The Fifth Assassin (The Culper Ring Series) - Softcover

Meltzer, Brad

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1455519294 ISBN 13: 9781455519293

Verlag: Grand Central Publishing, 2013

Inhaltsangabe

From a #1 New York Times bestselling author, Beecher White must stop a killer in Washington, D.C. who's meticulously re-creating the crimes of four notorious assassins.

From John Wilkes Booth to Lee Harvey Oswald, there have been more than two dozen assassination attempts on the President of the United States. Four have been successful.

Historians have branded them as four lone wolves. But what if they were wrong?

Beecher is about to discover the truth: that during the course of a hundred years, all four assassins were secretly working together. 

What was their purpose? For whom do they really work? And why are they planning to kill the current President?

Beecher's about to find out. And most terrifyingly, he's about to come face-to-face with the fifth assassin.

"Meltzer's fans will enjoy the usual sprinkling of history factoids, fast-paced writing and the double-whiplash bombshell conclusion." —Kirkus Reviews

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Brad Meltzer is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Inner Circle, The Book of Fate, and seven other bestselling thrillers. In addition to his fiction, Brad is one of the only authors to ever have books on the bestseller list for nonfiction (History Decoded), advice (Heroes for My Son and Heroes for My Daughter), children's books (I Am Amelia Earhart and I Am Abraham Lincoln) and even graphic books (Justice League of America).

He is also the host of Brad Meltzer's Decoded on the History Channel, and Brad Meltzer's Lost History on H2. He currently lives in Florida. You can find much more about him at BradMeltzer.com. You can also see what he's doing right now at Facebook.com/BradMeltzer and on Twitter @bradmeltzer.

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The Fifth Assassin

By Brad Meltzer

Grand Central Publishing

Copyright © 2013 Brad Meltzer
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4555-1929-3

CHAPTER 1

Today

Washington, D.C.

The Knight knew his history. And his destiny. In fact, no one studied those morecarefully than the Knight.

Rolling a butterscotch candy around his tongue, he pulled the trigger at exactly10:11 p.m.

The gun—an antique pistol—let out a puff of blue-gray smoke, sendinga spray of meat and blood across the wooden pews of St. John's Church, thehistoric building that sat directly across the street from the White House.

"Y-You shot me ..." the rector cried, clutching the back of hisshoulder—his collarbone felt shattered—as he reeled sideways andstumbled down the main aisle.

The blood wouldn't stop. But the Knight's gun hadn't delivered a killshot. Atthe last minute, the rector, who'd been in charge of St. John's for nearly adecade, had moved.

The Knight just stood there, waiting for him to fall. The stark white plastermask he wore ensured that his victim couldn't get a good look at his face. Butthe rector still had his strength.

Sliding his gun back in his pocket, the Knight moved calmly, almost serenelydown the aisle, toward the ornate altar.

"Help! Someone ... please! Someone help me!" the rector, asixty-year-old man with rosy cheeks, gasped as he ran, looking back at thefrozen white mask, like a death mask, that followed him.

There was a reason the Knight had picked a church, especially this church,dubbed "the Church of the Presidents" because every President since JamesMadison had worshiped here.

It was the same with the homemade tattoo on the web of skin between his ownthumb and pointer-finger. The Knight had finished the tattoo last night, usingwhite ink since it was invisible to the naked eye. It took five needles, whichhe bundled together and dipped in ink, and four hours in total, puncturing hisskin over and over, wiping away the blood.

The only break he took was right after he had finished the first part—theinitials. Then, from his pocket, he had pulled out a yellowed deck of playingcards, thumbing past the hearts, clubs, and diamonds, stopping on ...Spades.

In the dictionary, spades were defined as shovels. But when the four suits ofcards were introduced centuries ago, each one had its own cryptic meaning. Thespade wasn't a tool to dig with. It was the point of a lance.

The weapon of a knight.

"I need help! Please ... anyone!" the rector screamed, scramblingfrantically and making a sharp right through the double doors and down the longhallway that led out of the sanctuary.

The Knight's pace was perfectly steady as he followed the curved hallway backtoward the church offices. His breath puffed evenly against the white plastermask.

