The Suppressor Erik Carter (books suggested by bill gates TXT) đ
- Author: Erik Carter
Book online «The Suppressor Erik Carter (books suggested by bill gates TXT) đ». Author Erik Carter
Both of the Lincolnâs front windows were down, and the fed had his stupid arm dangling outside as he looked into the port, drumming his fingers on the nice, freshly waxed paint. Every now and then, Tanner could hear the manâs class ring tapping against his Lincoln.
Tannerâs teeth ground together.
âBurtonâs meeting with international terrorists,â he said. âHe wonât be going to the airport, not with the security, especially on the night of a popular festival with people flying in from out of state and from other countries. Iâve called in units to both here and the airport, just in case, but this is where weâll find himâthe port.â
The sounds of the festival carried over from a few blocks away. The air wasnât too warm, but it was thick and made his skin moist. They drove through the various buildings and patches of light. Tall metal thingsâspires and round tubes with pipes and electrical cords coming out of them.
âWhat exactly are we looking for?â Pace said as he continued to stare out the window.
Tannerâs teeth clenched harder. He really wanted to tell this guy to shut up.
But before he could, he saw something. Motion at the cargo containers in the back corner.
He pointed. âThere!â
In one of the aisles between the containers, two figures were silhouetted against the orangish glow of light. One of the men stood over the other, who was lying on the rain-slicked ground. Something was going down. Something bad.
They were just shadowy figures in the dark distance, but Tanner recognized them. Heâd been studying them both for months.
The man standing was Lukas Burton.
And the man on the ground, the larger silhouette, was someone Tanner would recognize anywhere.
âShit. Itâs Jake,â Tanner said. âDoesnât look like his revenge turned out the way heâd hoped.â
He flipped on the emergency light and floored the gas.
Chapter Seventy-One
âPlastic surgery?â Burton said as he stared down at Hudson. âIs that it?â
Hudson nodded.
âWell, damn, you sure got your moneyâs worth, Pete.â
He cocked his head as a realization came to him.
âWhy do I keep calling you Pete? Iâm guessing âPete Hudsonâ was an alias, because youâre clearly no more a car thief than you are a federal agent. Youâre a pro. An assassin. Are you working for one of my fatherâs old enemies? Have you come to kill Jacques Sollierâs son?â
No reply.
âIâm following in the old manâs footsteps,â he said, gesturing to the port surrounding them. âBut I never even got to know the guy. Jacques met my mother here, at this port. This is where she worked.â
He snickered and looked off, into the port. Memories of his mother working at the very place he was standing reminded him that heâd never left Pensacola. Unworthiness fell over him again. Momentarily. Then he straightened his back, remembered the bigger goal.
And returned his attention to the man on the ground.
This assassin was deadly, the sort you didnât turn your back on for a moment.
Burton continued. âHe knocked her up and left, sent money every six months. Only visited twice before my mother was killed. No one ever figured out whether the murder was random or connected to Jacques. Regardless, from then on, I was on my own.
âI donât remember my first meeting with my father. I was only five. But I clearly recall the second visit, when I was eight, about a year before my mom died. Big guy. He had this sort of dignified power to himâthe way he dressed and carried himself. Different from the Americans I was used to. Classy. He took me to a park, asked me about my studies, fed me at a fancy French restaurant downtown, taught me the history of a few buildings, and had me back to Mom before dinnertime. Last time I ever saw him. He was killed, too, a few years later.
âI was in and out of foster homes. Got in some trouble. Got arrested a few times. Then a chance meeting with Joey Farone changed my life. At a fruit market, of all places. He saw the potential in me, took me in as a ward for my last year of legal childhood. From then on, I was with the Farones, and I had a real poppa. Then you came in, posing as a car thief, and won the favor of my new fatherâand his beautiful daughterâin a few months!â
Burton stopped. He felt out of control. That wouldnât do. He was always composed. He took a deep breath before he continued.
âWhatever you were doing embedded with the Farones, you had us all fooled. Who are you?â
Still no reply.
Burton felt the corners of his standard grin twitch, ready to curl into a scowl. He took out his Smith.
âYouâll forgive me for wanting to know a manâs name before I blast him to Hell. Whatâs your name?â
The man squinted those dark eyes at him, and his face screwed tight, eyebrows lowering. He locked eyes with Burton.
âSilence Jones.â
Burton felt the gun dip in his hand. He gasped.
That voiceâŠ
So bizarre. Unnatural. Deep, crackling, and growly. Macabre and wicked. Inhumanânot so much animalistic as it was mechanical.
The voice jolted Burton back a couple inches. He reaffirmed his grip on the Smith, brought it back up.
He realized his smile was gone. Revealing his shock. Lessening his dominance. So he smiled again.
âWell, Mr. Silence Jones, youâve stolen so much from meâmy poppa, his daughter, my funds in New Orleans, and the passports tonight, my chance at something bigger. Itâs finally time to even the score.â
He pulled back the hammer.
Chapter Seventy-Two
On a normal evening, Laswell would be enjoying his time at Pensacola Bayfront Auditorium.
It was a massive, squarish arena-style buildingâmaybe fifty feet tall, brick, windowless, and with a gabled roof, built at the end of a pier, surrounded on three sides by Pensacola Bay. Gentle nighttime waves twinkled with city light as they lapped against the pierâs concrete wall.
But while Laswell leaned against the decorative fence at the quiet walkway surrounding the building, he wasnât enjoying the splendid sights or the
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