Library of Gold Read Free Page B

you move, you lose.”
    Tucker chuckled. “Okay, old friend. Time to tell me what this is all about.”
    Jonathan looked at his coffee, then set it on the seat beside him. “A situation’s come up. It scares the hell out of me. It’s more your bailiwick than mine.”
    “You’ve got a lot contacts. Why me?” Tucker drank.
    “Because this has to be handled carefully. You’re a master at that. Because we’re friends, and I’m going to go down. I don’t want to die in the process.” He stared at Tucker, then looked away. “I’ve stumbled onto something . . . an account for about twenty million dollars in an international bank. I’m not sure exactly what it’s all about, but I’m damn sure it has to do with Islamic terrorism.” Jonathan fell silent.
    “Go on,” Tucker snapped. “Which bank? Why do you think the twenty million is connected to jihadism?”
    “It’s complicated.” He craned around, checking the park.
    Tucker looked, too. The wide expanse remained empty.
    “You’ve come this far.” Tucker controlled an urge to shake the information out of him. “You know you want to tell me.”
    “I didn’t have anything to do with it. I’m not exactly an angel myself. . . But I don’t understand how anyone could—” Jonathan shuddered. “What do you know about the Library of Gold?”
    “Never heard of it.”
    “It’s key. I’ve been there. It’s where I found out about this—”
    Tucker watched Jonathan intently as he spoke. He was leaning forward slightly, gazing off into the middle distance.
    There was no sound. No warning. A red dot suddenly appeared on Jonathan’s forehead and the back of his head exploded with a loud crack. Blood and tissue and bone blasted into the air.
    Tucker’s training kicked in immediately. Before Jonathan’s lifeless body had time to keel over, Tucker hit the sidewalk and rolled under the bench. Two more sniper shots dug into the concrete, spitting shards. His heart pounded. His friend’s blood dripped next to him. Tucker swallowed and swore. He had come unarmed.
    Using his mobile, he dialed 911 and reported the wet job. Then he peeled off his blazer, rolled it thick, and lifted it to attract attention. It was a light tan color, a contrast against the shadows. When no more rounds were fired, he snaked out from under the bench. Hurrying off through the park, he headed toward Massachusetts Avenue, where he thought the bullets had originated. As he moved he considered what Jonathan had said: Islamic terrorism . . . $20 million in an international bank . . . the Library of Gold. . . . What in hell was the Library of Gold?
    As he crossed the street, Tucker scanned the area. A young couple was drinking from Starbucks coffee cups, the man carrying a briefcase. Another man was pushing a grocery cart. A middle-aged woman in a running suit and wearing a small backpack jogged past and circled back. Any of them could be the shooter, the rifle quickly broken down and concealed in the briefcase, the shopping cart, the backpack. Or the shooter could be someone else, still tracking him.
    When he reached Sixth Street, Tucker ran into the swiftly moving traffic. Over the noise of honking horns, he heard the distinctive sound of a bullet whistling overhead. Crouching between the lanes of rushing cars, he spun around and stared back. A man was standing on the sidewalk at the corner, holding a pistol in both hands.
    As the man fired again, Tucker put on a burst of speed, running with the cars. More horns honked. Curses filled the air. A taxi was entering traffic after dropping off its fare. Tucker pounded the fender to slow it, yanked open the back door, and fell inside.
    The driver’s head whipped around. “What in hell?”
    “Drive.”
    As the taxi took off, Tucker peered out the rear window. Behind him, the killer ran into the congestion, looking everywhere, his gun still searching for its target. A van entered traffic, and Tucker lost sight of him. When the van turned the