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  “Thank you very much.”

  Sam returned to the hallway, looked back over toward the door for Hebbard & Hawkins, LLP, trying to make some kind of sense of the situation. Tommy had said the firm was started by the two men more than five years ago. There was no other office address listed. If the firm was somehow in the middle of an office move, Tommy would have discovered it and shared that with Sam. The firm listed a staff of ten people. Sam had names for members of the firm’s administrative team, three paralegals, and even two associates. So where the hell was everyone? Why would a phone system be installed inside the office suite that was attached to the main number for the law firm? That perplexed him the most. He felt dizzy with this unexpected twist. However, he couldn’t let it slow him down.

  He still had to find Rich Hebbard.

  FORTY

  Hebbard’s home address was within a few blocks’ walking distance of his law firm’s bizarrely empty office space. Sam moved up the sidewalk at a brisk pace, trying to stay in the shadows as much as possible, hesitating as he turned street corners, always watching his back. Although he felt slightly safer in New Orleans—and out of the direct dangers of Mexico City—he knew he could not become lax and take any unnecessary chances. The fact that someone out there might have the capability to infiltrate Tommy’s secure network was cause for great alarm. There were certainly men out there still trying to assassinate Sam.

  He turned a corner, came up on Governor Nicholls Street. According to the info Tommy had given him, Hebbard’s residence was an exquisite three-level yellow town house with dark-green shutters and an upstairs balcony that sat on a row of other fancy town houses. It was upper-class living in the lower French Quarter, and Sam felt like it suited a wealthy attorney. He peered in the front window beside the brown wooden door. There didn’t appear to be any activity going on inside. He saw no movement, spotted no lights that were on, and heard nothing coming from any of the rooms. Tommy mentioned that Hebbard had an ex-wife and two older kids who all lived in other parts of the country. There was no mention of a girlfriend or a roommate in Tommy’s file on the man.

  Sam knocked on the door. He figured he might as well go for the direct hit, see if the missing man might show up on his own doorstep. Not likely, but he could leave no stone unturned. No answer. He knocked again. Nothing. Just like at the law office, Sam was searching for any bread crumbs that might somehow lead him to finding the man.

  Sam turned around, considered his options. There were a lot of people out and about on the sidewalks, many looking like tourists. Sam felt it was way too risky to try to pick the front door lock right there out in the open. Especially when he spotted a New Orleans PD patrol car parked only a block over. He stepped away from the front door, peered up at the balcony, tried to think of another way inside without drawing attention to himself. A potential answer came when he noticed a drive-through security gate at the very end of the row of town houses suddenly open and a shiny Mercedes SUV pull out into the street. Private parking—which meant there was a back way into the town houses.

  Sam rushed down the sidewalk, a walk-run, trying to still look casual. He arrived just as the security gate was within a few feet of closing, took a quick glance around him again for any watching eyes, then slipped inside the gate at the last moment. Behind the gate, he found ten covered parking spaces that belonged to the five town houses on the row. Half of the parking spots were empty—including the two that had the address for Hebbard.

  Sam walked past the parking spots and found a small courtyard with benches and a water fountain that led to the rear entrances of the town houses. Hebbard’s place was the middle unit in the row. The homes all had second-story balconies in the back, too, and they overlooked the private courtyard. Sam didn’t spot any residents currently sitting outside. He worked quickly with his tools to pick the lock of Hebbard’s back door. When he opened it, he heard the familiar beeping of a security alarm waiting to be disarmed. He was ready for it—Tommy had hacked the code. Sam found the alarm pad on the wall, typed in the code, and the beeping went silent.

  Exhaling, he hurried down the rear hallway until it spilled out into a large kitchen and dining space. Considering the situation, Sam had anticipated that he might find Hebbard’s place completely ransacked, but everything looked normal. Had no one else come looking there? The town house was impeccably clean and well decorated, like it was the showcase for an interior-design studio.

