The Suppressor Erik Carter (books suggested by bill gates TXT) 📖

Beretta and knelt beside the body, then took his notebook from his pocket and crossed Glover off the list.

Cobb

Gamble

Hodges

Knox

McBride

Odom

Glover

Burton

Seven down; one to go.

Silence savored the thought for only a moment. Then he refocused on the larger task.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost five. Three hours to figure out what Burton was doing with terrorists and where Silence would need to go to stop him.

And he hadn’t the slightest clue where to begin. There was a connection, somewhere in all the information he’d gathered from this assignment. He just couldn’t see it. Not at all.

C.C. always told him to schedule his time, another way for him to organize his tumultuous brain. He would need to plan his three hours carefully.

He would call Falcon and report the intel he’d gathered from Glover. Then he would grab some beer, something to help calm his mind—one drink, nothing that would inebriate him. Then he’d go home, drink the beer, and get in his brand-new sensory deprivation pod for the first time. If the rumors were to be believed, this would be the key to opening his mind.

But first, one more task in the warehouse before he left Glover behind.

He flipped to a clean page in the notebook and started writing.

Chapter Sixty-Three

Two hours later.

Tanner grunted as he stared down at the body—hunched in on itself, two bullet holes in its forehead, a half inch apart, the tight grouping of an execution-style murder.

The body was Clayton Glover.

And his death was a piece of macabre modern art, an exercise in juxtaposition. Ten square feet of the squeaky-clean warehouse’s efficient design and purposeful organization disrupted by jagged boards in a blast pattern surrounding a corpse, all of it haloed by a massive pool of blood.

There would be an investigation. Of course. But Tanner knew who’d killed Glover.

Jake.

Damn you, Jake.

The first responding officer had said that the warehouse was dark when he arrived, but since then, the business owners had been contacted, and now the massive lights in the ceiling were ablaze, flooding the space with blue, sterile light that illuminated the lofty pallet racks and glistened on the highly polished floor.

Tanner liked that the place was so isolated. No gawkers. No press. No weeping family members. Just the crime scene unit diligently milling about in their blue windbreakers, swapping college words in hushed voices as they scribbled notes, took photos, and nodded at each other.

And Tanner and Pace—standing to the side, hands in their pockets, suit jackets tucked back, staring at the body.

One of the windbreaker-wearing technicians was crouched in front of the body, taking a measurement. Glover’s unblinking eyes stared into the steel rafters far above. His head was tilted slightly to the left, and a motionless stream of dried, black blood snaked out of the extra holes in his forehead, feeding the puddle on the polished floor.

“We got something here,” the tech said. He wore latex rubber gloves, and pinched between his thumb and forefinger was a small piece of lined notebook paper, folded in thirds. The tech gently unfolded it, then frowned at it for a moment before looking up at Tanner, perplexed.

Tanner scowled at him. “What?”

“It’s addressed to you,” the man said.

Tanner felt Pace’s eyes upon him, and he turned to look at the annoying fed. For once, Pace wasn’t being annoying, though. His face was pinched with concentration.

The technician put the unfolded paper it in a clear polyethylene evidence bag, which he sealed and handed to Tanner without standing.

Two words were scrawled on the side facing Tanner. He could see, through the paper, a longer note on the other side.

Lieutenant Tanner

Tanner recognized the print immediately.

He looked at Pace. “This is Jake Rowe’s handwriting.”

He flipped the bag over.

Sir,

I’m going to kill Lukas Burton. 8 p.m. He’s had business dealings with international terrorists and will be attempting to meet them tonight. It would be wise of you to contact the FBI.

This will be the last you hear from me. You’ve always been good to me. And I appreciate it.

—Jake

Shit.

Tanner sighed.

Jake, dammit. What are you doing?

He reluctantly put his finger under the letters FBI, and pointed it out to Pace.

The smartass grin returned to Pace’s lips. It hadn’t left for long.

“It’s been three months, and Jake’s still on his killing spree,” Tanner said, tilting his head toward Glover. He gave the note a little shake. “Even confessed it. This isn’t heat-of-the-moment passion. No temporary insanity here. Jake’s a coldblooded killer now.”

Pace took the evidence bag from him, glanced over the note, looked up, said nothing.

“And I’m not letting him get away with another murder,” Tanner said. “We’re stopping this son of a bitch. Tonight.”

Chapter Sixty-Four

Laswell had never been to Pensacola, Florida. As he stepped out of the Learjet, down the airstairs, a blast of thick, moist air struck him.

Holy hell, Suppressor was right. He’d told Laswell—via a series of abbreviated, gravelly sentences—to be prepared for the brutal humidity of the Florida Panhandle. Laswell hadn’t felt stickiness like this since the last time he was in New Orleans, which made sense, given New Orleans was only a few hours due west. As Laswell understood it, the two old cities also shared architectural similarities—features such as downtown balconies with filigree ornamentation.

A jetliner roared overhead as he stepped onto the concrete, and a warm gust of wind buffeted the chain-link fence a few feet away. Pensacola International wasn’t a large airport, so while they’d taxied to a private hanger, the main terminal was just ahead, brightly lit, lush with a variety of palm trees. Welcome to Florida, the trees seemed to say as their fronds tossed in the strong breeze.

Laswell had noted that Florida points of entry were both welcoming and proud of the state’s reputation. The Interstate highway welcome centers offered incoming travelers free orange and grapefruit juice. He’d always found that detail quite charming.

The sun was far in the western sky, and the horizon was starting to fade from gray to pink. The flight attendant waited for him at the bottom of the