Soldier (Talon, #3)(15)

Tristan. Memories flickered, dark and unwelcome. That was another reason I didn’t like sitting around—my mind tended to dredge up things I’d rather forget. I wondered where Tristan was now, if he was still alive, fighting dragons in the never-ending war with Talon. I wondered if he ever told stories about his former partner the Perfect Soldier, before that soldier turned traitor and sided with the enemy.

A vehicle rolled up to the gates. I sat up quickly, grabbing for the binoculars, as it entered the driveway, then pulled to a stop outside the front door. It was the same dark SUV that drove the Patriarch to and from St. George headquarters. Until now, the Patriarch’s schedule could be timed to the minute. He left work at seventeen hundred on the dot. Barring traffic, he arrived home exactly twenty minutes later and immediately went to his office, where he remained until 7:00 p.m. At 9:30 p.m., his lights went out and wouldn’t click on again until five o’clock the following morning. No one bothered him or interrupted his schedule. Except for the guards, he lived alone—no wife, children, or pets. Everything he did was order, habit and routine.

But not tonight.

Gripping the binoculars, I focused on the front door just as a familiar figure emerged. He wasn’t a tall man, and his short brown hair was peppered with silver, but he was still powerful and imposing, and his gait was confident as he walked to the waiting car. This was not a man who sat in meetings or behind a desk all day; this was a warrior and a soldier. Nodding briskly to the man who opened the door for him, the Patriarch slipped into the backseat. The doors slammed, and the SUV began to move.

All right. Time to get some answers.

*

They didn’t go far. Ten minutes after I began discreetly trailing the SUV through a quiet neighborhood, the vehicle slowed and pulled up to the curb. The back door opened, and the Patriarch emerged, followed by two large men. Though they were dressed casually, I could tell they were armed—definitely his security detail. All three gazed calmly up and down the street before they crossed the road and entered the public park on the corner.

I shut off the engine, then grabbed the backpack on the floor and exited the car, watching the Patriarch’s vehicle turn the corner and drive away. Shouldering the bag, I hurried across the street and peeked around a tree, catching sight of my quarry as they strode purposefully through the short grass and deeper into the park.

I dug my earbuds out of my pocket, stuck them in my ears, then pulled out my throwaway phone, keeping my head down. I’d never met the Patriarch, but I could only assume he knew what I looked like. My photo had probably been circulated through the Order, and the Patriarch would certainly keep up with current affairs in St. George. Following him was a risk, but if he did happen to glance back, hopefully all he would see was an oblivious teenager listening to music while texting on his phone.

With my eyes glued to the screen, I started walking.

I trailed them as casually as I could while still attempting to keep them in my peripheral vision. Thankfully, this area of the park was wide and open, with sweeping fields and few trees to block lines of sight. A fair amount of civilians wandered the paths; joggers and bikers, parents with children, people walking their dogs. It was easy to mimic them, to pretend I was just a random civilian enjoying the evening.

Finally, the Patriarch and his men made their way toward a large blue-green pond at the end of one field. A man in a gray suit sat on a nearby bench, staring over the water. The Patriarch stopped a few dozen feet from the bench and spoke quietly to his guards. They turned, folded their hands in front of them and scanned the area while the Patriarch continued toward the pond.

Shrugging off my pack, I walked to a tree about a hundred yards from the bench and sat down, leaning against the trunk with my back to the water. Setting my bag on the ground, I unzipped the top just enough to feel around inside. The shotgun microphone sat nestled in the bottom—amazing what you could pick up on the internet. Carefully, I plugged my headphones into the microphone, switched it on and pointed the entire backpack toward the bench, trying to find the right angle. There was a buzz of static in my ear, and snatches of a conversation filtered through the earbuds before resolving into separate voices.

“—llo, Richard,” crackled one voice, smooth and confident, making me frown. Richard? Who was on a first name basis with the Patriarch? I held my breath, easing the backpack to a better position. The voice sputtered a moment, then grew stronger. “Lovely evening, isn’t it? I heard last week was nothing but rain.”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries.” The deep second voice was clipped, impatient, which surprised me. I’d heard speeches given by the Patriarch, his words inspiring the soldiers of St. George as he reminded them of our holy mission. In all instances, he was poised and confident, never raising his voice to get a point across. He’d sounded nothing like the brusque, almost nervous man across the lawn. “That’s not why we’re here.”

Interesting. I suddenly understood why the Patriarch had chosen to meet in a very public park. If he didn’t trust the other man, he wouldn’t want to pick a location where the other could do something nefarious with no witnesses. Rules of enemy negotiations: don’t meet on the enemy’s turf, and don’t give him the opportunity to double-cross you.

So, who was this other man? And how had he convinced the Patriarch, the leader of St. George, to meet with him like this, when he obviously didn’t want to?