The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3) by James Best (free ebook reader for ipad .TXT) 📗

“Good morning, Mayor. You’re in early.”

“Not every day that someone who works for me kills two people.”

“Thank goodness. I wouldn’t want that to be a daily occurrence.”

“Are you and Patricia all right?” Walsh asked.

“Yes, thanks for asking. My truck has seen better days, however.”

“Who were they?”

“We don’t know yet, but they were professionals. Caucasians. A hit job with a well thought-out plan. My routines and habitats had been observed. I doubt it was someone the department sent to prison.”

“Paris?”

“That’s where my mind went. How do you want to handle this?”

“Marcia should be in your office momentarily. She’s got the lead.”

“Understood.”

“Okay, keep me informed. By the way, smart move to hand the investigation over to the sheriff. It will make both our lives easier.”

Before Evarts could acknowledge, she had hung up. Marcia Moore was the mayor’s spokesperson. Evarts felt relief that she would handle the media. He wanted to concentrate on who sent a hit team to his house.

As promised, Moore soon walked purposely into his office. He handed her the stack of media call messages. His assistant had already reserved an interview room for her to use as a temporary office. Moore asked for his version of what happened, and Evarts gave it to her in less than sixty seconds. After he finished, she nodded her head for several moments without speaking.

Finally, she said, “How about we position this as a vendetta against you by the Santa Maria street gang you fought last year?”

It wasn’t really a question. Moore reported directly to the mayor and shifting blame to another city had probably already been discussed. Wouldn’t want tourists to get the idea that Santa Barbara was unsafe. Last year, Evarts had encountered a marauding mob during a catastrophic flood. A deadly gunfight had ensued, and the drug gang had noisily threatened retribution. The highly publicized incident presented a nice fit, but their neighbor to the north wouldn’t take the slur against their fine town without protest. On the other hand, the plausibility would please the CIA, Army Intelligence, and other anti-terrorist agencies.

He nodded approval and Moore disappeared through the doorway.

He dialed General O’Brian’s cell phone. His message had been next in line.

After O’Brian answered, Evarts said, “How did you find out so fast?”

“It’s nearly eleven o’clock here. We’re halfway through our workday.”

“Nice deflection, but it didn’t answer the question. How did you find out about a small-town shooting three thousand miles away?”

“How do you think?”

“You have a source or an agent in my town.”

“Are you and Patricia unharmed?”

“We are. And a second deflection.” Evarts laughed. “I guess I have my answer.”

“IDs?”

“Working on it. Fake licenses used to rent the cars with pre-paid debit cards. Professional hit.”

“How professional?” O’Brian asked.

“They surveilled me, knew where I lived, chose a night when I would be at a city council meeting so I’d get home at a predictable time after dark, didn’t try to breech my security system, had fake drivers’ licenses that could pass muster, used identical handguns, and devised an excellent plan to hem me into a crossfire. If I had been a fraction of a second slower to respond, I wouldn’t be talking to you now.”

“You aren’t describing a jihadist attack. Their planning is shit, execution worse, otherwise we’d have ten times the number of terrorist attacks. Their MO is to come in hot with automatic fire, a bomb vest, speeding truck, or airplane.”

“Not the ones in Paris,” Evarts corrected. “They had a good plan, well executed.”

“Yeah.” A small pause. “That worries us.”

“But generally, you’re right. These looked like hitmen with military training. It was a surgical strike … like a Seal Team assault.”

“Nothing like a Seal Team strike,” O’Brian said testily. “If it were, you’d be dead.”

Evarts ignored his protest and asked evenly, “Can you assure me that my government was not involved?”

“I can assure you that Army Intelligence was not involved and tell you it’s ludicrous to think another agency ordered a hit on you.”

“The CIA debriefed Trish. You colluded with—”

“Criticism accepted. I apologize for not being forthright. You know the reason.”

That took the gas out of Evarts’ righteous indignation.

He mentally shrugged away his irritation. “What’s the CIA interest?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I been trying to figure out why those hitmen ambushed me. Maybe I learned something in Paris I’ve underestimated or haven’t consciously grasped. Maybe French higher-ups are complicit. Maybe the Templars don’t want me blabbing about their existence. Maybe these so-called Templars have infiltrated our security services. Or maybe these guys are affiliated with the terrorists.”

The phone went silent.

“We need to talk in person,” O’Brian finally said. “How soon can you get to Washington?”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“I need to do another interview with the sheriff … and I could use a day of rest.”

“All right. That’s all you get. I’ll see you bright and early Friday.”

O’Brian hung up.

Chapter 15

Evarts sat on a breakwater boulder and watched the light play on the waves as the sun rose behind him. He had gotten up before dawn to clear his head. As was his habit, he had stepped out onto the patio to gauge the wind and felt a stiff breeze. Instead of going back to bed, he threw on some sweats in the hope that the wind would slacken at sea level. Bad plan. The surf was junk. Small and windblown. The wind wasn’t blowing hard enough for whitecaps, but it was strong enough to make sloppy waves. He considered going out for the exercise but didn’t want to struggle into his wetsuit to paddle around in choppy water, so he sipped coffee from a Yeti and watched the ocean.

The attack at his home didn’t make sense. The assailants weren’t jihadists seeking revenge for Paris. Who were they? The other car apparently got away, so they had no detainees to question. It was possible they still might resurface, but Evarts’ gut told him they were long gone. Worse, his detectives had not yet identified the two he had killed.

Santa Barbara was not a