The Assassin's Trail by J.C. Fields Read Free Book Online

department before they recruited him. Why?”
    “I was asked a question today, one I couldn’t answer. I need to run a name by him to see if he knows anything, that’s all.”
    “Well, I know he’ll talk to me, not sure about someone he doesn’t know. I don’t mind calling him. Besides I owe you for last week.”
    “That would really speed things up. Got a pencil?”
    Kruger gave him the information about Whiterock, and Clark said, “I’ll call you back after I talk to him, might be Monday. Will that work?”
    “Fine with me. Thanks, Ryan.”
    “I heard a rumor this week you might be getting married and retiring, is that true?”
    “Yes to the first and no to the second.” He didn’t feel like getting into long explanations tonight.
    “Glad you took my advice, congratulations. And I’m pleased you’re not retiring. Not enough of us good guys left. When’s the wedding?”
    “Tomorrow afternoon.”
    “Really? Shotgun wedding?”
    Kruger chuckled. “No, we figured we weren’t getting any younger, so why wait.”
    “Yeah, I hear you on not getting any younger. I hope I find someone like her someday. Next time you’re in D.C., call me, I’ll buy you a beer.”
    “Sounds good, Ryan. Call me as soon as you talk to Margolin.” Kruger ended the call and sat staring at the wall. He knew how rumors started and wondered who Seltzer had told about his plans.
    The phone rang less than five minutes later with Clark’s name on the caller ID.
    Without delay he took the calld, “Kruger.”
    “What kind of shit storm did you get me into, Sean? Margolin almost bit my head off. He wants to know what you know, and he wants to know it right now.”

Chapter 8
     
    Richmond, CA
    Friday
     
    He read the saved email draft for the third time, then pressed the delete icon on his Samsung smartphone. The corners of his mouth edged slightly higher. Clean shaven with black hair cut short, his dark eyes stared out from behind black-rimmed glasses sitting on a narrow aquiline nose. He could have been a resident of any country bordering the Mediterranean Sea. Norman Ortega knew the man as Eduardo Acosta, a Spaniard. The man was not from Spain.
    “I take the message was good news?” The older bearded man sat at a table sipping strong tea from a short glass.
    “Yes.”
    The older man nodded. “You should be proud of your deception, Aazim. So far, the infidels do not know jihad has landed on their shores.”
    “They soon will.”
    “Come, sit with me and tell me what you have planned. The brothers will be interested in what their money is paying for.”
    Aazim Abbas did not sit down. He turned and began pacing the small apartment, which overlooked Marina Bay, near Richmond. It was small by American standards, but spacious compared to where Abbas had lived in Paris. He stared out the window facing the bay, his revulsion of American excesses reinforced by what he saw. Private yachts and sail boats populated the docks west of his apartment. Women, who thought nothing of exposing their bodies in public, littered the boats in the bay.
    “Tell the brothers their money is being spent wisely. By this time next week, everyone in the United States will know someone is preying on them. But they will have no idea who.”
    He turned and looked at the cleric. “When the time is right, we will broadcast to the world who is responsible. Until then, we must keep a low profile. Inshallah.”
    The bearded man nodded. “Yes, yes. I agree. But I must warn you some of our supporters believe we should accept responsibility for each event. They grow impatient.”
    “Let them be impatient. They are not here, dealing with the security.” Aazim’s eyes narrowed and his brow wrinkled. “I will not be rushed. They sent me here to bring jihad to the Americans. I am doing that. Tell them it must be done my way, or they can replace me. It has taken two years for our planning to bear fruit. Now they expect instant results.”
    “They are not unhappy,