Shadow Agenda: An Action Suspense Thriller Read Online Free

multi-hued, gray-brick, architect-designed cathedral, its curved roof in old wood, like a miniature take on the Sydney Opera House. The road seemed crammed with yellow taxis, like Manhattan at rush hour, right up until it turned into Calle 58 and traffic thinned somewhat, merging onto the freeway “El Regional.” Then they moved into a poorer neighborhood and the cars were replaced by small motorcycles and scooters, many of the same vintage as Enrique’s ride.
    Lang stayed back as he’d promised he would do, judging the pace and flow of traffic, keeping an eye out for sudden movements, people switching lanes around him or weapons being drawn by motorcycle passengers, anything that might indicate he’d been compromised. Enrique exited quickly from the left side of the freeway onto Calle 80, past the three-story red-brick morgue and adjoining cemetery to their right, then up a hill and back into the palm- and elm-tree-lined residential neighborhoods.  They zig-zagged through a series of industrial parks before turning back to the north, then the northeast, passing the Sena De Pedegral technology center, then up parallel to the highway into Bello. Lang glanced at the rearview mirror. He could see the far south extreme of the city as it sloped back up the mountainside, the view partially obscured by shadows from the clouds just above.
    Quintas was the kind of old neighborhood that in most U.S. cities would be gentrified, restored by people who liked old things and had lots of money to keep them from falling apart. The houses were smaller, older, mostly made of cinderblocks. Some portions of the area were rundown while others seemed middle-class, normal. As with much of the city, a long-term casualty of poverty was paint: many of the homes and businesses were simply cemented together in shades of brick red or gray, unadorned by anything except splatters of mortar. The houses were set close together, without yards, roadways in front and alleyways behind.
    Enrique turned left down a side street, between a small community store with a blue awning advertising meats and groceries, and a row of homes. Then he turned right, onto a long alleyway that ran off as far as Lang could see. There were trees and a mesh fence to the left, buildings to the right. Lang followed cautiously five cars behind, almost losing him on the quick alley turn, stepping on the brakes of the rented Toyota just before passing the entrance, seeing the motorcycle a hundred yards along. He turned the wheel and pointed the car down the alley.
    He wasn’t ten yards in when the truck screeched to a halt behind him, blocking the entrance. Another backed out of a space behind one of the houses, ten yards ahead, boxing him in exactly as he’d worried might happen if he followed too closely – and if Enrique had sold him out.
    Lang reacted on instinct, getting out of the car quickly, not even bothering to close the door, sprinting towards a gap between the houses that backed onto the alley, recognizing his need to flee the trap before it closed all of the way. He looked back for a split second to see if anyone was pursuing him, just as a larger man in a red-and-white striped vest stepped out of the bush carrying an assault rifle, an AK-47 knockoff. The butt slammed into the side of Lang’s head and he went down hard, his mind swimming.
    He tried to stagger to his feet, blinking through the haze. He saw Enrique running towards him, the sky beyond a grey, cloudy smudge. “See!” Enrique yelled, looking past him to someone else. “I told you that you could trust me!” A pistol fired twice, the report just a few feet behind Lang and loud. The bullets’ momentum stopped Enrique’s progress, and he collapsed in a bundle. Walter tried to turn his head, to see where the sound had come from; his last glimpse was a dark shadow from the butt of the assault rifle as it came down hard one more time.
     

3./
     
    October 10, 2012, WASHINGTON, D.C,
     
    The funeral parlor