When the man took a step into the slanting light, Sampson had no doubt who it was, even after a decade and a half. Master Sergeant Psycho himself.
Brooker raised both palms, held them at shoulder height. Sampson walked by the car and across the street.
When he’d gotten feet from the man, he stopped. “Master Sergeant Brooker.”
Brooker laughed hoarsely at that; he sounded as if he was a smoker or was getting over a cold. “No one’s called me that in years.”
In his forties now, Brooker appeared no less fit than Sampson remembered, still with the height and build of a pro basketball guard. Indeed, the way he kept his palms raised, his knees slightly flexed, and his balance forward over his black sneakers suggested a guard playing defense. Or an assassin expecting trouble.
“Heard you’re a big-time homicide detective now,” Brooker said.
“And I heard you’re a killer for the CIA.”
He laughed even harder than before, which started a ragged coughing fit. When it ended, he laughed again. “Sorry, no one’s called me that in years either. And it was never true, by the way. I went private security is all.”
“Good for you,” Sampson said, though he did not like mercenaries in general. “Why are you here, Brooker? Outside my house? Outside my church this morning?”
“Hey, man, I’m sorry about that. I honestly didn’t think you’d hear me out if I called.”
“Hear you out about what?”
“Making amends,” Brooker said, sounding quieter and more unsure of himself. “I, uh, got sober last year, John. AA. And this is step eight. Well, nine. Step eight, you write a list of everyone you ever harmed when you were under the influence. Nine is facing the people you harmed and making amends.”
“Okay?”
“I seem to recollect harming you,” he said and coughed again. “One drunken night in Kandahar.”
“You broke my jaw,” Sampson said.
“And you covered for me, said you fell on patrol,” Brooker said, lowering his hands. “I want to say I appreciated that and you in no way deserved a broken jaw. And I apologize. Seriously, I’m a different man now, someone who…ah, it doesn’t matter. I’d like to shake your hand and take that memory with me as I continue my search for inner peace. But if not, I totally understand.”
He took two steps forward, reached out his right hand, and held Sampson’s gaze with a sincere gaze of his own.
“Fine,” Sampson said, moving toward Brooker. “I don’t begrudge anyone trying to find inner peace.”
“Appreciate that, John,” he said, a slight catch in his voice. “I really do.”
Sampson reached for the former commando’s hand. He heard a soft click just before Brooker gripped his hand tight and came up with a knife blade in his left hand.
He yanked Sampson forward, shoved the knife tip against his throat. “I hate to say this, what with you being a recent widower and your little girl waiting for you, but I bring you sad tidings of your imminent death, John Sampson,” Brooker said. “From M.”
Chapter
31
Seeing Brooker’s eyes up close like this—cold, ruthless, amoral—triggered the intensive training deep in Sampson’s brain.
He no longer cared about the knife at his neck or the fact that the spook of his nightmares held it or that said spook claimed to have brought sad tidings from M. The only thing that mattered to Sampson now was that Brooker had been sent to kill him, and if he did, Willow would become an orphan.
That was not going to happen. He was not going to let that happen.
He heard a calm voice in his head say, Weapon?
Sampson’s service gun was in the house; his backup was at his ankle.
Hand, he thought instantly. He trusted that thought.
Pick a target, the voice said.
Lower ribs, liver, he thought. And again trusted that thought.
Strike.
Brooker smiled at the same instant Sampson used his superior size to yank out of the assassin’s grip. Brooker was thrown off balance and twisted to his left.
Sampson felt the tip of Brooker’s knife skitter and cut skin along the side of his neck; he pivoted on the balls of his feet and drove his left fist hard into Brooker’s side about ten inches above his hip with his full weight behind it. He heard and felt the assassin’s rib snap.
With a deep grunt, the killer staggered sideways across the sidewalk toward the lawn. He dropped into an odd crouch, his head and torso bent, guarding his broken rib and potential liver laceration.