Ice Cold Kill Read Online Free Page A

grumbled to himself, reached into a tunic pocket, and produced a smartphone. He handed it over, reaching as far as his arm could stretch, keeping clear of Schullman the best he could. The phone almost disappeared in Schullman’s palm.
    Hannah turned to Asher. “There is a preliminary plan. It’s rudimentary. Just a sketch. Many of us think it’s unworkable and foolish. Quite possibly suicidal. Definitely horrific. But possible. With you to guide it…?” She shrugged.
    Schullman stabbed at phone buttons with the pad of his beefy thumb.
    Asher said, “Where?”
    “It begins in the United States.”
    Asher smiled. It was a sad, knowing smile, and Hannah interpreted it correctly. “Yes, dear. Daria lives in the United States these days.”
    Asher laughed, and shook his head. He removed his glasses and began to clean the lenses on the hem of his sweater. “Of course. God being the ultimate jester.”
    Hannah nodded to the lead guard. The man jerked his head toward the exit.
    The other prisoners in their cells still did not speak. Most didn’t understand Hebrew, but even those who did watched silently.
    Eli Schullman glared down at the tiny phone screen, then rudely bashed Asher’s shoulder with the back of his hand. He thrust the phone over. Asher studied it a moment, then nodded.
    Everyone began moving toward the exit. Outside, more guards stood with M-16s.
    Schullman growled lowly. “‘I’ll Be Seeing You.’ Irving Kahal.”
    Asher studied the smartphone. He shook his head. “Damn it. I could have sworn Irving Berlin wrote that.”

Two
     
    Denver, Colorado
Four Months Later
    It was the first Monday of November, and the five friends—three Secret Service agents and two spouses—met as they did one Monday per month for Denver’s Greatest Federal Law Enforcement Book Club and Pizza Fest.
    The pizzas this month were thin crust—one all cheese, one with sausage and pepperoni. The book was Moby-Dick . The drinks were beer. Except for Stacy Knight-Mendoza, wife of agent Phil Mendoza. She was seven months pregnant and drank San Pellegrino water with wedges of lime.
    The friends always picked the same booth at a Denver pub within walking distance of them all. The booth was curved and sat all five easily, with a table wide enough for two pizzas and the books.
    The night’s debate started well—two of them thought the novel was excellent, two thought it contained more blubber than an actual whale, and Will Halliday hadn’t read it yet. He was the only unmarried member of the book club. Halfway through the evening, Halliday agreed to get refills for everyone’s drinks.
    He went to the bar and got two Bud Lights, a Heineken, a Dos Equis, and the sparkling water with lime for Stacy. He tipped the cute bartender in the Broncos jersey top and white shorts. As soon as she turned away, he slipped a two-inch-by-two-inch envelope out of his wallet, opened the flap, and let a pale pink pill spill into Stacy’s drink.
    The pill dissolved, the effervescent water masking the chemical reaction.
    When the last residue disintegrated, Will Halliday pulled out a cell phone—prepaid, not his own—and hit speed dial 1.
    “It’s done.”
    He listened a moment, then hung up and slipped the phone into the trash can near the restrooms. He carried the tray of drinks back to his buddies.
    Brooklyn, New York
    Asher Sahar heard Will Halliday of the Secret Service say, “It’s done.”
    “Understood. Thank you.”
    Asher spoke softly into the phone. He wasn’t being covert; he was by nature and by injury a soft-spoken man. Almost fifteen years earlier, a tiny fragment of a plastic clasp, the remnant of a cheap, vinyl suicide vest, had clipped his neck and damaged his vocal cord. Asher Sahar could no more shout than he could sing an aria.
    Will Halliday hung up before Asher could confirm the next stage of the operation. But that was okay. Halliday was not an X factor. Asher was sure Halliday would carry out his end of things.
    Just