The Speed of Sound (Speed of Sound Thrillers #1)(51)

Skylar tried to break the news gently. “I think they’re out of them.”

“This is bad. Very bad.” His breathing grew more rapid as he started to panic. McHenry watched with increasing concern.

Skylar knew Eddie was about to lose it. She moved so that she could look him directly in the eyes. He tried to look away, but she managed to keep his gaze. “If they don’t have them here, we will find them somewhere else. I promise.”

Eddie veered abruptly away from a grape-juice display, keeping his distance from the stacks of purple beverages.

Butler picked up a box of Nilla Wafers. “How about these?”

“Those are not graham crackers.”

“I know they’re not graham crackers. I was offering you an alternative.”

“I don’t want an alternative. I want graham crackers. And milk.”

The detective had lost his patience. “Well, that’s just too bad.”

Eddie paused uncomfortably. “I don’t like it here.”

“Then we’ll go to another store,” Skylar reassured him.

“I won’t like it in there, either, Skylar. I don’t like it anywhere outside Harmony House.” His hands twitched. Ready to claw himself.

Skylar moved abruptly toward him. “Eddie, look at me. Right now. Look at me and nothing else.” She was right in his face. Studying him. But not touching him. She kept his gaze until the tension finally left his body. “Better?”

Eddie nodded, only to realize, “I’m still hungry.”

Butler went up to the Puerto Rican clerk behind the counter; his name tag read Jorge. Butler confirmed what he already knew. The store had plenty of booze and cigarettes, but not the one item they needed. Butler turned to Skylar. “Does it have to be graham crackers?”

Eddie corrected him. “Graham crackers and milk.”

At least they carried milk, so Skylar quickly paid for a carton. It was larger than the ones served inside Harmony House, but Skylar assured Eddie she would pour him the proper serving.

Butler shook his head. “Let’s go.”





CHAPTER 41

American Heritage Foundation, Alexandria, Virginia, May 27, 1:22 p.m.

Caitlin McCloskey’s office inside the American Heritage Foundation displayed the kinds of images typical of a young working mother: photos of her two small children and her lawyer husband, and their family Christmas card from last year. She looked like an accountant or a private-school teacher or a corporate communications director. In fact, early in life, before she came to understand what her father actually did for a living, Caitlin was quite certain she was going to be one of those things. But from the moment her father, one of the seven original founders of the Foundation, pulled back the curtain and revealed what he did—and the opportunity she had within the firm—there was never a thought about another career. The power and control were addictive. Especially on days like today.

She was on the phone with a man whose real name she did not know. She did not want to know it almost as much as she didn’t want him to know hers. Because this man killed people for a living. He and his partner had done the job for them at least a dozen times that she knew of. The two men had no idea who their employers were, because it was inconsequential, as long as they were paid. Half upfront, the other half upon completion.

The pair’s former general had made the anonymous introduction shortly after both were honorably discharged from the United States Army, using only code names the assassins had chosen: Phillies fan was “Giles,” and Mets fan was “Murphy.” One party had an urgent need; the other party had a unique skill set that could fill that need, which was all either side wanted to know. The general had suggested a standard fee of $50,000, which both parties accepted. The pair’s first assignment for their unknown employer was a relatively easy breather: a troublesome investigative reporter needed to disappear on a camping trip in Canada. They were told who the subject was and when and where the job was to be done. The mission went off without a hitch, and thus began an exclusive relationship that was going on eight years now.

The general had made it clear to both parties that, going forward, special circumstances could warrant a loftier price tag. New York congressman Henry Townsend was a good example. Due to the high-profile nature of the subject, and the urgency with which the job had to be handled, the price was $250,000.

Every job would start like this: A call was made to a particular encrypted mobile phone in the killers’ possession, which was never used for any other purpose. No one else had this number. The caller would describe the job and all pertinent details. The service providers would evaluate the task and respond with a price. There was never any negotiation.

Both sides of the transaction had a simple understanding: if the employer was not comfortable with the price, the call would be terminated, as would the relationship. The same would be true for any failure on the contractors’ part. There was no room for error in this line of work. Failure was simply not an option.

For this evening’s efforts, they had quoted their standard rate of $50,000, even though there was a strong likelihood of multiple subjects being involved. The pair kept the price to their minimum because they felt they’d recently pushed their employers a bit too far by pricing the New York congressman at a quarter of a million dollars. Yes, they had their client over a barrel. Yes, there really wasn’t anyone else their patron could have turned to in that moment. But even killers knew not to get greedy. There were at least half a dozen other teams operating in this part of the world, and they didn’t want to ruin a good thing. They only had one employer. It was all they needed. The pair wanted to keep this client, whoever it was, happy. So they priced tonight’s work at base level, which was correctly viewed as a giveback and immediately accepted.