True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(61)

Two thousand six hundred thirty-six miles away, in a motel room in Tarzana, Ian Ludlow sat bolt upright, staring at his phone like it was a live cobra. He’d heard every word and, of course, the gunshot.

The conversation that he’d heard, while he didn’t know what it all meant, could potentially make him a target again and this time it really would be the CIA that was after him.

But he wasn’t ready to hang up yet. He had to know what had happened.



Healy’s ears were ringing but his mind was racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The top of Cross’ head was gone, smeared all over the wall behind him. Why would Cross kill himself at his moment of triumph?

Jones turned her back to the desk, bent over, and took a deep breath, struggling to maintain her composure. She wasn’t accustomed to violence. After a long moment, she straightened up, tugged at her pantsuit, and, without looking back at Healy or the gruesome scene, said just four words: “We were never here.”

Healy knew that every instinct Jones had was telling her to run away as fast as she could, which was Olympic-gold-medal fast, but she didn’t. Instead, she marshaled all of her resolve and walked calmly out of the office as if she were leaving a routine meeting. But there hadn’t been anything routine about this from the moment the president had her draft the secret order, which Healy knew Jones had strongly advised against. In fact, she probably should have drafted her resignation instead of the secret order. Healy was certain that she’d write that letter tonight and get the hell out of the White House before this president could take her down with him.

Healy didn’t respond to Jones nor did he watch her go. His gaze had drifted to the iPhone on Cross’ desk at the same instant that CALL ENDED appeared on the screen. Someone had heard it all.



Ian had now witnessed two violent deaths. At least he didn’t have to see this one with his own eyes. But his ear was still ringing. He took the SIM card out of the phone and broke it in half. They wouldn’t be able to trace the call back to him and he’d keep his mouth shut. He’d let the story play out exactly the way he’d pitched it to Cross. He hoped that would keep him and Margo out of this. He knew Ronnie wasn’t going to say anything. And perhaps the only other person who knew about Ian’s involvement in all of this, the asshole Cross, had just killed himself. Ian was cautiously optimistic that the nightmare was over.

Margo rushed into the bedroom. She was very excited and speaking fast.

“The hit team is down and Ronnie is fine, even though he was standing right in the middle of a gunfight. It worked just like you plotted it, more or less. Ronnie couldn’t stop himself from improvising, of course, and it almost got him killed but I guess you’re used to actors who stray from the script.” She stopped, noticing the distress on Ian’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“I think Cross either killed himself or was murdered while I was talking to him.”

“What do you mean, you ‘think’?”

“I heard him talking to two people, then the gunshot and a woman said, ‘We were never here.’”

“Who was in the room?”

He knew it was the acting director of the CIA and the White House counsel delivering some kind of executive order from the president that gave something big to Blackthorn. And, from what he’d heard, Healy wasn’t too happy about it. Whatever the executive order was, it took things to a new, very scary level of dark shit and Ian wanted nothing to do with it. But his mind was already whirling with the creative possibilities.

“It’s better for you if you don’t know,” Ian said. “I wish I didn’t.”

“But if Cross is dead, and we know after tonight that Blackthorn is going down, it means it’s over, right?” she said. “We can stop running.”

“Yes, it does,” Ian said.

“Holy crap,” she said. “We actually won!”

Margo threw herself into Ian’s arms and gave him a big, enthusiastic kiss. He lost his balance and tumbled backward onto the double bed, Margo landing on top of him. She kissed him again. Ian wasn’t certain but there was a strong possibility he was in love. He was definitely aroused.

“You’re wonderful,” she said.

“So now you have a big surprise for me.”

“I do?”

“You’re going to tell me that you aren’t really gay,” he said. “You just weren’t attracted to me yet.”

“No, I’m a lesbian.”

“But you’re going to switch teams so you can have me. After this experience, you feel this deep, unbreakable bond with me and can’t imagine us ever being apart.”

“Nope,” she said, getting off him. “Still gay and looking forward to getting far away from you and the terror you brought into my life.”

“Well,” he said. “That’s definitely going to change in the book.”





CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Nobody in the Blackthorn building heard Wilton Cross shoot himself because, as a security precaution, he’d had his office soundproofed. That gave Healy plenty of time to consider the situation and take action. He was certain that the suicide was a spontaneous, desperate act. The only reason Cross, or any spy, would take that last resort would be to keep his secrets safe in the face of certain capture. That meant something had just gone catastrophically wrong that imperiled Blackthorn and, Healy assumed, the impending classified arrangement with the CIA. The priority now was finding out what had happened and whatever it was that Cross wanted to hide by taking his life.