The Last Oracle Read Online Free PDF Page A

reprimand, then continued. “Was he happy to see you?”
    He flashed back to the sight through the sniper rifle’s scope, the fall of the body.
    “Yes, he was. He was quite surprised.”
    “Can we go home now? Marta misses me.”
    “Soon.”
    “How soon?” she asked petulantly and scratched at her ear. A glint of steel flashed through her dark hair where she itched.
    He released her hand and gently pulled her arm down from her ear. He smoothed her hair with a pat. “I have one more stop. Then we’ll head home.”
    He neared Tenth Street. The building rose on his right, an ugly box built of slabs of concrete that someone attempted to decorate with a row of flags. He turned toward its entrance.
    His destination.
    The headquarters for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
    3:46 P.M.
    A rattling buzzed from inside Gray’s locker.
    He hurried forward, half slipping on the wet floor. Fresh from the shower, he wore only a towel around his waist. After debriefing Director Crowe on the details of the shooting, he had retreated to the locker room in the lowest levels of Sigma’s bunkers. He had already taken one shower, followed by a rigorous hour in the gym working free weights—then showered again. The exertion had helped settle his mind.
    But not completely.
    Not until he had some answers about the murder.

    Reaching his locker, he tugged the door open and caught his BlackBerry as it rattled across the bottom of the metal locker. It had to be Director Crowe. As his fingers closed on it, the vibration ceased. He’d missed the call. He checked the log and frowned. It was not Painter Crowe.
    The screen read: R. Trypol.
    He had almost forgotten.
    Captain Ron Trypol of Naval Intelligence.
    The captain had been overseeing the salvage operations at the Indonesian island of Pusat. He had a report due today on his assessment of raising the sunken cruise ship, the Mistress of the Seas . He had two navy submersibles on site, searching the wreckage and surrounding area.
    But Gray had a more personal interest in the search.
    The island of Pusat was where his friend and partner, Monk Kokkalis, had last been seen, spotted as he was dragged under the sea by a weighted net, tangled and caught. Captain Trypol had agreed to look for Monk’s body. The captain was a good friend and former colleague of Monk’s widow, Kat Bryant. This morning, Gray had gone over to the National Maritime Intelligence Center in Suitland, Maryland, hoping to hear any word. He had been rebuffed, told to wait until after the full debriefing. It was why he had been storming back here, prepared to demand that the director pressure the navy.
    Flushed with a twinge of guilt for having set aside his cause, Gray hit the callback button and lifted the phone to his ear. As he waited for the connection to NMIC, he sank to a bench and stared at the locker on the opposite side. Written in black marker across a strip of duct tape was the name of the locker’s former owner.
    KOKKALIS.
    Though Monk was surely dead, no one wanted to remove the tape. It was a silent hope. If only sustained by Gray.
    He owed his friend.
    Monk had climbed through the ranks of Sigma alongside Gray. His friend had been recruited from the Green Berets at the same time as Gray had been pulled from Leavenworth prison, where he’d been incarceratedafter striking a superior officer during his stint with the Army Rangers. They had become quick friends, if not a bit of an odd couple at Sigma. Monk stood only a few inches over five feet, a shaven-headed pit bull compared to Gray’s taller, leaner physique. But the true difference lay deeper than mere appearance. Monk’s easygoing manner had slowly tempered the uncompromising steel of Gray’s heart. If not for Monk’s friendship, Gray would have certainly washed out of Sigma, as he had the Army Rangers.
    As he waited, Gray pictured his former partner. They’d been through countless scrapes together over the years. Monk bore the puckered bullet wounds