Silencer by James W. Hall Read Free Book Online Page A

the maze of unpaved roads that crisscrossed the vast tract of prairie, scrub and pine flatlands. Few landmarks, no road signs, dozens of gates to open and close, dead ends and dusty, rutted Jeep trails that went on for miles. Navigating at night was even trickier. Veteran farmhands sometimes lost their way.
    These were the seconds that Claire would have to account for. What she saw, what she heard, every word spoken by her or others. She would explain how she’d managed to regain her composure and from that moment on stay resolutely calm. Why wasn’t she paralyzed with fear? The investigators were suspicious. A young woman finding a security guard dead in the bushes outside a strangely quiet house. Why hadn’t she run for help? It simply wasn’t credible. They would treat her as if she knew more than she was saying. That she was covering up, or involved somehow. Doubt would be in their eyes, skepticism lacing every question.
    She’d explain how that flush of terror dissolved and everything downshifted to slow-mo. She couldn’t account for it. It was a knack she’d had since childhood, and it served her well as a college athlete.
    Claire went cold and quiet. Saw every detail frame by frame. A sharp focus, eye on the goddamn ball.
    She sprinted back to the barn, ducked into the tiny office, pulled down the twelve-gauge, loaded it, and trotted back to the house. See the dead guy, go fetch the shotgun. A handful of seconds to race back to the lodge. Less than a minute. No thoughts buzzing through her mind. Not a trace of the earlier panic.
    There’d been no drills for such a moment, though given the steady stream of politicians, sports stars, diplomats, literary lions, painters, musicians, and movers and shakers of every stripe, and all those grimfaced bodyguards, more than once Claire had considered a worst-case scenario. Still, nothing like what was unfolding. Nothing that put her dead center.
    In a light-footed crouch, she crossed the bridge, went up the steps. Pressed her ear to the door. She made out one low voice. It was Browning’s, but she couldn’t distinguish the words. His tone was stern, like the voice he used on ranch hands who’d screwed up, a stiff restraint that barely masked his disdain.
    She thumbed the latch, shouldered the door open an inch, set her feet, then barged into the foyer. Two minutes max since she bumped Saperstein’s shoe.
    With the shotgun at her shoulder, she stepped forward into the den.
    Twenty feet away Gustavo Pinto held a pistol in his right hand. A silencer was attached to the barrel and the handgun was aimed down at the floor. Gustavo’s cheeks glistened and his eyes were red. Ten feet in front of him, Browning and Earl stood stiffly at opposite ends of the big burgundy couch.
    A long oak coffee table separated the two of them from Gustavo. Rolled out on the table was a survey map dotted with red circles. Governor Sanchez stood paralyzed behind the couch, Antwan Shelton at his shoulder.
    â€œGustavo. Listen to me,” Claire said. “I don’t care what’s going onhere, but you need to set that pistol on the floor and you need to do it right now. Do it now, Gustavo. No debate, no mistakes.”
    Claire stepped closer, the cherry stock of the Remington cool against her cheek.
    â€œShoot him,” Browning said. “Shoot the fucking bastard.”
    Browning glared at the small man. Tears sparkled on Gustavo’s cheeks.
    â€œFor your family!” Browning yelled. “Shoot him!”
    Less than three minutes since she’d discovered Saperstein in the oleander. Three minutes. Everything frame by frame. Her finger tightened against the trigger.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Gustavo said. “Mr. Earl, I’m sorry. God forgive me.”
    â€œShoot him, goddammit!” Browning roared.
    If Claire hesitated for a few seconds, it was because Gustavo’s right arm was slack, his handgun aimed harmlessly at