  Sam moved through the formal dining room, around an antique table with a huge crystal chandelier above it, and stepped into a small living room. A black grand piano filled one corner. A huge sofa was pressed up against the back wall along with two large chairs that sat in front of an ornate fireplace. Sam found it odd that there was nothing personalized about the space. No random mail sitting out on kitchen counters, no photos of kids hanging on the walls, no magazines with subscription labels, no personal mementos on bookshelves.

  Sam quickly moved up the narrow stairs to the second floor, where he found two bedrooms and another small living space. The immaculate decorating continued on the second floor. All the beds were made, all pillows in place, all bathrooms perfect. He checked the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom and found common everyday toiletries: toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, shaving cream, cologne. No prescription medicine. The toiletries made him believe someone did live there, but he’d yet to find anything that told him it was actually Rich Hebbard.

  He finally found personal items on the third floor—a large room that had been turned into a home office. An antique wooden desk sat in the middle, with a wall of floor-to-ceiling antique shelves behind it. There was a stack of business cards in a container on the desk: RICH HEBBARD, ATTORNEY AT LAW, HEBBARD & HAWKINS, LLP. He found a notepad with scribbled handwriting on it, probably notes on a case, but nothing that seemed pertinent to Sam’s situation. There was no computer on the desk. Sam guessed that Hebbard used a laptop and currently had it with him. He hoped he would log in somewhere and Tommy could track him down. No word of that yet.

  Sam checked the drawers of the desk, which were filled with common office supplies: notepads, pens, stapler, three-hole punch, and an assortment of random business cards. He searched through all the business cards but found nothing that seemed relevant. He moved in behind the plush leather office chair and scanned the antique shelves behind the desk. Mostly legal books. A few mementos like a football signed by Archie Manning and a basketball signed by Pete Maravich. There were also a few framed photos. Sam picked them up one at a time. The first framed photo showed a man maybe a few years younger than Sam at what looked like a ski resort. The man wore a blue ski jacket and goggles and was standing in the snow while holding his skis in one hand. The second framed photo was a woman of similar age on a sailboat. She was smiling wide, in white shorts and bikini top, sunglasses propped up on her head. There was a framed photo of the same guy and girl standing on both sides of an older man who matched the picture of Hebbard that the black-haired woman had given him in Mexico City. Hebbard was wearing a New Orleans Saints jersey. Hebbard had his arms around both, so Sam naturally assumed these were his two kids. A law student in North Carolina and a nurse in Tallahassee.

  Sam set the photos back in place. Then he noticed a much smaller framed photo on the top shelf. He did a startled double take, couldn’t believe his eyes for a moment. He reached up, snagged it off the shelf. It was an aged photo of a newborn baby wrapped in a blanket. It wasn’t just any baby. The picture was the same exact photo that his mom had in her collection. Sam felt the air rush out of him and had to sit down in the office chair.

  He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.

  The baby in the picture was Sam.

  He thought about his mom, wondered why she’d withheld this information. Was his whole life built on a lie? Then he thought about this man, Rich Hebbard, who perhaps was his real father. If Hebbard had known about Sam from the time he was a baby, why the hell had he never made an app
earance in his life? Why leave him out there on his own to suffer so much? The man had resources. Why hadn’t he helped? The biggest question of all kept pushing to the surface: Why was Hebbard making an appearance now?

  Sam closed his eyes, feeling a new wave of confusion and anger.

  Would the pain ever stop?

  June 12

  One month ago

  Sam flew home to Denver.

  After months of struggling, he decided he had to get out of town. He wasn’t getting any better in DC—he was only getting worse. He needed to go somewhere else to clear his head and seek counsel. If he and Natalie had any future, he needed to find his way again. Pastor Isaiah and Alisha were surprised by his unannounced visit but nevertheless welcomed him like their own prodigal son. Sam knew he needed to do something vastly different. Natalie was being incredibly patient—more than he ever deserved. However, the hollow hole in his chest was not mending; it was only growing bigger with each passing day. He felt more lost every moment of every day since he’d put his mom in the ground. Natalie was scared. He could see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice. She had every right to feel that way since he felt a growing panic swelling up within him like a slow but emerging flood. She’d taken another chance on him. After going through so much pain during their first breakup, she’d opened her heart back up to him again and let him take full residence. Sam felt a growing sense of regret about it, as he was losing all faith in himself, even though Natalie tried to ease his anguish.

