What if he snuck in? What if Daphne still isn’t safe?
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
TRISTAN
My latest getawaycar hovers over the speed limit, not fast enough to get pulled over. I weave in between cars and trucks on the highway, but I turn my blinkers on every time. Part of me wants to stay undetected, but part of me hopes the cops catch me so I can lead them right to Zach.
But no. No one chases me. The city’s too focused on the assassination to worry about something petty like a man driving sixty-seven miles in a sixty-mile zone. It’s all perspective.
As I pull up along Zach’s street in Mount Vernon, I parallel park into a space. As I walk up to Zach’s front door, I notice the dumbass doesn’t have a doorbell camera. Good, I won’t have to steal his phone later. I like it when they make things easy for me.
I test the knob with my gloved hand, and it doesn’t budge. Locked, which I’m not surprised by. I pluck out my lock picking set, and in under a minute, I’ve picked the lock and slowly opened the door.
I’m going up against a killer, and one I think suspects someone is coming after him. This house could be booby-trapped. I could step on a tile Indiana Jones style and a poison dart might come flying out at me.
But as I carefully shut the door behind me, nothing happens. Music hums from upstairs, but I check my surroundings on the first floor. I pull my Guy Fawkes mask out from under my hoodie and slip it on.
It’s a fancy house with elaborate furniture—probably done by an interior decorator and not some ex-Army guy used to rolling around in dirt and camouflaging himself in the desert.
Once I secure the first floor, I head up the staircase—not stairs. No, a fancy fucking staircase that leads to a carpeted hallway. The hallway lights are dim, but light slips out of a corner bedroom.
I go in the opposite direction. One-by-one, I open doors and scan the rooms. Most of them are empty. One is a made-up guest bedroom. A fancy bathroom that’s larger than my first apartment. A linen closet.
I make my way to the bedroom door, and I pull the gun from the pocket of my hoodie as I push open the door.
Zach spins in his computer chair. He smirks and presses the tips of his fingers together, like some cartoon villain.
“I was hoping it’d be you who finds me.” His voice is so damn calm, it’s fucking terrifying. I feel like a fly caught in a spider web of invisible strings.
What is he planning? Why me?
I point the Glock at him, and his glossy eyes dip from the gun back to my mask.
“What an honor to get a visit from American Guy Fawkes.” Then he smiles. Fucking smiles. “Kind of a shitty name.”
“I didn’t choose it,” I point out as I scan the room from behind the safety of my mask. His computer monitors areon. His head’s blocking one, but the second one shows the dark webpage we both follow. Evidence he’s been on the dark web, talking about the Committee members, praising AGF like I’m some goddamned superhero. That should be enough for the police.
Because Zach won’t live to tell his side of the story.
“I was hoping you’d find me.” Zach stands and slowly claps his hands together. “Well done.”
“What?” Is this psycho for real? Hewantedme to track him?
“I knew the FBI wouldn’t figure it out,” he says. “Dude, I’m a huge fucking fan. I love your work.” He relaxes and holds his hand out for a handshake.
When I don’t accept it, he drops his hand by his side.
“You… love my work?” I repeat. I knew that from his posts, but hearing it out loud sounds fucking creepy. This man is batshit insane.
He nods with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever being offered bacon. “Man, your work with the Committee. Exquisite. How the fuck did you get them all into that restaurant?”
Okay, part of me shines with pride that someone recognizes my work.
Wait, what? No. No, I’m here to kill this asshole.
“A fake invitation. To dine with the President.”
Zach laughs like I told a punchline to the best joke he’s ever heard. “Motherfucking brilliant. Dude, that’s wild.”
