Read The Assassins for Free Online

networks, and made top-secret phone calls. Appearing ordinary, it could be operated like any smartphone with Internet access while either off or in secure mode.
    As he rode the elevator down, Tucker put the handheld into secure mode and called Gloria Feit at Catapult. Once a full-time field officer herself, Gloria was now the black unit’s office manager and general factotum and occasional covert operative.
    “I thought you’d be here an hour ago,” she said. “Bridgeman’s been asking for you. You’ve got to come back right away.”
    Scott Bridgeman was the brand-new chief of Catapult, a by-the-book manager. Or, as Tucker thought of him, uptight as a knitting needle.
    He sighed. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Meanwhile, reactivate the search for the Carnivore. We need to find him, and we need to find him quick.”
    “I’ll get right on it.”
    He ended the connection, and the elevator door opened onto the ground floor. Striding past the greenery, he checked his messages. The first was from Catapult’s communications center with an answer for Judd—the three unknown numbers on the double’s phone were to disposable cells, untraceable. Figures, Tucker thought. One more sign the people behind Judd’s impersonation were pros.
    Then Tucker listened to his second message.
    “This is Annie. What in hell have you gotten yourself into, Tucker? Call me.”
    “Annie” was Annie Chernow, a captain in the metropolitan police force. She had been one of his prot é g é es in the clandestine service, until she gave birth to twin sons and decided work close to home was her career path.
    He tapped her office number on his keypad. She was not at her desk, but the sergeant patched him through to her cell. When she answered, he could hear clinking metal and a droning voice in the background.
    “Are you at the ME’s?” he asked, referring to the medical examiner of the District of Columbia.
    “Of course I am. You know, Tucker, I can always count on you not to bore me. Pray tell, what do you find so interesting about the corpse we picked up on G Street Northeast?”
    “Why? Did he suddenly regain consciousness?”
    “Almost. If he had, he might’ve said his name isn’t Judson Ryder.”
    For a rare moment, Tucker was speechless. How did she know?
    Her tone grew tough as she continued. “You’re correct that his injuries are consistent with being hit by a snowmobile, but after that it gets hinky. The ME found that prosthetic devices had been applied to his face to give him a nose bump, make his cheekbones prominent, and square his chin. According to the ME, the prostheses are some kind of new skinlike silicone that he’d heard rumors about at an international pathologists’ convention last year, but he’d never seen—until now. The silicone was coated with colored polymer layers to duplicate the color of the wearer’s skin. The ME took a bunch of photos then he peeled off the prostheses, which was no easy thing, and took more photos. What the hell is going on, Tucker?”
    “I can’t tell you. If I could, I would.”
    “This is my dead body,” she reminded him. “ My investigation.”
    “I need a full report yesterday,” he ordered, “and this can go no further than you, the ME, and the door, at least for now. You don’t have to like it, Annie. Just do as I say. National security.”
    She sniffed. “National security? That old saw?”
    He ignored her tone. “Yes, national security, goddammit. And I need to find out who the corpse really is, pronto.”
    “Oh, I can tell you that, too. There was nothing on his fingerprints, so I ran him through the tristate facial recognition database. Bingo. His name is Jeff Goos. He’s a professional actor. Lives in an apartment in Richmond and does theater and TV up and down the coast. Divorced a couple of times. Heavy child support payments. I could go on and on.”
    That was the thing about Annie, she was damn good. “Christ,” Tucker said. “Wait for me. I’m