Free The Fifth Assassin by Brad Meltzer Page B

getting louder.
    He knew that smell… the smell of charred skin… it was coming from him.
    He didn’t care. He focused on his mother… what he’d seen…
    Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer—the prayer he came back to more than any other.
Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.
    “Mina…” he shouted, though he couldn’t tell if any words were coming out. “Please… somebody…
someone help me
…!”

17
    Nineteen years ago
    Sagamore, Wisconsin
    J ust a few more steps,” his mother said, giggling.
    She was actually giggling as she cupped her hands over her young son’s eyes and walked him into the snow-covered backyard.
    Of course, even at eleven years old, Marshall had known they were about to surprise him. He knew it earlier in the week when he caught his mom on the phone, whispering, “
He’s here… gotta go…”
    Kids aren’t stupid. Christmas was only a week away. And after eleven years of being the only kid in their small town with an unemployed father who also happened to be in a wheelchair, well… Marshall was accustomed to the extra thoughtfulness that came this time of year.
    Five years ago, the town pitched in to redo the rotted wood wheelchair ramp that led up to their front door.
    Three years ago, when his mom lost her job, they bought new clothes and a new backpack for Marshall to wear to school.
    Two years ago, they bought Marshall a new bike to replace the one he’d outgrown.
    This year? Had to be a dog, Marshall decided. He’d mentioned a dog a few weeks back. But the fact that they kept him at church… stalling him so long—and that he was now blindfolded and being led into the backyard—?
    With each step, the icy snow snapped like fresh popcorn under his feet.
    He could hear the buzz of dozens of imperceptible whispers. He could feel their… their
energy
?… their
presence
?… whatever it was, he could feel it against his chest. There was definitely a crowd here. But it was coming from…
    Above.
    “On C…” his father called out. “A… B…”
    “
SURPRISE!
” the crowd yelled as his mom removed her hands.
    Following the sound and readjusting his glasses, Marshall craned his neck up at the giant mulberry tree, where at least a dozen kids, plus a few parents, were out on the porch of the—In his head, he was about to use the word
treehouse
. But this—It looked like a real house, with a pitched roof and a
porch
. This wasn’t a treehouse. It was a—
    “Welcome to the
Watchtower
!” Vincent Paglinni, a meaty eleven-year-old with furry eyebrows, shouted. “
Get up here, Marshmallow! You gotta see this!
”
    “It was the pastor’s idea,” Marshall’s mom said, pointing to Pastor Riis, who was pushing Marshall’s dad in his wheelchair.
    “Give it a whirl,” his dad added, looking prouder than ever.
    Marshall darted for the ladder rungs that were nailed to the tree.
    “No! Grab the rope! Take the elevator!” Vincent Paglinni yelled from above.
    Following where everyone was pointing, Marshall headed for the thick rope that dangled down, a baseball-sized knot at its end. As Marshall grabbed the rope, he looked up and saw the pulley that was attached even higher than the roof of the treehouse.
    “Ready for liftoff…!” James Wert, a heavy kid from his class, called out. Without warning, Wert leaped off the side of the treehouse and gripped the rope, wrapping his legs around it like he was sliding down a firepole.
    The pulley began to spin; the rope pulled taut.
    Like a bottle rocket, Marshall shot into the air, where a crush of hands grabbed him, tugging him onto the porch of…
    “
It’s the greatest damn treehouse of all time!
” Vincent Paglinni shouted as the crowd of kids cheered.
    Marshall knew he was right. This wasn’t something built by a dad. This was built by a town. Ushered inside, Marshall saw that the doorway had a real frame—and the way the roof was sealed so perfectly