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Authors: Brad Meltzer
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one thing. Bribing people with fruit smoothies was another.
Down the main hallway, with the bathroom behind him, Pastor Frick entered the main office suite, made his way through the maze of desks, and headed for his office in back. Through the frosted glass doors, he could tell the lights were off inside. The glass was too old and thick to see anything else.
Every pastor has rituals. At 9:05, as he stepped into his office and the door closed behind him, Frick did what he did every morning: He hung his coat—always on the middle hook—grabbed his Bible off the bookshelf, and began his morning prayers. For nearly twenty minutes, he stood praying and looking out the wide glass window that was directly behind his antique maple desk. He could see the reflection of his round face and dimpled chin in the window.
On his left was a door that led to his private bathroom. It was usually open. This morning, for some reason, it was shut.
Frick didn’t give it a thought. In the midst of his prayers, he looked down at the digital counter on his shoe—not to count his steps, but to see what time it was.
Onscreen, it clicked from 9:24…
… to 9:25.
On the floor, a needlepoint carpet covered with green and yellowleaves kept the office warm and mostly silent. The oak floor creaked from a nearly imperceptible shift in weight.
Then the Knight pulled the trigger. Twice.
The pastor’s body convulsed as one of the bullets entered his back.
Another mission complete. For the second time, history had repeated itself.
14
Six days ago
Ann Arbor, Michigan
S ir, you ready to order?” the thin black woman with splotchy skin asked from behind the counter.
“Not yet. I’m waiting for someone,” Dr. Stewart Palmiotti replied from the bright red booth as he again scanned the small fast-food restaurant located just inside the entrance of Target.
He knew why she had picked it: It was well lit and safe, with plenty of people watching them. Plus, by doing it in Ann Arbor—Wallace’s alma mater—the message was clear. If the President didn’t deliver, she’d take apart every piece of his life.
“You need to try the hot dogs,” a female voice eventually announced behind him. “They’re better than you think.”
Before Palmiotti could turn, a woman in a stylish brown overcoat was standing over him, looking down. Her hair was short and dyed blonde. But he knew that grin: same as her father, the presidential assassin known as Nico.
“Y’know, after your funeral, I read your obituary. They made you sound nicer than you really are,” Clementine said, sliding into the empty seat across from the President’s oldest friend and most trusted doctor. “By the way, I mean it about the hot dogs,” she added, pointing to the counter, where a dozen thick hot dogs twirled on the grill’s treadmill. She was enjoying herself now, which annoyed Palmiotti even more.
Both A.J. and the President had warned him about this. Everyonethought that Nico was the monster, but it was his daughter who had tried to blackmail them, threatening to expose their secret unless she got the information about her father. And in the end, during her escape, it was Clementine who fired the shot that nearly killed Palmiotti.
But Clementine was different from Beecher, and far more dangerous. If they had any hope of containing this, they needed to make peace, not war.
“The blonde hair looks good,” Palmiotti offered. “Quite a change from the black.”
“Same with yours,” Clementine said, pointing at his own dye job. “Though I also like the scar on your neck. Isn’t that where I shot you?”
Palmiotti cupped his hands, intertwining his fingers, refusing to take the bait. “Y’know, I remember the last thing you said to us: about the cancer that was eating at your body. I lost a niece to brain cancer. She was four years old. When her hair fell out, she used to cry, ‘Why can’t I have pigtails?’ So you can talk as tough as you want, but I’m a
Down the main hallway, with the bathroom behind him, Pastor Frick entered the main office suite, made his way through the maze of desks, and headed for his office in back. Through the frosted glass doors, he could tell the lights were off inside. The glass was too old and thick to see anything else.
Every pastor has rituals. At 9:05, as he stepped into his office and the door closed behind him, Frick did what he did every morning: He hung his coat—always on the middle hook—grabbed his Bible off the bookshelf, and began his morning prayers. For nearly twenty minutes, he stood praying and looking out the wide glass window that was directly behind his antique maple desk. He could see the reflection of his round face and dimpled chin in the window.
On his left was a door that led to his private bathroom. It was usually open. This morning, for some reason, it was shut.
Frick didn’t give it a thought. In the midst of his prayers, he looked down at the digital counter on his shoe—not to count his steps, but to see what time it was.
Onscreen, it clicked from 9:24…
… to 9:25.
On the floor, a needlepoint carpet covered with green and yellowleaves kept the office warm and mostly silent. The oak floor creaked from a nearly imperceptible shift in weight.
Then the Knight pulled the trigger. Twice.
The pastor’s body convulsed as one of the bullets entered his back.
Another mission complete. For the second time, history had repeated itself.
14
Six days ago
Ann Arbor, Michigan
S ir, you ready to order?” the thin black woman with splotchy skin asked from behind the counter.
“Not yet. I’m waiting for someone,” Dr. Stewart Palmiotti replied from the bright red booth as he again scanned the small fast-food restaurant located just inside the entrance of Target.
He knew why she had picked it: It was well lit and safe, with plenty of people watching them. Plus, by doing it in Ann Arbor—Wallace’s alma mater—the message was clear. If the President didn’t deliver, she’d take apart every piece of his life.
“You need to try the hot dogs,” a female voice eventually announced behind him. “They’re better than you think.”
Before Palmiotti could turn, a woman in a stylish brown overcoat was standing over him, looking down. Her hair was short and dyed blonde. But he knew that grin: same as her father, the presidential assassin known as Nico.
“Y’know, after your funeral, I read your obituary. They made you sound nicer than you really are,” Clementine said, sliding into the empty seat across from the President’s oldest friend and most trusted doctor. “By the way, I mean it about the hot dogs,” she added, pointing to the counter, where a dozen thick hot dogs twirled on the grill’s treadmill. She was enjoying herself now, which annoyed Palmiotti even more.
Both A.J. and the President had warned him about this. Everyonethought that Nico was the monster, but it was his daughter who had tried to blackmail them, threatening to expose their secret unless she got the information about her father. And in the end, during her escape, it was Clementine who fired the shot that nearly killed Palmiotti.
But Clementine was different from Beecher, and far more dangerous. If they had any hope of containing this, they needed to make peace, not war.
“The blonde hair looks good,” Palmiotti offered. “Quite a change from the black.”
“Same with yours,” Clementine said, pointing at his own dye job. “Though I also like the scar on your neck. Isn’t that where I shot you?”
Palmiotti cupped his hands, intertwining his fingers, refusing to take the bait. “Y’know, I remember the last thing you said to us: about the cancer that was eating at your body. I lost a niece to brain cancer. She was four years old. When her hair fell out, she used to cry, ‘Why can’t I have pigtails?’ So you can talk as tough as you want, but I’m a
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