Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(42)

“Yeah, I was there,” he said. The Red Sea Summit in 2003. “I almost died there, too.”

“What happened?”

“It’s all about what didn’t happen, of course. The assassination of six world leaders including a US president. The intel said that a rogue Israeli agent was about to forever change the Middle East—and the rest of the world—all in a day’s work.”

“Elijah, you mean.”

“Yep. It was a mad scramble trying to find him. All we had was one grainy black-and-white. An outdated photo, no less.”

“So, what happened?”

“I found him. Or, I should say, he found me first. Kind of like what happened to you today. I thought I had him cornered, and the next thing I knew there was a pistol pressed against the back of my head. He told me to close my eyes and count backward from ten. By three, he was gone. An hour later, the two suicide bombers were found dead in their hotel room, all bombs intact. I don’t know how he knew where to find them, but I was sure he was the one who did. He was a rogue agent, all right. The right kind of rogue.”

“You got some seriously bad intel,” I said.

“Let’s just say there was a lot of that in the wake of 9/11.”

We stood in silence for a few moments as I stared at the elevator’s buttons for each floor lighting up, one after another. It dawned on me. There was something my father’s story didn’t explain. “He knew your code name,” I said. “He called you Eagle.”

“Yes, he did.” My father paused as if choosing his next words very carefully. “We met a few years later, this time face-to-face. I even managed to return the favor somewhat.”

I was about to ask how when the elevator opened. My father stepped off first. He promptly turned around and did the thing he always did when he was done talking about a subject. It was a quick slice through the air with his hand. A karate chop to the conversation. No more questions.

I let it be. My father always had his reasons, and there was only so much you could push him. Besides, I was thinking of pulling the same move when we got into the apartment. Where’s my granddaughter? he was surely going to ask.

The concept of Tracy and me was still a work in progress for my father, but he was all in on Annabelle. Completely smitten. In fact, he’d already made two trips down from New Hampshire just to see her. Now he was going to wonder where the hell she was. Maybe I could just chop away all his questions.

I was so consumed with having to explain what happened with Tracy that I barely even glanced at the man in the Mets cap who passed us in the hallway. He could’ve been anybody. I didn’t have a clue who he was. Right up until the moment when I reached the door to my apartment. That’s when I realized.

He’d been sent to kill me.





CHAPTER 58


IT WAS barely there—a smidge, a notch, a sliver above a dog whistle. But I could hear it.

That metallic hum, the sound of the automatic lock on the door having been engaged only seconds before. He’d been inside the apartment. He’d just left.

No, wait. He’s coming back.

I knew it even before I turned my head. I didn’t need to see it. I could feel it. Instinct. Killer instinct.

Once he’d passed the corner leading to the elevator bank, he’d turned around to look. I saw his head peek out as he spotted us in front of my door. He was ten yards off with nothing in his way. He had a clean shot.

But only if I let him take it.

There was no time to even yell Gun! as I reached for mine while all but slamming my father to the ground. I fired once, rolled, then twice—neither with any aim. Just direction. Enough to force this guy back around the corner, if only for a few seconds.

“Silver one,” I said, tossing my key chain to my father. He was now closest to the door. The two other keys, copper colored, were for a storage unit and my office at Yale.

Having a former CIA operative for a dad has its drawbacks, but it sure comes in handy when taking fire. He knew what to do. More importantly, he knew what not to do. As in, try to open the door to my apartment at the wrong time.

We were crouched on the tight pile carpet, spread on either side of the hall with our guns drawn, waiting for the next rounds to come our way. It wasn’t a matter of if, only when. C’mon, bring it …

We kept staring at the corner, waiting for movement. Amateurs always go for speed, trying to outdraw you. This guy wasn’t an amateur.

The first thing we saw was subtle, a hint of blue from the brim of his Mets cap. It was sticking out no more than an inch, about six feet off the ground. He was decoying us. I could practically picture him holding the cap above his head, trying to draw our eyes.

Instead I gave a quick glance to my father, who nodded back. Enough said. My father was no amateur either.

The Mets cap—and only the cap—suddenly came flying out from behind the corner like a clay pigeon, but my eyes stayed focused below it. Sure enough, his hand came whipping around the edge, the barrel of his semiautomatic leading the way only a few feet up from the floor. Nice try, asshole …

We traded shots. My father and I were pinned down, but the guy had no time to square either of us up. He was quick, though. Good reflexes. No sooner did he lunge forward than he immediately pulled back, although not before I nicked him. A small burst of blood splattered against the wall, probably from the meat of his forearm.