The King of Fear: A Garrett Reilly Thriller Read Free

And he, Steinkamp, was the last man standing between Franklin and future financial chaos.
    “Hey, speak of the devil.” Sal pointed across the street. “There she is.”
    Steinkamp dropped a $5 bill on the counter, put a lid on his coffee, andturned to see who wanted to meet him. He didn’t mind. A little bit of celebrity made up for all those hours in committee meetings. He worked his lips into a wide smile.
    But one glimpse of her face, and Steinkamp suddenly thought that maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to get off the train a stop early. She was young, but looked old, with pale skin and black hair. She wore a green trench coat, which was odd, as it was June and warm and would only get warmer through the day. Yet that wasn’t what sent a shiver down Steinkamp’s spine. There was something about the look on her face: not exactly aggrieved, like some of the people who accosted him, but not happy. Determined. That was what she was. Determined to do something.
    Something bad.
    “Phillip Steinkamp?” she asked as she crossed Nassau Street and stepped onto the sidewalk. She had a trace of an accent, from some place Steinkamp couldn’t quite pin down. Spanish? Portuguese? No, that wasn’t right. . . .
    “That’s him.” Sal grinned and pointed at Steinkamp. “The big boss.”
    “I’m afraid I’m late for work.” Steinkamp’s words came quickly. “If you need to contact me, you should call my office. You can look it up online. We’ll be happy to schedule an appointment.” He was suddenly afraid, very afraid, and annoyed at Sal for confirming his identity. He took one long stride south, down Nassau, when the woman stepped in his path and pulled something from the pocket of her trench coat.
    Steinkamp knew immediately that it was a gun.
    “Mother of Jesus,” Sal said behind him, from the counter window. “She’s got a gun!”
    Steinkamp froze. His eyes locked on the weapon, a nasty, streamlined piece of gray metal. He could not look away. The woman raised the gun with one hand and aimed it at Steinkamp’s chest.
    “No, lady, don’t. I don’t know you. This is a mistake.”
    Someone screamed from across the street. A taxi horn blew. The woman in the trench coat pulled the trigger three times in quick succession.
    The first bullet winged Steinkamp in the shoulder. The next, coming a fraction of a second later, hit him in the right arm. But the third bullet ripped open his blue Brooks Brothers shirt and plunged into Steinkamp’s heart, stopping it instantly. The president of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York let out a weakgasp, then crumpled to the ground as pedestrians up and down the street dove for cover, screaming in terror. Only Sal, at the open service-counter window of his diner, didn’t duck or flinch. He stared at the woman, stunned, as she prodded the lifeless body on the pavement with her scuffed high-heeled shoe.
    “Is he dead?” Her voice was flat, emotionless.
    “I—I think so,” Sal said, not really knowing why he said it. “You killed him.”
    She turned to face Sal. She spoke calmly and clearly, as if to make sure that anyone listening would understand every word. “Garrett Reilly made me do this.”
    Then the woman in the green trench coat stuck the pistol in her mouth and pulled the trigger one last time.

J ENKINS & A LTSHULER , N EW Y ORK C ITY , J UNE 14, 8:52 A.M.
    T he ringing phone was getting on Garrett Reilly’s last nerve.
    He checked the incoming number on his work phone, but didn’t recognize it. Someone was calling his direct line, not the front desk, and his caller ID said it was from a pay phone without an area code attached. Nobody called him from pay phones, and certainly not clients. Garrett remembered pretty much every phone number he’d ever dialed, and the number on the caller ID wasn’t one of them.
    So he ignored it.
    Anyway, he was busy. He’d found the thing he’d been looking for—that dark, tangled pattern—and there was no chance he