Killer Instinct - James Patterson Page 0,39

MIT and before we started seeing each other again,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. He was running it through his mind. “That’s when you were at Cambridge. Your fellowship.”

“The fellowship was actually my cover.”

“Your cover? You mean, you lied to me?”

“Technically, I lied to everybody.”

“I’m not everybody, Dylan.”

He was right. This isn’t going so well, is it?

“I’m truly sorry,” I said. “The last thing I wanted to do was keep this from you. But it was really for your—”

“Don’t say it!” He laid down his fork and knife, and folded his arms angrily. “Don’t give me the bullshit line about it being for my protection.”

“It’s not a bullshit line. It’s what it is,” I said. “Leaving the CIA didn’t erase my past with the Agency. There were risks. There still are risks.”

This was the only part of my confession that I had specifically worked out in my head beforehand. It was my pivot. The segue. The point at which I would put it all out on the table and tell him that I was about to get involved again, after all these years, with another CIA operation—one of my own making, no less.

But Tracy had a pivot of his own.

“You say you wanted to protect me, but what I want to know is what you were required to do,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Again, he was right. Tracy, the Yale Law School grad, had shot a giant hole in my defense. I was simply procrastinating with my answer. I didn’t want to lie to him again. Not ever. I couldn’t.

“Just hear me out, okay? Let me explain.”

The scenario I feared most when I left the Agency had happened. My past had caught up with me. In fact, he’d literally shown up at my front door. Our front door, I told Tracy.

The man who called himself Benjamin Al-Kazaz was a threat to our family and God knew how many others. One way or another he was linked to the death of Professor Darvish. He had to be—I was convinced. His being in the audience at Sadira Yavari’s lecture was no coincidence.

I explained it all to Tracy, including how everything started. My old friend and fellow operative, Ahmed, who had saved my life in London, had died while trying to prevent the Times Square bombings.

“You and Annabelle were supposed to be there in that Disney Store,” I said. That had to help him understand.

Eventually, though, there was nothing more for me to tell him. I’d done all the talking. It was Tracy’s turn.

“Say something,” I implored him. “Please.”

He’d sat there stone-faced the entire time while listening. The usual glint in his eyes was gone. This man didn’t look at all like Tracy. It was as if he were a total stranger.

I could only imagine how I looked to him.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Tracy had pushed back from the table and stood up. “I’m leaving,” he said.

“I understand. It’s a lot to process,” I said. I motioned to the waiter for the check. “We can talk more about it at home.”

“No,” he said. “I’m leaving.”

It hit me. He didn’t just mean the restaurant. “Tracy, please don’t …”

But he was done listening to me. He was done with me, period. “Don’t come back to the apartment for at least an hour. I need to pack.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I’m taking Annabelle with me.”

CHAPTER 48

MY GOD, what have I done?

Tracy wanted an hour to pack. He could’ve taken all night, or at least until they kicked me out of the Palm. Even if I wanted to move from my chair, I couldn’t. It wasn’t numbness or paralysis. That’s when you can’t feel anything. I was feeling everything. And it hurt like hell.

“Would you like another, sir?” asked the waiter.

I was staring down at the only thing remaining on my table, every dish and plate having long since been cleared. It was a Macallan 18. My third. Or was it my fourth?

“Sure,” I said. “Why the hell not?”

“My sentiments exactly,” came Elizabeth’s voice over my shoulder. “Make it two, and make ’em doubles.”

I looked up to see her loop around the waiter and sit down across from me. There was no need to ask how she knew where I was. Tracy had surely told her when she arrived at our apartment.

“Is he really packing?” I asked.

“I’m afraid so. He was actually just about to leave when I got there,” she said. We both knew my