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

“Me?” She gave a laugh as if this were an absurd idea. “I work for a tech company. We don’t carry guns. Why?”

Shaw nodded at the state park pickup. “Government property. Weapons aren’t allowed.”

“Are you armed?”

Shaw shrugged. “I am but I’ve had plenty of practice keeping mine out of sight.”

The parks department truck’s engine fired up and the unsmiling driver touched the brim of his hat as he pulled past them. Shaw nodded in reply. The truck vanished up a dirt trail into the woods.

She said, “I’ve got a thumb drive but I also ran a transcription program. It printed out everything. I got about a hundred pages.” She retrieved a large white envelope from the front seat of her car.

“Excellent.”

“I might pick up something more from the original. Second generation there’s always some fallout. I was thinking . . .” Her voice faded, then she gasped, looking past Shaw.

The front door of the plumbing van was swinging open and the driver, a pale-faced man, climbed out. Blond as the dead man in the alley. He was huge, dressed in black tactical gear and was holding a pistol.

Then the side panel slid open and two others stepped to the ground: Ebbitt Droon, armed as well, and—looking every inch the harmless grandmother—Irena Braxton.

When they were out, standing on the ground, another figure emerged and joined them.

The head of BlackBridge, Ian Helms, stared his way. In a voice that was a rich, resonant baritone—as one might expect, coming from such a handsome leading man—he said, “Well, Colter Shaw.”

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Arms crossed, studying Shaw, Helms said, “Would’ve been in your best interest not to outsmart my friend.”

Shaw supposed Helms was referring to Sophia/Connie and his dodging the bust at the Pacific Heights safe house.

I was worried. All those drugs . . . I did it for the children . . .

At least there he wouldn’t be facing that fate they now had planned for him here in the park.

Droon took over. “Okay, Shaw, pull your shirt up. Slow, don’tcha know?”

“Just take it easy, Droon.”

“What is this? What’s going on?”

“Hush, there, Miss Julia,” Droon scolded.

“How do you . . .” Her voice faded.

“Sit tight. I’ll get to you in a minute, Lovely.” He turned to Shaw. “Now, Righty, use that left hand of yours and pluck that sissy Glock off your hip and toss it in the bushes there. I want to see fingers out, like you’re sipping tea from a dainty little cup.”

“If I do that, it might go off and hurt someone.”

“Now, now, you know better’n that. Those Austrians’re too clever for accidents. Be a good boy and behave. Miss Julia’s looking a little queasy. We don’t want to upset her. Be a sorrow and shame. Go on, go on.”

“What is this?” she repeated, her voice quavering.

Droon snapped to Shaw, “Pistole, son.”

Shaw did as he’d been told, tugging his shirt up, revealing the weapon.

“Look at those abs. You must work out till the cows come home.”

Shaw pitched the gun to the ground.

“Pull those jeans cuffs up too, would’ya, boy? You look like an ankle holster kind of guy.”

Shaw complied.

“Goody good. Now. You, Miss Julia, you can stay fully clothed, much to my disappointment, don’tcha know? I heard you say you’re not packing heat.”

“You heard?”

Shaw glanced at the plumbing van. “They were listening. They know about the cassette. The analysis.” He looked to Braxton. “After you stole the voting tally I thought you’d forget about us.”

“We couldn’t afford to do that.”

Droon said, “You’re our favorite number-one reward-seeker, Mr. Colter Shaw.” He chuckled. “It’d hurt too much to say goodbye.”

Helms waved his hand to silence the irritating man and stepped forward. “I wanted to see you in person, Shaw.” He looked him over, and the man seemed enormously unimpressed. This was mutual. “The Shaw family . . . you’ve caused me nothing but grief.”

“Grief?” Shaw laughed cynically. “My mother’s a widow, thanks to you.”

He sighed. “That again. It wasn’t supposed to happen the way it did. We thought Ashton had found the vote tally certificate. Our man was simply going to pay him a lot of money for it.”

“Your representative for those quote ‘negotiations’ was an armed trespasser on our property at three in the morning, tracking my father in the woods. What you meant to say was torture him until he told you where it was hidden, and then kill him. You’re tedious, Helms.”

“Tedious?” The handsome face darkened. The word had insulted him. Shaw realized whom he resembled: a younger Warren Beatty. His voice honed: “The Endgame Sanction. It’s going to change the country fundamentally.”

“Stalin changed Russia fundamentally. I don’t think that’s the kind of standard you want to be touting.”

“BlackBridge didn’t vote on Proposition Oh-Six. Mr. Devereux didn’t vote on it. We were hired to locate a document that’d been duly passed by the citizens of the state in a legal election. We’re just enabling the will of the people.”

The words sounded like they came from a spokesperson at a press conference.

Helms continued, “Just think, Shaw. The amendment gives any corporation the right to run for office. A do-good nonprofit.”

“You’re not the shining light of social conscience, Helms. You’re destroying neighborhoods with your Urban Improvement Plan.”

Helms shrugged. “I never held a gun to anybody’s head and said, ‘Here. Take these drugs. Or else.’”

The big man with pale skin, the van driver, just watched everything quietly. Maybe he was the hitman who’d been brought in to replace Blond. The man who had his sights on the SP family.

Irena Braxton appeared impatient. “We knew that Gahl had found the voting tally and hid it.” She glanced toward the white envelope. “We never knew he was sucking up evidence too.”

“The tape recorder was in our safe house when you broke in,” Shaw said. “You had a chance to get it then.”

Helms muttered, “Well, better late . . .”

A nod toward Droon, who said, “Now, Miss Julia. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to give us that envelope and your purse—or wallet, if ‘purse’ is too sexist a thing to say. Sorry