  While sitting on the plane, he kept replaying her last words to him before he left for the airport: “I swear I’d do it all over again, Sam. I mean it. You’re worth it to me.”

  Sam played with the kids in the living room while Alisha whipped up his favorite lasagna in the kitchen. He wrestled with the two boys, who couldn’t get enough of it. They piled on top of him, grabbed him around the neck, wanting him to toss them both in the air. He happily obliged. Then he allowed Grace to show him her artwork. Pastor Isaiah returned from a meeting at Zion Baptist Church and asked Sam to accompany him over to the shelter, which was just up the street. Sam had volunteered at the shelter for a year when he first came to live with them. It was a transformative time and a big part of the reason he’d decided to pursue law school—he wanted to help people who struggled to help themselves. Pastor Isaiah allowed Sam to make small talk, catching him up on things around the church, how the kids were doing, but Sam knew a deeper conversation was stirring. Pastor Isaiah just had a way about him. Sam welcomed it. It was the real reason he was back in Denver. A desperate cry for help to the man who’d already saved his life once.

  They made the rounds at the shelter, saying hello to many of the guests who were eating in the small cafeteria. Some of them Sam remembered from when he was there ten years ago. For a few minutes, they talked with the new shelter director, a huge black man of forty with the greatest smile. They worked up a good sweat unloading boxes of food from the back of a delivery truck. Pastor Isaiah grabbed two bottles of cold water and pulled out a chair at a metal table on the back patio of the shelter. He motioned for Sam to take the other chair.

  “Tell me what’s really going on,” Pastor Isaiah said, his eyes already peering deep into Sam’s soul. “I know you’re not here on vacation.”

  “I just can’t seem to pull it back together.”

  “It’s painful to lose a loved one, Sam.”

  “Excruciating.”

  “But you’re not here because of your mother. You’re here because of Natalie.”

  Sam looked up, surprised by Pastor Isaiah’s innate ability to discern the specific source of his pain and anguish, although he shouldn’t be. Pastor Isaiah had always been able to read him like no one else he’d ever been around. It had been that way from the beginning, when Pastor Isaiah caught him sleeping in the pews of Zion Baptist Church when he was a sixteen-year-old homeless street kid. It continued after the man showed up unexpectedly at the Youth Detention Center, where Sam was serving a twelve-month sentence for juvenile car theft, offered him a second chance, and brokered a deal with the judge for Sam to come home with him. Pastor Isaiah had walked Sam through every difficult season of life ever since—including his first devastating breakup with Natalie two years ago.

  Sam nodded but didn’t say anything else. He took a swig of cold water. He’d longed for this moment with Pastor Isaiah for the past month, for the man to say the magic words that would make everything better, like he always seemed to do. However, the weight of this thing felt even bigger than Pastor Isaiah. What if there were no healing words? What if he got back on the plane to DC and nothing had changed? The gravity of the moment made his chest tighten. He felt another anxiety attack coming on. He’d been having them regularly the past few weeks, which was a big part of the reason why he’d finally gotten on a plane to Denver. He thought he was going to die if he didn’t do something drastic.

  “Sam,” Pastor Isaiah said, authority in his voice. He grabbed Sam’s knee in his strong hand and squeezed. “Look at me, son.”

  Sam hesitantly looked up, locked eyes with the man.

  “It’s okay. Do you hear me? You’re going to be okay. You’re not broken—at least not in a way that God can’t heal. I promise you that.”

  Sam nodded unconvincingly.

  “Do you believe that?” Pastor Isaiah asked him.

  Sam nodded again but couldn’t speak.

  “I need to hear you say it, son,” Pastor Isaiah instructed.

  Sam somehow got the words out. “I believe it.”

