True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(50)

“It’s my home,” Ian said. “Not that I have an actual home there anymore. Blackthorn blew it up.”

“Take the subtle hint. They’ll be watching every place you’ve ever been and everyone you’ve ever known. You can’t go back.”

“I ran away. Straker wouldn’t do that. So I can’t do that.”

“That’s stupid,” she said. “Hey, I have an idea. Why not save time, call Cross, and tell him exactly where to send his killers?”

She didn’t mean it, of course. But once she said it, Ian knew that she was right. It was the perfect Straker move in this situation. All he had to do was figure out what happened next. The key was to think of it as a story, just like all the others that he’d plotted.

“You may be on to something,” he said.

Margo sighed, relieved. “I’m glad you’re listening to reason. I’ll take the first exit that comes along and head in another direction.”

“That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about telling Cross where to find us.”

“I was being sarcastic,” she said.

“You were being creative. Sometimes the best stories come when your character makes the worst possible decision. I think this is one of those times.”

She was silent for a few miles and when she spoke again, she was calm and serious.

“I’ll take you to Los Angeles. But once we get there, you’ll have an hour to convince me that your scheme works.” There was nothing patronizing about her tone of voice but her mental and emotional fatigue were even more evident. “I’ve come with you this far but I won’t let you get me killed. I’ll bail out before that can happen.”

He knew she meant it. Frankly, he was surprised she’d stuck with him this long.

“I understand,” he said. “Fate is a bastard. Never let him choose how you’ll die.”

“You can think like Clint Straker if you want,” she said. “But I’ll punch you in the face if you talk like him again.”

He knew she meant that, too.



Bethesda, Maryland. July 21. 8:30 a.m. Eastern Standard Time.

Cross stormed into the control center. He’d left the house so quickly that he’d forgotten to take off his cardigan. “What have you got?”

Victoria and Seth shared a look. Neither one of them wanted to deliver the bad news. But Victoria had more guts and enjoyed inflicting pain. This was going to hurt Cross.

“Agents Pessel and Bowers weren’t in the strip club. We don’t know where they are. But we know Pessel logged in to his computer before the blast and we know what he was looking at.”

“Show me,” Cross said.

Victoria swiped something off her screen and onto the media wall. Cross looked up and saw his own face staring back at him like a huge reflection. Pessel had no reason to be interested in Cross’ biography, his location, or his photo. But Cross knew one man who did. A dead man.

“Is the drone over the strike zone yet?” Cross asked.

“It’s arriving now.” Victoria typed something on her keyboard and Cross’ picture on the media wall was replaced by the drone’s camera view.

The drone came around a hill of boulders and over the ruins of the compound, revealing the charred hulk of a helicopter that had obviously been blown apart.

The room instantly fell silent, everyone stopping what they were doing to absorb what they were seeing on-screen and the implications. Someone had shot down the helicopter with a rocket.

Before Cross, or anybody else, could give it too much thought, the drone banked over the site, and as it came around again something else came into view. Two words were written on the ground in large, jagged letters formed out of pieces of blackened rubble.

FUCK YOU!





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The drone kept circling the wreckage and the profane taunt. Cross felt the heat on his face, flushed with fury. Ludlow was still alive and giving him the finger. How had he survived?

“Do you want us to send another team out there to clean that up?” Victoria asked.

“Absolutely not,” Cross said. “There’s been too much activity out there already. The less we do to draw attention to that desolate spot, the better. If we leave it alone, it will probably be years before anybody stumbles across it. Besides, we don’t know what booby traps Ludlow might have set. I’d rather some hiker or coyote set them off than lose any more of our people or equipment.”

“How can he still be alive?” Seth said.

“Because everything we know about Ludlow is a lie. He’s somebody else entirely. Someone with extensive training, a professional,” Cross said, then addressed all the operatives in the room. “And you all missed it and gave me bad intel. You fucked up and now three of our people are dead because of it. That’s on you. Your priority, the only reason you exist on this earth, is to take down Ian Ludlow, whoever he really is. Tear apart his history and find his real one. I want to know where, when, and how he acquired his skills. I want to know his real agenda. He’s played us. I want to know why and how so it never happens to us again. It’s obvious that he writes those Straker books based on personal experience. Analyze every word that he’s written. His real story is between the lines.”

“I’ll start pulling up camera feeds from casino, business, and intersection cameras around our Las Vegas office,” Seth said. “I’ll see if I can identify the car he’s driving now and find out where he’s hiding or what direction he’s heading in.”