Up ahead, from around the corner, he heard a faint beep-beep-boop of acell phone. The rector was trying to call 911.

But like his hero, who had done this so long ago, the Knight left nothing tochance. The plastic gray device in his pocket was the size of a cell phone, andcould kill any cell signal in a fifty-yard radius. Cell jammers were illegal inthe United States. But they cost less than $200 on a UK website.

Around the corner, where the main church offices began, there was a dull thud ofa shoulder hitting wood: the rector realizing that the doorknob had been removedfrom the front door. Then the loud thunderclap of an office door slamming shut.The rector was hiding now, in one of the offices.

In the distance, the faint sound of police sirens was getting louder. No way wasthe rector able to call 911, but even if he was, the maze had nothing but deadends left.

Looking right, then left, the Knight checked the antique parlor rooms that thechurch now used for AA meetings and for the "Date Night" services they held forlocal singles. This side of the building, known as the Parish House, was nearlyas old as the church itself, but not nearly as well kept up. Throughout the mainfloor, every one of the tall cherry office doors was open. Except one.

With a sharp twist of the oval brass doorknob, the Knight shoved the large dooropen. The sirens were definitely getting louder. In the far left corner, by thebookcase, the rector was crying, still trying to pry open the room's onlywindow, which the Knight had nailed shut hours earlier.

Moving closer, the Knight glided past a glass case, never glancing at itsbeautiful collection of fifty antique crosses mounted on red velvet.

"You can't do this! God will never forgive you!" the rector pleaded.

The Knight stepped toward him, taking hold of the rector's shattered shoulder.Under the mask, he rolled a butterscotch candy around his tongue. From his belt,he pulled out a knife.

One side of his blade had the words "Land of the Free/Home of the Brave," etchedin acid, while the other side was etched with "Liberty/Independence." Just likethe one his hero had over a century ago.

Taking a final breath that gave him a sense of weightlessness, he clenched hisbutterscotch candy in the vise of his back teeth.

"W-Why're you doing this?" the rector pleaded as the sirens grew deafening.

"Isn't it obvious?" The Knight raised his knife and plunged it straight into therector's throat. The butterscotch candy cracked in half. "I'm getting ready forthe President of the United States."

CHAPTER 2

There are stories no one knows. Hidden stories.

I love those stories. And since I work in the National Archives, I find thosestories for a living. But at 7:30 in the morning, as the elevator doors slideopen and I scan the quiet fourth-floor hallway, I'm starting to realize thatsome of those stories are even more hidden than I thought.

"Nothing?" Tot asks, waiting for me outside our office. The way he's rolling hisfinger into his overgrown beard, he knows the answer.

"Less than nothing," I confirm, holding a file folder in my gloved open palmsand double-checking to make sure we're alone.

Aristotle "Tot" Westman is my mentor here at the Archives, and the one whotaught me that the best archivists are the ones who never stop searching. Atseventy-two years old, he's had plenty of practice.

He's also the one who invited me into the Culper Ring.

The Ring was started by George Washington.

I know. I had the same reaction. But yes, that George Washington.

Two hundred years ago, back during the Revolutionary War, Washington built hisown private spy ring. Not only did it help him win the war, but it helpedprotect the Presidency. The Ring still exists today, and now I'm a part of it.

"Beecher, you knew he wasn't gonna make it easy."

"I'm not asking for easy; I'm looking for possible. It's likethere's nothing to find."

"There's always something to find. I promise."

"Yeah, you've been making that promise for two months now," I say, referring tohow long it's been since Tot and I started coming in at 7 a.m.—before anyof the other archivists show up—privately digging through everypresidential file we can find.

"What'd you expect? That you can look under P and find everything you need forEvil President?" Tot challenges.

"Actually, Evil President would be filed under E."

"Not if it's his first name. Though it does depend on the record group,"Tot clarifies, hoping the bad joke will lighten the mood. It doesn't. "The pointis, Beecher, we know the hard part: We know what Wallace and Palmiotti did; weknow how they did it; and when they were done with their baseball...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Grand Central Publishing
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2013
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1455519294
• ISBN 13: 9781455519293
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 448
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar