The Assassins Read Online Free Page A

the gate, he saw no footprints in the snow. No one, the double included, had been back here today.
    Ryder plodded across the yard, unlocked his rear door, and opened it. A billow of warm air enveloped him. The only sound was his refrigerator’s hum. He was home at last, but this was not the way he had expected to find his sanctuary; it had become someone else’s lair. Smelling burned toast, he stepped into the kitchen. His years in the army had changed him from a slovenly youth to a man who prized order. When one lived with the unpredictability of violent death, orderliness was not only efficient, it was as comforting as a finely tuned weapon. So it was with irritation that he surveyed the grease thick on the stove and the dirty dishes piled on the counter.
    Scraping snow from his boots, he went into his living room. The Washington Post was strewn across his sofa. He climbed the stairs. In his bedroom, clothes were piled on a chair and scattered around the floor. Ignoring the mess, he went into his closet, pushed aside boxes, and crouched in the corner. Running his hands over the parquet floor, he located four finger holds then lifted out a square of wood, revealing his subcompact semiautomatic Beretta pistol, ammo, sound suppressor, cash, two billfolds containing cover identities and passports, and pocket litter.
    Removing his peacoat and sports jacket, he buckled on the canvas shoulder holster. Then he checked his Beretta, loaded it, and balanced it in his hand. A familiar calmness settled over him, and he felt complete. Automatically, he lifted the weapon and aimed. If you don’t kill the memories, the memories will kill you. He had been military intelligence, MI, then recruited and trained by an MI black unit for special death missions. He was good at it. Worse, he had liked it. That was why he had retired from the army, why there were moments when a dark cloud seemed to envelop him.
    He snapped the Beretta into his holster and packed his black backpack with the rest of the things from his hidey-hole. Then he went to the window and peered down between the slats at two police cruisers and an ambulance parked at angles in the intersection, roof beacons rotating. Yellow crime scene tape already outlined the area. The two women who had witnessed the attack were talking to the officers. They would describe the death as, at best, a hit and run, and, at worst, deliberate murder. At some point soon, the officers would come here to his home to investigate.
    Quickly he searched his bedroom. The only items of interest were jeans, a flannel shirt, underwear, and shoes that were not his—but with no identifying tags or pocket litter. He methodically inspected the rest of the rooms, finally going back downstairs to the living room and then into the kitchen. The red light on his answering machine was flashing. He hit PLAY.
    Tucker Andersen’s voice sounded from the machine: “I hope you’re bored. Or you’ve come to your senses and realize you suck at being a civilian. Call me.” Tucker was the number two at Catapult, a Langley black unit that specialized in counteroperations.
    Not now, Tucker. First I’ve got to get the hell out of here. Some homecoming. Pulling on his coat, hat, and gloves, he stepped outdoors. The door slammed behind him, locking automatically. His face already felt frozen.
    He slogged through the snow. Waiting inside his garage was his faded green 1978 Ford pickup, which was retrofitted with a powerhouse Audi V8 Quattro drive train. He climbed in. Minimal cranking, and the big engine fired.
    In seconds Ryder was driving away through the parking lot. He had escaped without having to talk to the police, but he had no clue what the hell the double was all about. Before entering H Street, he scanned. Seeing nothing unusual and no one seeming interested in him, he merged with the traffic.
    As he drove off, he remembered the cell phone he had taken from the dead man. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, he