Free The Fifth Assassin by Brad Meltzer

that’s not why you did this,” Palmiotti challenged. “All the hurt you caused… that wasn’t for your
father
. That was for
you
, Clementine. You did all that for
you
. And now that you got the files and everything you wanted, you really think it matters how we got here? You wanted something so you did what you had to do to get it. The only thing you have to ask is,
was it worth it?
”
    Clementine stared down at the file folder, rereading the peeling blue-and-white sticker with her father’s name. She thought about how she still had two more days in her chemo cycle, which meant the tingling in her toes, the hideous nausea, and the loose diarrhea would only be getting worse. So. Was it worth it?
    “Depends what I find,” she shot back, slapping the file shut and sliding out of the booth. As she was about to leave, she turned back and added, “No matter how much of a piece of garbage your boss is, I’m sorry you lost your life over this.”
    “Yeah…” he whispered as Clementine headed for the stable of red shopping carts and disappeared out the front door. “Me too.”
    For a full two minutes, he sat there, alone in the bright red booth. And then, in that moment, Dr. Stewart Palmiotti had a brand-new idea.
    From there, he made one call. Directly to A.J., who would take it directly to the President. “I know what to do about Beecher,” he said.

15
    Today
    Crystal City, Virginia
    A little over an hour later, I’m outside Marshall’s apartment building out in Virginia. Standing halfway down the block, I stare down at my phone, pretending to text. It makes me disappear just enough so that passing drivers—including the pasty-faced lawyer in the black Acura—don’t bother to look my way. That’s the lawyer’s first mistake. Actually, I take that back. His first mistake is the personalized license plate that says
L8 4 CRT
. His second mistake comes as he turns into the driveway at the back of Marshall’s building.
    Of course, I tried going in the front door first. But as I approached the double glass doors of the modern apartment building, I saw what was waiting inside: a miserable-looking doorman at the front desk, plus one of those high-tech intercom systems where a well-placed camera lets residents see who’s there before they buzz you in.
    If I want Marshall’s real reaction, better that he doesn’t see me coming.
    Which brings me to the Acura driver’s third mistake: thinking that just because his building has an underground garage with a code to keep strangers out, it’ll stop me from sneaking in.
    Still fake-texting on my phone, I walk casually down the block, timing it so I’m crossing right behind the Acura as Pasty Lawyer leans out the window and enters his six-digit PIN code on the garage’s keypad.
    151916.
    I keep walking as the garage door rolls open, then closes. When he’s gone, I double back to the keypad, tapping in
151916
.
    There’s a loud metal
rr-rr-rr
as the garage door again rolls up, saluting me with a dark black entryway. Bits of dust, lit by the sun, hang in the air. But as I take my first step down the slight decline that leads inside, I notice two shiny black shoes and perfectly pressed slacks standing in my way. Even before the garage door fully opens, I know who it is.
    “Do I look blind?” the guard from the front desk challenges. “I saw you checking out the front of the building!” His ID badge says Lance Peterzell. From his beefy build and his tight buzz cut, military for sure. “You really think we wouldn’t have cameras back here?”
    In the corner of the garage, I spot the camera—miniature, like a voice recorder. I’ve seen cameras like those, when you check into the White House.
    “What do you think you’re doing!?” he shouts.
    I try to make an excuse, but he plows forward. I stumble backward up the driveway.
    “I-I was just trying t—” I trip on my own feet, nearly falling backward.
    “I can have you arrested for trespa—!”
    Standing