cook at the western guard shack. There’s a visitor here to see you. He identifies himself as a Colonel Rollins, and he says it’s important that he speak to you now.”

Jonathan didn’t know the security team out here at the compound very well, so Cale Cook could have called himself by any name, but he sure as hell knew who Colonel Rollins was. “Take a picture of him and send it to my phone. I’ll call you back when I get it.”

Boxers’ face showed that he’d been eavesdropping. “What’s up?”

“Roleplay Rollins is here.”

Boxers recoiled at the words as anger settled in his eyes. There was a time not to long ago when Big Guy would have hurried to beat the man to death, and Jonathan would have let him. The three of them had a history that involved Jonathan and Boxers’ last days with the Unit, and it did not end well.

Jonathan extended his palm to settle his friend down. “Take it easy. Past is past. He saved our asses and we owe him a solid.” His phone buzzed, and displayed a picture of the man the visitor claimed to be. Jonathan called the guard shack. “Send him up to the lodge and have him wait on the porch. We’re on our way.”

“Should we escort him?”

“Is he alone?”

“Alone and unarmed. I searched his vehicle.”

“No,” Jonathan said. “Let him go solo. It’s hard to get lost when there’s only one road.” He clicked off and looked to Boxers. “This should be interesting,” he said. “Let’s pick up the weapons and ammo. We’ll break the target down later.”

Boxers pointed through the Hummer’s windshield toward the front porch of the stylishly rustic structure that had started life a hundred fifty years ago as a log cabin, but whose original owners would recognize nothing but a portion of the western wall. “There he is.”

Colonel Stanley Rollins, U.S. Army, stood from one of the porch’s cane rockers as they approached. He wore jeans and a white polo shirt, and an expression that was impossible to read.

“Looks like Roleplay is a civilian today,” Boxers said.

“He hates that name.”

Big Guy chuckled. “I know. That’s why I like it.”

“Don’t start anything,” Jonathan said. “Not until we hear what he has to say.”

“I’ll call him Stanley, then.”

“He hates that even worse.”

Boxers looked across the console and grinned. “Yeah.”

Jonathan opened the door and slid to the ground. “Hello, Colonel,” he called as he approached the lodge.

“This is a genuine surprise.” He extended his hand as he closed the distance, and Rollins walked down the four steps to greet him.

“Hello, Digger,” he said. His handshake wasn’t the bone crusher that it used to be. “Nice to see you again.”

“Stanley!” Boxers shouted, feigning delight. “Hasn’t someone fragged your ass by now?”

Rollins didn’t rise to the bait. “Big Guy,” he said with a nod. “Pleasant as always, I see.” He pointed to the Hummer. “And still the environmental conscience that you’ve always been.”

Dubbed the Batmobile by Boxers, the lavishly customized and heavily armored Hummer H1 was literally irreplaceable. They weren’t made anymore.

Jonathan smelled trouble in the air, so he placed a hand on Rollins’s elbow to ease him back toward the porch and the inside of the lodge. “Let’s talk inside,” he said. “It’s too hot out here.”

Jonathan led the way up the steps. He turned the key and pulled the heavy wooden door out toward them. He stepped aside to allow the colonel to pass.

As he did, Rollins rapped on the door with a knuckle. “Impressive. What is that, oak?”

“Something like that,” Jonathan said. “I believe in living securely.”

Inside, the foyer led directly to a living room, fifteen-by-fifteen feet, beyond which a dining area led to a closed door that hid the kitchen from view. A stone fireplace dominated the eastern wall—the wall to the right walking in. In the far western corner, stairs led up to the sleeping levels. In decorating the place, Jonathan had leaned heavily on his experience at Colorado ski lodges. Woodsy artwork hung from exposed pine walls across the way on the north wall, while a rack of eight long guns took up much of the front, southern, wall.

“Wow,” Rollins said. “I guess I keep underestimating just how friggin’ rich you really are. What is this place?”

“Pretty much what it looks like,” Jonathan said as he nudged a switch on the wall to wake up two dangling chandeliers made of antlers. “This is a place to escape to, to unwind. Two hundred twenty-five acres of seclusion.”

“And a guard patrol?”

“When did you become a reporter?” Boxers asked as he pulled the door closed.

“Who would see this and not be curious?” Rollins said.

