True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(66)

“You’ve had your eye on me for some time now.” Straker tossed a baggie at Dalton, who caught it. The baggie contained the dead assassin’s eyeball. “I’m returning it.”

Dalton was unperturbed by the eye in the baggie. He held it up, made a show of casually examining it, and set it on the console beside him.

“Bravo, Clint,” Dalton said. “You get points for drama and a clever quip but what have you actually accomplished for all of your pitiful efforts?”

“Justice. My old lover Aiko and her thirteen-year-old son were on the plane that you crashed into Seattle.” Aiko was the woman who’d taught him the ancient erotic art of 性的超越, or Seiteki chōetsu. Now he would never know if the boy was his child. “You killed thousands of innocent people to convince the president to outsource our nation’s covert operations to Blackshadow. I’m going to reveal the plot and expose you as the worst traitor in our nation’s history.”

Dalton laughed. “Even if it was possible for you to leave here alive, which it isn’t, you don’t have any proof.”

“I have a thumb drive full of incriminating files that I just downloaded from your computer,” he said. “The rest will come out in the investigation.”

“What investigation?”

“Into the bombing,” Straker said and lobbed a hand grenade into the center of the room.





CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The crowd that came to see Ian Ludlow at Union Bay Books on that Saturday night was standing room only, perhaps because Seattle figured so prominently in his new thriller. The cover of Death in the Sky was a vivid illustration of Clint Straker’s silhouette toting a rocket launcher, charging toward the reader against the backdrop of a plane crashing into the Space Needle in an enormous fireball.

But Ian was disappointed by the turnout because the one person he really hoped to see wasn’t there. He walked outside into the hot summer night.

“Shall I take you back to your hotel?” asked Gwen, his author escort. She was a graduate student in the University of Washington English Department who ferried novelists around town so she could pitch them her book. It was a civil war allegory set on a planet of unicorns, zebras, and horses.

“No, thank you. It’s so nice out, I think I’ll walk,” Ian said. “See you tomorrow at the mystery bookstore.”

“Would you like to meet early for coffee?” she asked. “I can show you my first chapter. Clint Straker shares more in common with unicorns than you might think.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “Maybe another time.”

She smiled, got into her Prius, and drove off. Ian watched her go.

“Why are you so fucking polite?” a familiar voice asked. “Tell her where to stick her unicorn. That’s what Clint Straker would do.”

Ian smiled as Margo stepped out of the shadows. “I’m not Clint Straker.”

“You could have fooled me,” Margo said. “How did the signing go?”

“It was great. I may need to ice my wrist.”

“From inscribing so many books or because you’re practicing Ronnie’s method for staying healthy?”

“Both,” Ian said and he hugged her. She squeezed him tight. “I’m glad you came.”

“What else did I have to do? My dog-sitting business has dried up, all because of one negative Yelp review.”

“You left the dogs alone with a pile of food, a bucket of water, and a corpse impaled with a fireplace poker.”

“One time!” Margo said. “How often is that likely to happen?”

Ian laughed and gestured to the bookstore. “Why didn’t you come for the reading and the Q and A?”

“Living it was enough. I’m still suffering from PTSD.”

“Really?” Ian said.

“No, I’m fine. What we went through forced me to get my shit together. I’m focusing entirely on my music now,” she said. “I’m writing songs. I play three nights a week at a steak house here in town and I do a lot of weddings, bar mitzvahs, that kind of thing.”

“That’s how Rihanna started,” Ian said.

“I have a hard time picturing Rihanna singing ‘Hava Nagila.’”

“I have a hard time picturing you singing ‘Hava Nagila.’”

That’s when they both became aware of two men approaching on either side of them, both in business suits and wearing earpieces.

“Mr. Ludlow,” the first man said. “Ms. French.”

“Can you please come with us?” the second man said.

Ian and Margo shared a look and then let themselves be escorted to a limousine parked on the corner. The first man opened the back door for them and motioned for them to go inside. Margo gave Ian a nervous look.

“He said ‘please,’” Ian said. “That’s a good sign.”

“And it’s a limo, not a hearse.”

“So there’s no reason to worry.” Ian took a deep breath and got in. Margo followed.

The agent closed the door. They found themselves sitting across from CIA Director Michael Healy, who had Ian’s new book on his lap. Healy acknowledged Ian with a nod and smiled at Margo.

“I’m sure Mr. Ludlow knows who I am, since he writes so much about espionage and government conspiracies,” Healy said to Margo. “But you may not. I’m Michael Healy, director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”