Free The Fifth Assassin by Brad Meltzer Page A

over me, he cuts himself off, suddenly silent. He’s not focused on me anymore. He sees something…
    Behind me.
    I turn just as a navy blue SUV pulls up, perpendicular to the driveway. As the passenger-side window rolls down, I spot the driver: a man with a strict part in his black hair, and a face that sags. His drooping eyes are the color of white wine. I recognize him from the mugshot. But I’ve known him for a long time.
    Without a word, Marshall shoves open the passenger door, motioning for me to come inside.
    I hesitate.
    “Isn’t that why you came here, Beecher? To find me?” Marshall calls out in a raspy voice that sounds as burned as his face.
    Tot would tell me to walk away. That nothing good can come from getting in Marshall’s car. But when it comes to Marshall, that’s the thing Tot will never understand. In life, there are many reasons why we become who we are. Marshall played a minor but memorable role in my childhood. But what I did to him… on that night in the basement… I altered Marshall forever.
    “So you came all this way, and now you’re just going to stand there?” Marshall challenges. He takes a deep breath through his nose, like a bull. If I thought he had forgiven me after all these years, I was wrong.
    From inside the SUV, his gold eyes lock on me with an odd calm that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world. Even from here, I can see how meticulous he is—how he holds the steering wheel with just the tips of his fingers.
    But as his stare drills down, I realize he’s not
talking
to me. He’s observing me. He’s not impatient, though. He’s waiting for me to make my decision.
    Once again, I can hear Tot screaming for me to stay away. And I should.
    In the road map of my life, Tot represents where I’m trying to go. Marshall represents where I used to be. But that’s the thing about the past: No matter how dangerous or disturbing or inconvenient it is, you don’t get to move forward until you deal with what’s behind you.
    Plus, if I want answers, there’s only one way to get them.
    I dart for the SUV, quickly climbing into the passenger seat.
    Still holding the steering wheel with just his fingertips, Marshall backs us into a sharp three-point turn, then hits the gas as we dive down the ramp and disappear inside the underground garage.
    I look behind us as the garage door lowers, locking me in the lion’s den. But as I spot that flat grin on Marshall’s face, I can’t help but think that whatever he’s really up to, he’s just getting started.

16
    One hour earlier
    Foundry Church
    H e’d read in some magazine that when you’re hit by a bullet—when it punctures and burns through your skin—you don’t feel it. That the shock overwhelms any pain.
    Facedown on the needlepoint carpet, Pastor Kenneth Frick now knew that wasn’t true.
    For a moment, he’d forgotten how he got here. He looked around, blinking hard. His heartbeat pumped all the way to his ears. He must’ve blacked out. In his mouth, his tongue—
ptt, ptt
—it was covered with lint from the carpet.
    Turning on his side, he heard a squish. The carpet was soaked. He couldn’t see it yet… but down by his hips, a dark puddle was growing, blooming beneath him and slowly engulfing the carpet’s green and yellow leaves.
    Feeling a sudden blast of cold air, the pastor looked up, spotting the wide-open window that led out toward the street. The room swirled. He couldn’t ignore the sharp burning pain in his stomach, like someone was using a hot poker to burrow out from inside him.
    He clenched his jaw so hard, he thought his teeth would crack. He’d been through worse… in the army… plus with his mother… to watch what happened to her…
    Through the frosted glass, a light went on outside, in the main part of the office. Mina Pfister. The youth director. Always right on time.
    The pastor struggled to get up on his knees, determined to crawl to the door. The heartbeat in his ears kept