“Which is a good reason to have a guard patrol,” Jonathan said. He motioned to the leather sofas and chairs near the fireplace. “Have a seat, Colonel. Suffice to say that things happen out here that are best not witnessed by curiosity seekers. Think of it as my company’s testing grounds.” He let the words settle in. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Rollins shook his head and waved the question away. “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

Big Guy was already halfway to the wet bar in the back corner of the dining area. “I’m not,” he said. “You want your usual, Boss?”

“Please.” On his own, this would be the time of day for a martini, but since Boxers was tending the bar, that meant a couple fingers of Lagavulin scotch. Boxers didn’t have the patience for the delicate chemistry that was a good martini.

Jonathan settled himself into a chair, crossed his legs, and locked in on Rollins’s eyes. “You know, Colonel, I don’t think either one of us wants the charade of small talk. What say you get right to what you have on your mind?”

Rollins leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. “I presume you still remember Boomer Nasbe.”

“Of course I do.” Boomer had joined the Unit shortly before Jonathan was on his way out, but it was a small, tight community. Plus, Jonathan had had some recent dealings with Boomer’s wife and son. “Is he okay?” The scotch floated over Jonathan’s right shoulder, clamped in Boxers’ fingers.

“No,” Rollins said. “He’s gone rogue.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Boxers asked as he took the sofa for himself.

“It means he’s killing off Agency assets.”

“Bullshit,” Boxers said. “He was a good kid. No way would he do that.”

“And yet he is.”

“Why?” Jonathan asked.

Rollins shrugged. “Why does anyone do anything like that? Something went crosswise in his head, and he started wasting people.”

Jonathan and Boxers exchanged looks. “I’m not buying it,” Jonathan said. “I mean, I can imagine him whacking Agency guys—who among us hasn’t considered that a time or two?—but I don’t buy that he’s crazy. He’s got a reason.”

“Lee Harvey Oswald had reasons, Dig,” Rollins said. “So did John Wilkes Booth and Charles Manson. But so what? Murder is murder.”

“The Army is up to its nipples in shrinks these days,” Boxers said. “
Somebody
has to have wondered the obvious.”

“You already know some of it,” Rollins said. “Those assholes who came at his family undoubtedly screwed him up at least a little.”

“No,” Jonathan said. “Well, of course it was traumatic, but I spoke with Boomer not long after that. He was okay.”

“His deployments, then,” Rollins said. With an acknowledging hand to Big Guy, he added, “Nipples-deep in shrinks as we are, there are no doubt hundreds of possible diagnoses, but none of them can be tested because we haven’t been able to talk to Boomer because we don’t know where he is.”

“Why does it have to be Boomer?” Jonathan pressed. “You’ve got a couple of dead Agency guys—”

“Three,” Rollins interrupted. “
Three
dead Agency guys, and they were all in the same AO as Boomer during his last deployment.”

Jonathan recognized the acronym for area of operation. “So? After we punted on Iraq, Afghanistan was the only AO we had left. There have to be thousands of cross-links between the Agency dead and soldiers in country.”

“And what makes you think they weren’t killed by the Taliban?” Boxers asked.

“You’re both getting defensive,” Rollins said.

“Of course we’re defensive!” Boxers yelled. Jonathan could tell he was spinning up to a bad place. “And why the hell aren’t you? Haven’t you turned your back on enough of your brothers over the years?”

Jonathan extended a hand to calm his friend down. “Not now, Box.”

“Screw you,” he snapped, and his face instantly showed horror. “Not you. Him. Not only do you lay this on your own Army, you have to lay it on our Unit brother.”

“If you’ll calm the hell down, I’ll explain it all to you!” Rollins shouted. He could get spun up, too.

Jonathan knew it was time to play peacekeeper. “Quit shouting, both of you. Colonel, I encourage you to make your case quickly, and with minimal bullshit, and as you do, keep in mind that you’re talking about a friend who’s given a hell of a lot for his country.”

Some of the red left Rollins’s face. None of it left Boxers’.

“Some bad things happened on Boomer’s last tour,” Rollins said. “I can’t go into details, but he’d been working a source for quite some time, and then the source disappeared. We think he blamed his CIA counterparts.”

“Why would he do that?” Jonathan asked.

“Because we blame the Agency for everything,” Rollins replied. “Some things never change.”