End Game (Will Robie #5)(6)

The concussed survivor was revived and would be interrogated until he gave up every secret he would ever have. Then he would disappear into the permanent shadows with no ability to harm anyone again.

The cobalt bomb was removed and disarmed, and it would be reverse-engineered to see how the terror cell had done it. Neither the Brits nor the Americans were under the illusion that a terrorist cell alone had had the wherewithal to pull this off. This operation smacked of a serious institutional backer. Whether it was the Russians or the Iranians or even the North Koreans, they would trace this op back to its source.

Then the diplomats would have their shot at de-escalating this sucker.

If the statesmen failed, it would be the generals’ turn.

And no one wanted that scenario.

When the British tactical team had entered the house, Robie had taken off his helmet and was calmly sitting on the couch in the living room.

The team took its time viewing all the carnage, including the suicide bomber, as Robie filled them in on how he had disarmed her. Bloody hells resonated from all corners of the house as the team saw firsthand the American’s handiwork.

One armored assaulter had sat down next to Robie and asked him if he needed anything, politely addressing Robie as “sir.”

Robie had shaken his head and said, “I’m good.”

“You’re far better than good. In fact, you’re the bloody best I’ve ever seen, mate.”

Robie appreciated the sentiment, but he had exited the house with no positive feelings, despite having defeated a maniacal attempt to throw the world off its axis.

He was now wheels up on a private ride back to the United States.

He rubbed his gut and then his thigh where the rounds and the knife had struck, respectively.

Either one would have disabled him. And then he would have been fresh meat to kill. Just another corpse on the floor.

And that made a person think.

Robie closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But while slumber had come easily on the flight over, it was not so easy on the way back. He had killed sixteen people the previous night. And nearly been killed himself about a half-dozen times.

It was all in a day’s work for him, on one level.

On another level, part of him couldn’t process it.

It wasn’t like an endorphin high after winning a Super Bowl or a World Series, chiefly because nobody died in those events. However, it was clearly a contest, of sorts. There were winners and losers in Robie’s world, only the losers left the field of battle in body bags.

He opened his eyes, and his thoughts reached back to Mississippi.

The reunion with his father. A reunion from hell. But the ending was what mattered. And it had ended better than it had begun.

And he and Jessica Reel had been together, battered but together.

Now nearly six months had passed and Robie hadn’t seen Reel in all that time. He had called, e-mailed, and texted. Nothing. She was still working for the Agency, that he knew, but he had no idea where. He had asked. And received not a single answer.

After returning from Robie’s hometown of Cantrell, Reel—then in a wheelchair because of injuries sustained during their time there—had told Robie that they would always have each other. That they might fall, but together they were unbeatable.

That had been the only thing keeping him going through his rehabilitation.

Yet when he’d been released from rehab, Jessica Reel had not been there. No calls. No e-mails. No texts. Nothing.

So much for being unbeatable together.

They’d obviously been meaningless words.

He landed back in DC and went immediately to his apartment, a nondescript space in an unremarkable building near Dupont Circle.

Robie had nothing of a personal nature in his apartment.

And that was when he saw it.

The envelope on his bed.

There was no writing on it.

It had not been there when he had left for London.

Robie’s first instincts were defensive. He slipped the gun from its holster and held it at the ready.

He gripped the envelope with his free hand and shook the letter out.

It was one page folded over.

The handwriting was one he was familiar with.

The words were few and still managed to cut through him like the KM2000 had through neck arteries back in London.

It’s complicated. I’m sorry. JR

Robie put his gun away and folded the letter back over and placed it in his pocket.

He walked over to the window.

It was dark now and the rain had started. With the inclement weather he could be back in London.

Yet this was a perfect time for Robie to take a walk. He didn’t like crowds. And right now he was in no mood for sunny and fair weather.

He made his way along his favorite route, which led him to Memorial Bridge. Arlington National Cemetery was across the bridge, and the Lincoln Memorial was behind him. He stood by the rampart and looked down at the waters of the Potomac.

The river was flowing far more freely than his thoughts.

What exactly did she mean by “It’s complicated”? They both knew everything about their lives was complicated. So what had changed between Mississippi and the note being left on his bed?

He looked around.

The last time he had been here, Blue Man had appeared out of the darkness and given him some much-needed advice. Robie could always count on Blue Man. He always told him not what he wanted to hear, but what he needed to hear.