Free The Book of Lies by Brad Meltzer

if I disappear, they’ll go talk to all my friends, co-workers . . . even former co-workers,” I add, raising an eyebrow at Timothy. “You’ll get a call tomorrow morning.”
    Timothy knows what I’m up to—he had the same hostage training with the same dumb tricks for getting the bad guys to fight among themselves—but that doesn’t mean it won’t work.
    “You don’t even see it, do you?” Ellis asks, sounding far more comfortable than he should be. “I’ve already won.”
    “Not if there’s a manhunt for Cal’s killer!” Timothy shoots back as the blue lights continue their assault. “You promised me no risk at all!”
    “No, I promised you an easy reward.”
    While they argue, I work the telescoping baton hidden in my sleeve toward the inside of my forearm. I’ve heard enough. Time to let actions speak louder than—
    “Be very careful about your next move,” Ellis warns as he points his gun at my face. I freeze. He’s clearly planning to pull the trigger, but he’s not quite ready to do it yet. “I can see the baton, Calvin.”
    Next to him, Timothy shakes his head, his anger now exploding. “This was so stupidly easy and—
Dammit!
How could you be so
stupid
!?”
    The dog barks. But Ellis, who’s now close enough that I spot the odd red thimble-shaped nozzle on his gun, is calmer than ever. “It’ll work out fine,” he says.
    “For who?” Timothy challenges. “For you?”
    Ellis nods, raising his eyebrows. “You were right about the manhunt. But there’s no manhunt if I give them Cal’s killer.” Without another word, he points his gun at Timothy’s neck. I want to jump forward, but my body steps back.
    “I have twins! For God’s sake!” Timothy says in horror.
    Ellis grins. “It
is
for God’s sake.”
    Fttt.
    The dog barks again. A tiny fleck of blood hits my cheek. And Timothy falls to the ground.
    Behind us, at least a mile or two up the road, a set of faint white eyes blink open. There’s a car back there. Coming right at us.

16
    O hnonono!” my father stutters, still clutching my shoulder as he stumbles and pulls us back.
    Ellis stares over our shoulders at the car that’s coming our way.
    “Hand me his gun,” Ellis says to us as he motions to Timothy, who’s flat on his back with what looks like a pinprick at his jugular. There’s no stream of blood as his body convulses like a snake and he continues to threaten and scream. First, Timothy’s left knee freezes awkwardly, cocked out to the side, then his torso stops moving. In less than a minute, he’s motionless on the pavement. He looks dead, his gun still clutched in his hand.
    “I’m waiting,” Ellis adds, and for the first time, I see the new reality he’s building. If he shoots us with Timothy’s gun, then leaves my van here along with Timothy’s unmarked car—now the picture shifts: It’ll look like Timothy and I were having a late night get-together . . . two dirty feds arguing over a deal. My father was with me because, of course, we’re in on it together. Maybe a few words got exchanged, and both sides wound up dead. Best of all, with no one searching for the real killer, Ellis rides off in my father’s truck and whatever prize—he called it a book—he thinks is inside.
    “I’d like that gun now,” Ellis says, his pistol now aimed at my dad’s face.
    Panicking, my dad picks up the gun and tosses it to—
    “Don’t!”
I call out.
    Ellis catches it with his free hand—a hand that I realize is covered by a plastic glove—but never takes his eyes off me. “You’re smarter than Timothy,” he says. “You understand why I’m here, Cal.”
    Behind me, the car on the road is about a half mile away. But the way Ellis keeps staring at me—his amber eyes barely blinking even as the headlights grow brighter—it’s like he doesn’t even care the car’s coming. His uniform tells me he’s a cop, but that burning obsessed look . . . that odd tattoo on his hand and how he rubs it over and