Terminal Vendetta (A Diana Weick Thriller Book 3), Cate Clarke [best books to read .TXT] 📗

Cameron replied, stiffening slightly at the mention of his father’s name.  “It’ll be so easy for you to keep your family alive.”

They both went quiet as the waitress came over. Cameron kept his head down as Park ordered two more Blue Moons. Dress shoes clicked by on the DC sidewalks, some in a hurry, most dragging their way home after work.

“The Principal Deputy under Secretary for Benefits,” Cameron said after the waitress went back inside through the glass doors, covered with stuck-on posters of local shitty indie bands.

“What about it?” Park hissed. “The VBA? It’s vacant right now.”

“I know,” Cameron replied. “I need the name of who’s filling that position.”

“Probably Hoagland.”

“Not Hoagland.”

“Well, how the hell am I supposed to find that out? They are a completely separate branch.”

“Both federal. You’ve got people over there.”

“No, I really don’t, Cameron.”

“Talk to HR,” Cameron said, leaning back slightly. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“How about you figure it the fuck out?” Park growled.

Sighing, Cameron fished his phone out of his pocket with one hand. He already had it open to the photo because he knew that Park wasn’t going to just bend over and submit so easily. The phone slid against the iron top of the table, the back of it scraping, the screen shining with the face of Park’s smiling wife. It was from the other side of their living room window, her with her hand over her quite-pregnant stomach. Sometimes, threats needed to be tangible for people as dense as Park to grasp them.

Looking down at the screen, Park took a sharp breath through his teeth, quickly putting his hand over the top of it as the waitress came and dropped off their beers. She did hesitate at the tension between them.

She even felt the need to make a comment. “Everything okay here?”

“Yup,” Cameron said.

“Fine,” Park relayed.

As they both watched the waitress teeter away, Cameron got another rush of nostalgia, but this time not for his agent days but for his home—Atlanta. The streets in DC were blank and white and government. Atlanta, at least, had flavor. The waitresses didn’t care what you got up to on the patios in Midtown.

“Fine,” Park repeated.

“Good.” Cameron relaxed the gun against Park’s hard stomach. “It’s just a name, Park.”

“You gonna use it to bomb another funeral?” he hissed, glaring across the table, throwing back half of his beer in one sip. The beer giving him some type of confidence, he slammed it down and continued. “They are after you, Cameron. You, that Polish guy…. the Redders—”

“Readers.”

“Whatever. You’d better think about how you’re spending your time and where you’re spending your time because you’ve only got a little left before everything around you is concrete and iron bars.”

Cameron laughed.

“Here’s the thing, Park,” Cameron whispered, taking the other beer in his hand. The condensation was cool against the heat of his palm. “I don’t care if I go to jail. I don’t care if I die for this because at least I know that what I’m doing isn’t playing into the hands of some old fucking white dude, sitting at a desk, funneling his money into everyone except to the people that need it. That’s the same guy that decides to send off our brothers, sons and sisters to die in his pointless missions for oil and nuclear warheads. He knows they’re gonna die. Do you think he cares about you and me? If we die, if you die, tracking down an international terrorist group that’s trying to reform the system that he built. No. He doesn’t give a shit. You know what he cares about? His golf clubs, his side chicks, his vacation house in Costa Rica. All they care about is money. And all I care about is watching his bills burn.”

In two movements, he finished the beer in his hand and tossed it into the metal garbage can next to him. Then, Cameron grabbed his phone from the table, stuck the gun back in his pocket, tipped his too-small sunhat in Park’s direction and took off down the sidewalk, away from all the nostalgia and the remnants of who he once was.

Chapter 4

Diana Weick

Seoul, South Korea

Diana had been to Seoul once before. But as a young SEAL, she’d spent almost all of her time at the Yongsan military base and closer to the demilitarized zone up north. Walking through Gangnam more than a decade later, she was able to finally appreciate the city. The skyscrapers had grown and the people had diversified, but Seoul had that perfect mix of traditional and economics—a city of 10 million that could feel like a city of a thousand in one neighborhood and of a billion in another.

Gangnam felt like it was one of those cities of billions, especially in the early hours of the night as young people and businessmen searched for the trendiest place to eat.

Diana still didn’t know who the Readers were after, but she knew where they were headed.

She set up her stakeout across the street from the cocktail bar, JangSen. At the front of the convenience store, there were low plastic tables, empty bottles of green glass scattered around the surface, reflecting off the neon lights and flashing restaurant signs on all sides. Diana adjusted the long brown wig against her forehead as she sat down on the squat chair and waited.

A variety of people went in and out of JangSen. Mostly, young people and the occasional tired businessman popping in for an overpriced drink before dipping out to meet his coworkers for more drink and food that would take him all the way into the next morning.

It was about an hour before Zabójca turned on to Diana’s street. His bald head was covered by a newspaper boy hat and a long thin coat was buttoned up around his tall body. He was pretty unabashed for a wanted terrorist—he knew no one could touch him. Not here.

He took a seat up at the bar after a short wait, his sharp