Targets of Deception by Jeffrey Stephens Read Free Book Online Page A

danger he had faced yesterday would only intensify in the hours and days ahead.
    Whatever James McHugh had known, his gruesome death was proof of its importance. His murderers had inflicted a sadistic beating, and when there was nothing left for McHugh to save, strapped in that wooden chair facing certain death, he would have done anything to spare himself those final moments of pain and degradation. He would have revealed anything his murderers wanted to know, including his intention to meet with Sandor and Peters, which left them both as marked men.
    He arrived in the city, pulled his car up to the curb in the “No Parking” zone in front of the old brownstone where he lived on West 76 th Street, then placed an expired Press Card in the windshield. He ran up the front steps and, unlocking the front door to the building, he entered the vestibule and grabbed his mail. His eyes adjusted to the filtered light as he climbed the stairs to his third floor apartment, rifling through the bills and advertisements as he went.
    He got to his apartment, put the key in the door and stepped inside, still concentrating on the mail in his hands. Then he looked up.
    The place was in shambles.
    Jordan left the door open behind him as he moved farther inside, his nerves on alert as he placed his mail on the foyer table and warily stepped into the living room. It appeared that everything had been turned inside out. His brown tufted leather couch was sliced open, clumps of stuffing scattered all over the room, the brass and glass cocktail table shoved against the wall, two chairs and a mahogany cabinet turned over, even the Oriental rug lifted and yanked to the side. Where looking through a cabinet would have sufficed, the drawer had been pulled out, turned upside down and smashed.
    Sandor moved cautiously to the bedroom. If possible, it looked even worse. The mattress was slashed, closet and dresser taken apart, clothing scattered all over the floor. He stepped inside the closet, reached up to a hidden compartment above the top shelf, and pulled away a false panel. He was relieved to find the contents, which consisted of small arsenal, intact. He lifted out his Walther PPK .380 and drew back the slide far enough to see the first round was chambered.
    He remained quiet, his movements studied. He could not be certain the intruder had gone. He checked the bathroom and the small kitchen, ready for an assault from anywhere in the apartment. The second bedroom, which he used as his office, was also a disaster. His filing cabinets had been emptied, the leather chair knocked over, his antique roll-top desk searched, papers strewn across the room. The intruders had ripped through and savaged the most intimate details of his private life. His writing, letters, even personal souvenirs had been examined and destroyed.
     He walked back into the living room, slowly surveying the damage. It left the apartment with an eerie coldness, as if he himself had been stripped and beaten by faceless strangers then left alone to suffer the violation and indignity.
    When he was convinced he was alone, he went back and slammed the front door.
    Make no mistake about it , he told himself, these people are killers, and whatever they want, whatever they believe Jimmy McHugh might have told you, they’ll sure as hell kill you to get it.
    Jordan went to the bathroom, placed his gun on the counter, and leaned over the sink to splash cold water on his face. He had a look in the mirror, staring at himself for a moment, studying his dark features, preparing himself.
    Back in the bedroom, he sorted through the clutter of shirts and trousers that were scattered across the floor. He had shaved and showered at Dan’s earlier that morning, but was still wearing clothes from the day before. He picked up a pair of gray slacks, a long-sleeved, black polo sweater, and found his favorite black loafers. He quickly changed then returned to the living room, righted a chair, and sat down to