Myrmidon Read Online Free PDF Page B

factories and warehouses.
    â€œThat’s our clinic, where our doctors work,” Andre said. “Keeping us healthy. Delivering our babies. We’re healthy here. Not a single case of sickle-­cell anemia or Tay-­ Sachs.” He stopped walking and turned to face Chapel, who stopped as well. “I bet you hate seeing this. You must be choking on your bitter tongue, to see us living so good, huh, Federal?”
    Chapel couldn’t help but laugh. It was just too strange—­Ygor Favorov had said something almost identical, on the patio of his multimillion-­dollar home on Long Island. “No, no,” he said, because Andre looked like he was about to reach for his gun again, “please, I apologize. I’m not laughing at you.”
    Andre shook his head in angry dismissal.
    â€œDoes Terry Belcher live in one of these houses?” Chapel asked.
    â€œThat’s right. Just like the rest of us.”
    Chapel nodded. He’d expected as much.
    â€œWait a minute,” Andre said. “You trying to figure out which one? Yeah, I get it now. You came here to figure out where he lives.”
    â€œWhy would I do that?” Chapel asked.
    â€œSo when you know, you can signal your friends somehow, and they can dive-­bomb the house with that drone of yours. Is that it?”
    â€œThe drone is unarmed. There are no bombs on it,” Chapel insisted.
    â€œSo it’ll just—­it’ll ram the house, like a kamikaze,” Andre said. He had gone white—­well, whiter—­as if he’d suddenly realized that he’d become an accomplice in the murder of his leader.
    â€œAndre,” someone called out, “don’t be a fool.”
    Chapel turned and looked at the clinic building. Standing in its doorway was a man wearing a denim jacket and a broad-­brimmed hat. He had a shotgun in the crook of his arm, cracked open to show it wasn’t loaded. “You don’t have anything like that planned for me, do you, Federal?”
    â€œJim Chapel.” He walked over and held out his right hand to shake. The man in the denim jacket—­Terry Belcher—­ignored it.
    â€œCome inside, Agent Chapel,” Belcher said. “Get out of this heat a while.”

 
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    â€œI f it’s all the same, Mr. Belcher, I’d just as soon stay out here in the open,” Chapel said. He looked up at the sky and the drone that circled overhead.
    â€œYou don’t trust me,” Belcher said with a laugh.
    â€œI’m afraid that feeling is mutual. And I doubt there’s much either of us can do to change it though I hope we can come to some kind of understanding.”
    Belcher laughed again. “Andre, go get Charlie out of that truck. Looks like Agent Chapel here isn’t going to be sampling our hospitality today.”
    Andre ran back to the pickup, which was parked in front of a house across the way. Its previously unseen occupant jumped down even before Andre could summon him. Charlie, who had been driving the pickup since they left the gate, was older than Andre but not much. He was, however, nearly twice the size of the boy with the mustache tattoo. He was as broad through the shoulders as a wrestler and as tall as a basketball player. His head was shaved, all the better to show the ink inscribed on every square inch of his scalp. Charlie had an image of his own skull tattooed on his face and head and neck, the ink disappearing down into the collar of the polo shirt he wore, then reappearing to cover both his arms down to the tips of his fingers. The sleeves didn’t show his skeleton, though—­instead they were crowded with dozens of swastikas, eagles, daggers, and roses with bloody thorns. Both of his elbows were covered in elaborate spiderwebs, and his hands were inscribed with words Chapel couldn’t quite read from that distance. Only his eyes, his teeth, and the wedding ring he wore broke