Pendergast

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

From Book 1:

The New York Museum of Natural History is built over a subterranean labyrinth of neglected specimen vaults, unmapped drainage tunnels and long-forgotten catacombs.

And there's something down there.

When the mutilated bodies of two young boys are discovered deep within the museum's bowels, Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta of the NYPD fears a homicidal maniac may be at large. FBI agent Aloysius X.L. Pendergast believes they may be facing something much worse.

As the death toll mounts, and with the opening of the museum's new 'Superstition' exhibition just days away, the two men must work together to prevent a massacre.

'Sit back, crack open the book and get ready for the ride of your life' DAVID BALDACCI.

'White-hot bestselling suspense. Simply brilliant!' LISA GARDNER.

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Release date: January 27, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 416

Sample

August 7, 1994

THE EXPEDITED MEDICAL TRANSPORT company occupied the rear of a nondescript building in an equally nondescript industrial park in East New Orleans. Although a few tech start-ups were sprouting up here and there, attracted by low commercial rents and easy access to downtown, the area remained a monochromatic landscape: squat buildings of corrugated steel amid a welter of chain-link fences and shabby one-way streets.

As J. F. Foreman pulled into EMT’s parking lot and eased his Cadillac DeVille Concours into his space, he felt—as always—that he liked the industrial wasteland just the way it was. Talk of a new “tech corridor” being established here was just that: talk. Silicon Valley had a lock on that enterprise, and he didn’t see things changing anytime soon. Besides, the computer industry was never going to cause much of a change, beyond a lot of secretaries and accountants losing their jobs: look at Gateway, its stock way overvalued and headed for a fall. Apple, already moribund, would be next.

By force of habit, he glanced around before killing the engine. He grabbed his briefcase and stepped out into the overpowering humidity of a Louisiana summer. He shut the door, locked it, and gave the new Caddy an affectionate pat. The Japanese could try taking over the luxury segment with their Acuras and their Infinitis, but Foreman had always bought American and always would.

He took another, briefer look around, then walked up to the smoked-glass entrance to his business, which instead of a company sign merely bore a small tag reading PLEASE PRESS BUZZER. But Alice had seen him approaching, and the door popped open with the hush of a well-oiled lock just as he raised his hand toward it.

“Morning, Alice!” he said cheerfully to his secretary-receptionist-accountant. EMT was a small outfit, less than a dozen employees. “Is everybody there?”

“Yes, Mr. Foreman. They’re all waiting for you.”

“Thank you.” As he passed her, heading for the reinforced metal door of his office, he looked back to give her one last smile—noting approvingly as he did so that the short-barreled 12-gauge was in its proper place below her desk, easily accessible.

He entered his spartan office, shut and locked the door behind him, hung up his suit jacket, and placed the briefcase—which was empty—on his desk. Then he slid behind the desk, accessed a safe behind a wooden panel, and withdrew a thin folder. Closing the safe, he walked toward a second door set into the rear wall of his office.

It opened into a conference room, with a table around which six men were already seated. He looked at them in turn. Each glance was brief, but his highly tuned instincts could spot anything even remotely out of place. The men all looked calm and alert, with nothing in either their dress or expressions to alarm him. Anybody else might find such a motley aggregation—some dressed as plumbers or electricians, others as businessmen, one in a cheap tank top—peculiar. But all J. F. Foreman felt was satisfaction.

He placed the folder at the head of the table, then took a seat behind it. “Gentleman, we’re on for August 9.”

He was pleased at how this announcement was greeted. Eagerness gleamed in their eyes, not unlike what he’d seen in the marines when he’d told his squad a new mission was in the offing.

After leaving the armed forces, Foreman had spent a few years as a guard in a private bank, then as armed escort for Middle Eastern billionaires visiting the United States. In their own ways, both jobs had opened his eyes to the state of the security industry—and within it, a niche that seemed ripe for exploiting. So he’d taken his small inheritance and founded Expedited Medical Transport.

Despite the name, EMT had nothing to do with health care. Rather, it acted as a courier service—a kind of bespoke armored car company—for high-value customers and corporations who wished to move their assets, in whatever form they took, as inconspicuously as possible.

Over the last three years, Foreman had built a client base sufficient for his operational needs. He had two heavily reinforced medical transport vans—armored cars, with their high visibility, were precisely what he didn’t want—along with a small fleet of backup and escort vehicles. He was careful in choosing which clients to take on and ensuring the goods transported were legal, not weapons or drugs: he did not wish to attract the attention of the authorities or get involved in a gang war. His few employees were carefully curated and vetted. Most were ex-military or ex-police; all were well trained in the use of weapons and had concealed carry permits. All were single. All dressed for “work” in their assigned ways, be it businessman or blue-collar. And all lived far apart from each other and did not fraternize.

