Back Assassin's Game
Chapters (66)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Acknowledgments
  5. Prologue
  6. Chapter 1
  7. Chapter 2
  8. Chapter 3
  9. Chapter 4
  10. Chapter 5
  11. Chapter 6
  12. Chapter 7
  13. Chapter 8
  14. Chapter 9
  15. Chapter 10
  16. Chapter 11
  17. Chapter 12
  18. Chapter 13
  19. Chapter 14
  20. Chapter 15
  21. Chapter 16
  22. Chapter 17
  23. Chapter 18
  24. Chapter 19
  25. Chapter 20
  26. Chapter 21
  27. Chapter 22
  28. Chapter 23
  29. Chapter 24
  30. Chapter 25
  31. Chapter 26
  32. Chapter 27
  33. Chapter 28
  34. Chapter 29
  35. Chapter 30
  36. Chapter 31
  37. Chapter 32
  38. Chapter 33
  39. Chapter 34
  40. Chapter 35
  41. Chapter 36
  42. Chapter 37
  43. Chapter 38
  44. Chapter 39
  45. Chapter 40
  46. Chapter 41
  47. Chapter 42
  48. Chapter 43
  49. Chapter 44
  50. Chapter 45
  51. Chapter 46
  52. Chapter 47
  53. Chapter 48
  54. Chapter 49
  55. Chapter 50
  56. Chapter 51
  57. Chapter 52
  58. Chapter 53
  59. Chapter 54
  60. Chapter 55
  61. Chapter 56
  62. Chapter 57
  63. Chapter 58
  64. Chapter 59
  65. Also by Ward Larsen
  66. About the Author

Ingrid looked back into the house, then pulled an overcoat from a hook near the door. She wrapped it round her shoulders, stepped outside, and shut the door quietly.

“What’s this all about?” she asked.

“You didn’t return my call.”

Her eyes cast down to the well-polished Italian marble. “No, I didn’t.”

“Arne isn’t returning them either. He’s turned off his phone and I can’t find him.”

“Has he done something wrong?” she asked.

“No. He’s on leave—it’s a medical issue. Has he told you any of this?”

“Yes, I saw him a few days ago. He said he’d quit, and that you and he had had a row.”

“We did. But that’s over and done. Arne and I have always had our differences, but I have a great deal of respect for him, both as a policeman and a person. Ingrid … I spoke with his doctor yesterday. Arne is ill, very ill. He needs to see a specialist right away.”

“What’s wrong?”

Sjoberg told her.

“Dear God, no. How bad is it?”

“They won’t know until they get in and do a biopsy.”

She seemed to stiffen. “Paul, do you think … do you think he might know about this?”

“I don’t see how. His doctor and I have been trying to reach him for days, but he seems to have taken a run after this killer we’ve all been hunting—which is another reason I’d like to talk to him.”

Sjoberg saw a woman who was visibly shaken. She almost seemed to age right there in front of him, her back more bowed, her face coming drawn.

He said, “Please, Ingrid. If you can reach him in any way, tell him to come home. He needs to see a doctor. That’s the only important thing—the rest we can manage.”

He turned to leave.

“Paul—” she said.

He turned.

“Thank you.”

Sjoberg nodded, then raised his collar and opened his umbrella, and stepped once again into the wet morning.

Back on the porch Ingrid stood gripping the door handle. She made no effort to turn it—it was more a matter of connecting herself to something steady when she realized what she’d done. Her ex-husband was ill, perhaps terminally. Certainly despondent.

And she had just sent him a gun.

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