The Export J.K. Kelly (best way to read e books .TXT) 📖

this time to the seventeenth floor, and then took the elevator to the basement garage. He took a moment to appreciate the expensive assortment of Range Rovers, Jaguars, Mercedes, a black Ducati, and an emerald green Lambo that were parked in numbered spots. He continued through the pedestrian tunnel to the garage under the adjacent building and then out an exit door and into the alleyway he and Billy Rogers had been in earlier. He walked a block and then onto the sidewalk that led him to a busy street corner, where he hailed a cab.

“Heathrow Hilton, Terminal 4. Please,” he directed the cabbie. As the car passed the front of the building where Charlie and Rogers were together on the nineteenth floor, he noticed a familiar face exiting a black Bentley sedan. Matt sat back in the seat, pulled his cellphone from his pocket, and texted his friend.999. SINCLAIR ON HIS WAY UP

He waited for a response during the long ride to the hotel, but none came. He knew his friend was more than capable of wrapping up the case and handling Sinclair. But did he finish the job, drop the gun, and get out of there before Sinclair typed in the keypad code to enter the residence?

Matt considered everything that could have happened up on 19 and wondered if he should have the cabbie take him back to see if he could help. But the situation was complicated. The one thing America or the United Kingdom didn’t need was an American sporting an FBI badge helping MI5 kill a British politician. He continued on as planned.

After having dinner and three tall beers at the hotel’s lobby bar, he nodded his approval as the BBC’s Breaking News headline screamed across the flat-screen TV behind the bar.SINCLAIR DEAD IN APPARENT MURDER-SUICIDE

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Back at the ticket counter, Matt opted for an expensive business class seat on a non-stop flight departing for Washington, D.C.’s Dulles airport at 7:30 a.m., arriving just before noon. As the flight took off, he watched out his window as Heathrow and the hotel he had called home for nearly a week grew farther and farther away until the Boeing 757 cut through the bumpy rain clouds. Blue skies seemed the order of the day as the plane crossed the Atlantic. Matt couldn’t have been happier. Two killers were no longer a threat to anyone, his friend had taken out an enemy, and he was headed home. He’d expected all morning that Claire would text with an assignment but nothing came so he shut off his phone and settled in.

A slight bit of turbulence as the plane passed over Northern Ireland caused the elderly woman sitting beside him to grab his hand.

“It’s okay,” he assured her, “this is nothing. It’ll be smooth sailing from here.” A few minutes later, the woman pulled her hand back. A look of embarrassment on her face caused Matt to assure her once more. “No worries. I was going to grab yours, but you beat me to it.” She smiled and nodded her thanks once again.

The flight attendants passed through the cabin serving a choice of morning newspapers – The London Times, Wall Street Journal – Early Edition, The Sun, The Economist, and The Daily Telegraph. Matt settled back into his wide blue leather seat, pulled a blanket up over his legs, and waited for the two cups of coffee he’d ordered along with a spinach omelet and French toast. He was starving.

Dubai, Kathmandu, Doha, London, and now finally on my way home, he thought to himself as he paged through the Journal. The early edition of the paper had been printed and distributed in London before news of Sinclair’s apparent crime and suicide could have been added to the headlines. Matt had watched the detailed story on the BBC morning show in his room before checking out.The bodies of the deceased men, Rogers and Sinclair, were wheeled on stretchers in black body bags out the front door of the high-rise and into the city coroner’s van parked at the curb. A simple text had come through to his phone hours earlier from Charlie. It bore only two symbols – a raised middle finger alongside a smiling cartoon face wearing sunglasses. He knew Charlie could take care of himself, better than most, and the text brought a smile and then a laugh from Matt.

Having managed to sleep through most of the flight, Matt woke up just 20 minutes before landing when the flight attendant gave him a slight nudge. She handed him a warm, moist facial towel to help him get his senses going once again. Flashing his FBI identification and passport, he cleared customs and walked straight through the arrival terminal to a line of taxis idling and at the ready.

He was finally home, and Bella was there waiting for him. His body was still on London time, and he pictured the crowd lining up at St. Stevens’ for happy hour. He slipped the key into his fifth-floor condo at Buzzard Point on the Capital waterfront, walked in, dropped his bags in the hallway, and headed for the balcony. From there he could see her, and it brought a smile to his face. His five o’clock would come in a few hours, but he needed to sort through his email, check in with his manager, and then change into shorts and a t-shirt.

Before he had the chance to even begin his list of chores, his cell rang. It was Claire Dale calling, and that meant something was up.

“Matt, welcome home,” she said. “I’ve scheduled a meeting for you in an hour.”

Frustrated, Matt tried his best. “Long flight, Claire. Can’t it wait until morning?”

“Nope. There’s trouble brewing up in the Great White North, Matt,” she responded. “The DNI suggested you’re the best one for the job, and you know what that means.” He delayed answering, slowly walking back out onto the balcony overlooking the water to catch