This last element was vital to Foreman. It was easy to guard against one bad egg trying to steal from his boss. An internal conspiracy among several, however, to hijack a delivery was more difficult to prepare for. That was why Foreman took on only one job at a time and always used the entire team; why he paid them extremely well—and why he’d carefully drilled into them an ironclad rule: if one of his men went rogue during a delivery, the rest were to incapacitate him without hesitation. This was also why he always assigned four men to the delivery vehicle, and three others to the escort car that followed. He had a perfect record, and he intended for it to remain that way.

He had just been given the green light for a new delivery, and now it was time to brief the team. He gave one more quick look around the table, his gaze stopping at Arnold Carson, whom he’d met during the Gulf intervention and considered his informal second-in-command.

“A Gulfstream G-IV SP will be landing at the Lakefront Airport at approximately twenty-one hundred hours the night after next,” he said, opening the folder. “Our package will be aboard. We are to deliver it to a location within a three-hour drive from the airport, over interstate and primary roads.”

Everyone knew Carson would be handed an envelope with the precise location on the actual day of the op.

“The package itself will be unusual. It will be a woman—in fact, the client herself.”

This raised a few eyebrows.

“Naturally I have no photographs. But she is Asian, about five feet tall, and thirty years old. A small attaché case—Hermès, brown, crocodile—will be handcuffed to one wrist, and will remain there until she reaches the destination.”

He took a deep breath. “Other than that, there should be nothing out of the ordinary. She will ride in the transport vehicle, inside the safety chamber. There will be no need to speak with her. Now: are there any questions?”

Carson shook his head. The rest remained silent.

Foreman nodded. “Good. Then make the usual preparations. We’ll meet back here at fifteen hundred on the ninth. I’ll inform you of any updates should it be necessary.”

As they rose to leave, Foreman spoke to the man in the tank top. “Proctor? Got a minute?”

Proctor halted and waited for the others to leave.

Proctor was Foreman’s most recent hire. He was promising but inscrutable. He’d been with EMT half a year and had performed his duties flawlessly. Foreman wasn’t the kind to fully accept somebody until he was absolutely sure of their qualities—but Proctor was not an easy one to pin down. He’d provided excellent references from his most recent employment as a security guard. He was an excellent shot and was accustomed to taking orders: obviously ex-military. He was six foot four, ripped as hell, but he also carried a quality of litheness and grace that seemed God-given rather than the product of a gym. Yet he’d declined to specify what branch of the military he’d been in, or in what capacity, and he was evasive regarding details of his personal life. When asked, he’d shown Foreman discharge papers that were equally imprecise, indicating he’d been involved in classified work, which he had nothing to say about. He had little to say, period. While this might have put off a more traditional employer, Foreman sought out qualities like these.

Since his hiring, Proctor had reported for work, accomplished his duties faultlessly, and left when the op was done. Foreman sometimes worried about his men getting too chummy with one another—but with Proctor, it was the opposite. He had none of the swaggering, jocular tough-guy attitudes his other men had. Foreman had kept a close eye on Proctor, worried that the reticence might be from PTSD, but in the end he realized the man was just quiet.

“You know Rodriguez is still out.” This was Foreman’s seventh employee, missing from today’s meeting. He was currently in the hospital with diverticulitis. That meant Foreman was a man short—one risk of running so tight a ship.

Proctor nodded.

“That means I’ll need to shift you from the escort car and give you Rodriguez’s position in the van. That leaves only a driver and navigator in the tail vehicle, but it’s more important the asset be fully covered.”

“Understood.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Because this is an opportunity, Proctor: a high-value transport. Do a good job, keep it clean, and there’ll be a nice bonus for you at the end.”

Proctor nodded again.

“That’s all. Come by the office tomorrow at three for your briefing.”

The man rose and left the conference room the way the others had taken. Foreman stared at the door as it closed behind him, chewing his lip meditatively, for a long time.

AT A QUARTER TO THREE the following afternoon, Foreman was once again in his office, staring at a grainy security video and once again chewing his lip. He’d been there two hours. A random lunchtime sweep of the security cameras installed throughout the office—and, in a few cases, at the residences of his employees, unbeknownst to them—had revealed something alarming.

He’d isolated the two videos that most concerned him and replayed them, zooming in until the screen was more noise and grain than recognizable image. Then he’d gone back over all the other videos, carefully. But no: it was just those two moments, captured on camera—first a friendly punch in the arm and a few exchanged words as two men left the office parking lot the day before; and later the same two, in the plaza outside one’s apartment, eating a quick meal from a po’boy vendor.

