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

He’d moved the operation down avenues it would have never ventured on its own—first by funding anarchists and then by conspiring with international terrorists.

Charlie vanished. C.C. took his place. A different area of the mansion. The library. A look of dread in C.C.’s eyes, telling him she had a premonition about the Roja hit, making him promise her that he wouldn’t go.

He promised her.

Then he’d broken the promise.

In the Grand Prix. Later that night. The tape player in his hand. Shaking. Listening to the message.

C.C.’s voice playing from the scratchy speaker—crying, betrayed. He’d broken a promise to her. Angry at him, only the second time ever. Screaming her last word at him: Asshole!

The last thing she’d ever say to him. Anger. A swear word. He fell to the steering wheel and wept. For the longest time, he’d—

Focus, love. Focus.

Exiting the library, right after he’d given C.C. the promise that he would soon break. Walking down the sconce-lined hallway, about to leave the mansion, his shoes sinking into plush carpeting. A silhouette appeared at the end of the hallway, close to the foyer, where Jake was headed. It was Burton.

Grinning.

That goddamn grin.

Silence who had been Jake who had been Pete stopped a couple feet in front of Burton, a smaller bubble of personal space than one would normally give, letting Burton know he wasn’t intimidated.

Then Burton spoke in riddles.

Two things are going to happen. One is going to happen tonight, Burton had said. The other is going to happen down the line. Soon enough, though. A chance for me to reconnect with my roots, with Daddy. A real homecoming. Know what I mean?

The first thing that Burton was referring to was C.C.’s murder. Clearly.

The second…

Tonight? The terrorist plot?

Was this the connection Silence was seeking?

Is this it, C.C.? Is this the connection? Babe, is this it?

Focus, love.

There was something about what Burton had said then, in the hallway. His malicious smile had been even darker than usual.

He hadn’t just been taunting Silence about his plan to murder C.C. There was the second thing too, the thing that was going to happen “soon enough.”

Burton had said “Daddy.”

A chance for me to reconnect with my roots, with Daddy.

Of course. Joey Farone. Burton had killed Joey Farone, someone who had taken Pete Hudson in, who had blessed his relationship with his daughter.

And it had happened well after C.C.’s murder, after Burton had wiped out all vestiges of the Farone family. It had happened “down the line.”

Silence exhaled. Moved. Heard the lap of a small wave against the pod’s wall. The 93.5-degree water felt colder.

Shit. There was no connection. He’d lost the thread. And, with it, hope.

Keep going, love, C.C. said. You’re almost there. Stay focused.

He allowed the water, the pitch-black nothingness to consume him again.

Back to the hallway. Staring into Burton’s sneering smile. The memory had gone back in time a few seconds, like someone had pulsed the REWIND button.

A chance for me to reconnect with my roots, Burton said again. With Daddy. A real homecoming. Know what I mean?

And Silence was gone. Out of Florida. Out of the heat and humidity. Into a cold, decrepit room. Broken linoleum floor. Dangling ceiling tiles. Gray skies and a ruined urban landscape visible through the windows. He was back in Virginia. Two weeks earlier. With Falcon and Nakiri. Receiving his final briefing before Laswell shipped him back to Pensacola.

They’d given him more information about Burton, intel they’d acquired from Nakiri’s undercover work posing as the man’s girlfriend.

His biological father was Jacques Sollier, Nakiri had said. An international terrorist, active in the mid ’60s through the ’70s.

Burton’s “Daddy.”

Not his adopted father, Joey Farone, as Silence had been thinking. The man’s real daddy.

Sollier’s specialty was utilizing shipping ports, Nakiri had said. Transporting weapons and explosives and hostages and himself.

As a major Gulf Coast city, Pensacola had a port.

And Pensacola was also hosting a very popular, very busy festival that night. The Tristán Festival. Almost all of the city’s attention and resources would be focused on the event.

Including the police presence.

Whatever Burton had scheduled with the terrorists, it was set for 8 p.m., which was only a half hour after the official start time of the festival.

When everyone’s attention would be far away from the port.

Burton was reconnecting with his roots, with his “daddy” Jacques Sollier, by dealing with international ne’er-do-wells at a seaport.

Which meant Silence needed to get his ass to the Port of Pensacola.

He’d found the connection.

Good, love. Good.

Silence’s eyes snapped open.

Darkness surrounded him. Pitch black. There was the gentle sound of water.

No hesitation. He pushed the button beside him, and the bright blue light faded up as he threw open the lid.

He stood in the pod, dripping wet and buck naked. The tiny, bare bedroom with a half-finished wall glowed blue. His flesh goose-bumped in the cranked-high air conditioning.

He took the towel from the chair, quickly dried off, and put on the outfit he’d stored for the occasion—black boots, a pair of black Levi’s, a white T, and a black canvas jacket that he’d gotten at a high-end men’s store downtown. The jacket was sturdily constructed, but just as importantly, it provided a tactical advantage—unzipped, it made the outfit city chic; zipped, the change provided its real purpose, a sturdy top layer to an all-black tactical outfit.

Through the house, the floorboards squeaking. The weight of the Beretta felt good against his ribs in its shoulder holster. The suppressor was in his pocket.

He threw the front door open. Locked it.

The thick air struck him. It wasn’t warm. In fact, the temperature had dropped. But it was more humid than it had been earlier in the day. Florida air did that sometimes—got thicker as it grew colder.

The sounds from downtown were louder now. Things were picking up even before the fun officially began. Shouts, music, laughter, car horns.

Mrs. Enfield was on her porch swing again. “Silence?”

“Will be back,” he replied as he headed for the street. He said it too loudly. A slice of pain in his