The Final Twist Jeffery Deaver (ebook reader with android os TXT) 📖

“What?”

“Looks like your profession, whatever it is, it’s kept you true to your name.”

Russell squinted. “The nicknames. When we were kids. Reclusive. You were restless. Dorie was clever.”

“You’re using the house for some kind of operation. How did you know about it?”

“I was in San Francisco for some training, long time ago, and Ash said there was a house he used when he was in town. We met here. He gave me a key. My group has operations here from time to time, so I use it as a command post.”

“Group?”

Russell said nothing.

It would handle government security of some kind, he guessed. But out of the mainstream. The FBI, CIA, DoD, NSA and most of the rest of the alphabet soup of government entities couldn’t get away with shooting someone with a silenced pistol and making the body and accessories go away as if you were cleaning up a broken jar of pickles dropped on a kitchen tile floor.

Shaw said, “I looked at the paperwork in the secure room. It’s classified?”

“Not anymore, I guess.”

“That a problem?”

A pause. “Not really.”

“You speak Chinese, Russian?”

He didn’t answer, but obviously he did. Russell had had years to learn quite a few skills since Shaw had seen him last.

“We have a full security setup when we’re active but we closed the file on that op early this morning. All the cameras and mics were packed up and gone.”

Shaw could only laugh. “That was smooth. The assault outside. Karin and Ty.”

“When the device went off I got a message. The secure room was compromised. And we had to find out who.”

“You, Karin and Ty, you put the whole set together in minutes? The costumes, makeup.”

Russell lifted an eyebrow. “What we do. We train for things like that. Improvise. And they were nearby. She was wearing a body cam. She started to run your picture through our facial recognition database, but . . .” He shrugged. “I saw the image. After, I put together a surveillance package on you.”

Why? Shaw wondered.

A moment later, Russell asked, “So you’re here because of Ashton and BlackBridge? There’s no reward?”

Shaw must’ve reacted.

“You’re in the news some.”

So he was curious about me. But not curious enough to pick up the phone and give me or our mother a call.

“No reward. It’s all about BlackBridge.”

Russell’s look conveyed a question: But why?

Shaw: “I know what Ashton said. ‘Never pursue revenge. It goes against the grain of survivalism.’”

“Was thinking that, yes.”

“Well, this isn’t revenge. It’s finishing what he started. His mission.”

There was really nothing more to add.

16

Russell sent a text on his elaborate phone. It was a brand that Shaw had never seen before.

He regarded his brother’s luxurious beard. You’d think it would be a problem in clandestine work, if that’s what Russell engaged in. He’d be instantly recognizable. Maybe he was famous in his field, though, and he sported the facial hair as a trademark.

His brother’s phone hummed.

“Nothing in our system about Urban Improvement Plan or Amos Gahl,” said Russell. He put the phone away. “Basic information about BlackBridge but they’re not flagged with any red notices.”

Shaw imagined his brother had access to a database that was exceedingly robust.

“Appreciate you checking. This group of yours . . . can you tell me?”

“No.”

“Just ‘group’ with a lowercase ‘g.’”

“What we go by.” After a pause Russell asked, “You always use the Yamaha in your work?”

Shaw explained about living in the Winnebago but renting cars on his jobs to stay unobtrusive. Much of the rewards business is surveillance and questioning witnesses, and nothing blended better than a black Avis or Hertz (he picked that color because it gave the impression he was law enforcement, though he never said he was). “Still might rent a car here. Depends on the weather.”

Russell took a call. He listened for a moment. He said, “That’s right. Tell them it’s closed permanently.” He disconnected.

Silence drifted between them.

Shaw asked, “You have a family? Anyone in your life?”

“No. You?”

He thought of Victoria. “No.”

“I heard you were married.”

He thought of Margot. “No.”

Roiling silence. Russell checked his phone once more.

“Dorion’s good,” Shaw told him.

“I know. I saw her and the girls last month.”

“Saw them?” Shaw couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.

“I saw them. They didn’t see me.”

“Last I heard, at the funeral, you were in L.A.”

“Based there. Near there.”

The chitchat depressed Shaw and appeared to bore Russell.

All these years they hadn’t seen each other, and this was the best they could do?

“Another question,” Shaw asked.

Russell lifted his eyebrow.

“Why the hell the Oakland A’s?” Shaw glanced at his brother’s backpack.

No response to the levity.

The children had laughed a lot growing up. With very few other friends their age, they relied on one another for amusement and diversion.

Another blister of silence, then Russell said, “Need to get my team out of here.”

“So you’re leaving.” Shaw had tried to keep his expression neutral. He wasn’t sure he was successful.

“Assignments we’re scheduled for. It’s a busy time.”

Spoken like a department store buyer planning for Christmas shopping season.

“Sure.”

Russell walked down to the cellar and returned a moment later with the duffel bag. The sun had burned away the last tatters of fog by now and the water bottles bent the light, pasting fracturing shapes of brilliant white on the plaster walls.

His silent message resonated like a siren through the pleasant, yellow room: Your fight with BlackBridge isn’t my fight, even if the company killed our father.

Shaw tipped his head. “Don’t need to say I appreciate you showing up when you did.”

Russell reciprocated the nod.

Shaw tried: “You want to give me a phone number?”

“We get randomly generated ones once a month.”

Shaw wrote down his number in one of his notebooks. He didn’t tear off the page and hand it to his brother. He held it up.

Russell looked for about ten seconds. He nodded.

Was it memorized, or discarded?

Shaw thought once more: Confess now. Tell him that I was wrong to accuse him of murder . . .

But no. This connection with his sibling might grow into something