Foreman isolated each video to its relevant five-minute segment and watched them in turn. A little banter between the two as they left the office was of no concern. But their meeting outside the parameters of work was a conduct violation. The place of their meeting suggested they both knew where the other lived—another violation.

Foreman snapped off the monitor and took a moment to prioritize his thoughts. First was a sense of betrayal, given the breach of protocol. Second was concern for the next day’s job. Although he had not mentioned it yet with his team, this was a particularly important assignment. Not only did it come with an unusually large payment, but—perhaps more important—it would cement his position of trust within a certain wealthy circle, ensuring a flow of remunerative jobs in the future.

He could cancel or try delaying the assignment. But one did not abandon jobs like these, sometimes involving the transfer of gemstones, gold, or tens of millions of dollars, and expect to remain in business. True: this near to the start of a job, he often fought with a heightened sense of suspicion, even paranoia. There was no question his two operatives had broken strict protocol. But they’d done so openly, in a public space. If they were planning to sabotage the mission, would they have gone about it like this? The camera view was a distant one, but the body language of the two as they relaxed over a meal didn’t show any obvious signs of guilt or complicity.

Of course, that could be by design. As careful as he was to keep all his delivery jobs legal, or at least in a legally defensible area, that didn’t necessarily make his employees saints. It might be—probably was—nothing. When the mission was successfully completed, he would deal with the violation. For now, the only option was to proceed… under advisement.

His intercom buzzed. “Sir? Mr. Proctor has arrived.”

“Thank you, Alice.” Rising from his chair, Foreman stepped into the outer office and passed through a smoked-glass door into a corridor. At its end, another door led into a vast, echoing garage. Inside were two medical transport vans emblazoned with EMT logos, first-aid crosses, and a caduceus. The only signs they might not be what they claimed were the tinted (and bulletproof) windows, oversize engine manifold, and bonded polyurethane tires upon which the vehicles—weighted down as they were with over a ton of shielding and interior armor—rode low. The small embrasures, sized to accommodate automatic weapon muzzles, were form-fitted and nearly invisible. It had never been necessary to use them—yet.

Also in the garage were three escort cars of innocuous makes and colors, fitted out in similar fashion. At the far corner were a few other vehicles kept for unusual situations—an old school bus, a pickup truck, a taxi.

Proctor waited quietly in his work-specced uniform of T-shirt and jeans.

“Proctor!” Foreman called out with a joviality he didn’t feel. He stepped up and they shook hands. “Glad to see you.”

“I appreciate the opportunity.” Proctor had a low, gravelly voice—not because he was trying to be a badass, Foreman assumed, but because his vocal cords were the one part of his body that didn’t get regular exercise.

“Good man. Since you’ll be taking rear lookout for the first time, I wanted to make sure you were up to speed. Feel free to ask any questions, and don’t worry about sounding stupid—it’s more important you feel 100 percent comfortable. Ooh-rah?”

“Understood.”

Even after six months, Foreman occasionally poked at Proctor like this, more out of curiosity than anything else. The way he’d responded just now meant he hadn’t been a marine. Or perhaps he simply chose not to reveal that he’d been one. Anyway, he knew how to shoot a gun, and if there was a fix on with this job, he wasn’t involved.

They made a slow circuit of the vehicle, Foreman pointing out various features and explaining instructions to follow in emergency situations. For the most part, Proctor listened in silence, his questions limited to minor details.

They stopped at the side of the vehicle and Foreman opened the door, pointing out the explosive bolts as he did so, along with the stun and gas grenades attached to the interior roof in neat Velcro rows. They both stepped inside, and Foreman quickly went over operation of the safety chamber: a four-by-four-foot metal cube secured to the ceiling and floor of the vehicle’s midsection by redundant fastenings. A chair was placed in the middle.

“This is the moneymaker,” Foreman said, wrapping up the tour. “Everything we do is about getting the contents of this chamber from point A to point B. It’s never held a client before—and she won’t exactly be comfortable—but you can see the air vents along the top and bottom, and there’s plenty of room for both her and her briefcase. So: any questions about opening or securing the chamber?”

“No, sir.”

“The three—I mean two—guys in the escort vehicle will be responsible for taking point during the time that the, ah, package is being placed inside the chamber. That’s an obvious vulnerability. Over time, we’ve shaved down how long it takes to move and secure a dead load to around twenty-five seconds. Since a person is involved this time, it will probably take longer.”

Proctor nodded.

“Once rolling, primary responsibility for safe delivery is transferred to you four in this vehicle.”

Foreman pointed out each position: driver, shotgun, payload master, tail lookout. He asked Proctor to take up position in the swivel seat of the last to make sure he was familiar with the recon fields, and he pointed out where the ammo for the chopped-down M240 were stowed. He went over a couple of minor errors Rodriguez had made when manning tail lookout over some past runs, and how they’d been rectified.