  As soon as he said it, tears started falling. Pastor Isaiah pulled him in even closer, his arm wrapped around Sam’s shoulders as he sobbed into the pastor’s chest. Although he didn’t fully realize it, Sam so desperately needed to hear Pastor Isaiah say those exact words. He was terrified that maybe this time the words wouldn’t come from the man’s mouth, that even Pastor Isaiah might finally recognize that Sam was a lost cause and beyond any divine hope. That maybe he really should be discarded, like a bag of trash, like so many of his foster dads had done over the years. Pastor Isaiah let him have a good cry for a few minutes before he pulled back and looked Sam directly in the eyes with that perfect smile.

  “Okay, now that your head believes it, Sam, how about we spend the next few days trying to convince your heart?”

  “Sounds good.”

  FORTY-ONE

  The Pontalba buildings were redbrick four-story apartments built in the 1840s that sat alongside Jackson Square, the historic New Orleans landmark. The ground floors housed numerous shops and restaurants. The upper floors were apartments with outstanding views overlooking the pristine square, the statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback so prominent in the middle, as well as the dozens of artists, musicians, and street performers who currently occupied the street in front of the historic Saint Louis Cathedral.

  The Gray Wolf stepped out onto the narrow balcony of a top-level apartment unit directly in the middle, took inventory of his surroundings. He glanced right and left. There was no one currently on the balconies next to him. That was good. Unwanted company could greatly complicate matters. For a few minutes, he watched a couple of the street performers in front of the cathedral. A unicyclist was pedaling while juggling bowling pins. Another performer was painted in solid gold, pretending to be a statue. Gerlach then peered over to the Mississippi River, a block to his left. He could see a classic American steamboat in the river waters, draped in red, white, and blue decorations, flags waving, and the word NATCHEZ painted in bold letters on the side of the boat.

  His eyes went back to the square below him, where he scanned the sidewalks, the benches, and the people. Hundreds of tourists were out and about, as he had been just a few moments ago, enjoying coffee and beignets. The sun was drifting in and out of puffy clouds. He could hear jazz music coming from the sidewalks below. The southern city had a charm that suited him. If Gerlach wasn’t there to kill, he felt he would like this place immensely.

  Gerlach n
oticed the trees below him shift slightly back and forth. A subtle breeze was blowing in from the water. Not enough to impact his shot.

  He stepped back inside the well-decorated apartment. A key to the unit had been left for him inside the minivan. When finished, he would dump the vehicle in a junkyard outside the city, where his accomplices were instructed to completely destroy it, leaving no trace of his use. Precise adherence to his process was critical for a successful mission.

  He’d entered the Pontalba just a few minutes ago wearing a black-knit cap, glasses, and fake beard, and carrying his large black bag with him.

  Gerlach checked his watch. Three minutes ahead of schedule.

  Unzipping the black bag, he stared down at the impressive rifle. He worked only with a Dragunov SVD sniper rifle. The Russians knew how to equip to kill from a distance. It had been his trusted friend and comrade for more than two decades. As he had a thousand times before, he went through his meticulous routine of putting the rifle together and double-checking all the calibrations. Satisfied, he found a short antique cabinet against the wall and pushed it over into the balcony opening. He made sure it remained hidden inside the unit and behind the curtains. He set the gun’s bipod on top of the cabinet and allowed the long rifle barrel to peek out from the curtains.

  Gerlach removed the glasses and placed his sharp eye to the custom-built scope. He shifted and adjusted, scanned the buildings across the street, worked his way over to the artists and street performers, and then settled in on Andrew Jackson riding high on his horse in the middle of Jackson Square. This was one of the easiest kill shots of his career. His target would be within a block of his window. Gerlach had successfully eliminated at a distance of 1,520 meters. The prime minister of Serbia. A charming man with whom he’d actually had coffee once to discuss a different job. Four grandchildren, who’d called him Deda, played at the prime minister’s feet as he spoke casually of eliminating an opponent. Gerlach had split the two bodyguards just a half second before the prime minister stepped inside the vehicle. There were strong winds that day, requiring extreme precision. Because of the distance and the conditions, he’d considered it the crown achievement of his career. That shot had turned him into a legend. It was the central focus of the BBC profile.