As he spoke, there was no fear or doubt in Proctor’s gaze—just quiet attention.

Foreman finished up and, after a hesitation, decided to share his misgivings with Proctor. “Listen,” he said, taking a seat on an armored panel behind the safety chamber. “Something’s come up. It may be nothing.”

Proctor remained motionless, waiting.

“I’m telling you this out of a hyperabundance of caution. Hopefully, tomorrow’s run will go without a hitch. If that’s what happens, you’re to forget what I’m about to tell you and never mention it again. Understood?”

Proctor nodded.

“I’ve come into possession of some unreliable intel that the shotgunner and payload master might attempt to subvert tomorrow’s action in some way. Beyond that, I know nothing. I want to emphasize this intel is highly questionable. But with Arnie Carson as wheelman, you’re the obvious choice to keep watch on those two guys.”

Proctor nodded, more slowly this time.

“I’m fairly sure that if they’re planning to make a move, it won’t happen until the package is secure and you’re rolling. On the other hand, they wouldn’t wait until you reach the delivery point—especially since they don’t know its location yet.” He paused. “Carson’s likely not in on it, so shotgun might just take him out while you’re on the road or stopped at a light. If that happens, the payload master would be tasked with snuffing you. Your job is to prevent that. Carson wears no armor; you do. If shit goes down and they drop you, we’ve failed. Take out payload, then shotgun—if Carson is killed, make sure the others are neutralized, then take over as driver and complete the mission. You’ll find the envelope with the location in his breast pocket.”

He stood up again, shoulders bent beneath the reinforced roof. “You don’t need to worry about the package—no small-arms fire is going to penetrate the safety chamber. But in this case, the ‘package’ is also our client—so any problems en route, even small ones, will reflect badly on us. Like I said: consider the scenario I’ve just outlined to be just left of paranoid. But keep your pecker up.”

Foreman sighed, then cursed under his breath. “You know what the most fucked-up thing is? On the one hand, I can’t just let this go without preparing. On the other, I can’t afford to alert anybody—even you, new man. If two people are dirty, I guess six could be, too. But it’s because you haven’t buddied up yet, and because of the field of fire that rear seat affords you, that I have to trust you.” He paused. “How’s my signal coming in, mister?”

“Five by five, sir.”

And somehow, this response—as clipped and emotionless as it was in delivery—made the unexpected weight Foreman had been carrying the last several hours just a little lighter.

PROCTOR SAT AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE of his kitchen, sipping coffee and reading the Times-Picayune. He would have preferred the Washington Post, but home delivery to Louisiana was expensive—one of the sacrifices he’d made when he decided to spend time in New Orleans. Besides, daily events around the world were of little concern to him—he didn’t even own a TV—but reading a newspaper from front to back every morning had become habitual, and, like all the habits he’d acquired over the years, he preferred to retain it.

Finally, coffee and paper both finished, he stood up, went to the sink, washed out the cup and saucer, and put them in the drying rack. Normally he ate no breakfast, but since there was a job on today, he’d had half a cup of Scottish oatmeal.

He went into his bedroom to get dressed. Foreman had assigned him casual office attire. He had no air conditioning, the windows facing the street were open, and he paused to take a long look. The scene was typical of the suburban neighborhood he’d chosen. A young woman in pink booty shorts and block-heeled mules was pushing a stroller down the sidewalk. A light-gray utility truck was parked down the street, a uniformed man beside it, peering up an electrical pole, perhaps in reaction to the short brownout caused by the intense heat of the last week. From next door, where his neighbor Otis Burdette worked on his pickup, he could hear a country singer complaining about his achy-breaky heart. Burdette had been a commercial fisherman until a chum line got loose and sliced his left Achilles tendon. Now in his late fifties and retired on disability, he spent his mornings puttering around his vehicle.

Proctor stepped over to the closet, chose a blue blazer, white pullover, and khakis. The blazer was cut wide in the shoulders. The pullover was of an artificial material that both breathed and wicked moisture.

As he dressed, he briefly ran over the afternoon ahead. Riding the rear lookout position would be a welcome change from the backup car, with the endless litany of dirty jokes, idle boasting, and arguments about sports. From his spotter’s position in the car, he’d seen a dozen or so packages taken into the transport vehicle and, later, removed at their various destinations: they had come in every variety, from steamer trunks to a rolled-up paper bag. But never before had it been a person. Proctor paused a moment to consider this. Unusual, but in itself of no particular concern. More important was Foreman’s worry about a possible betrayal by two of his own men. Foreman was a type A personality who overthought everything, but that didn’t make him wrong. He hadn’t told Proctor his source of intel, and Proctor hadn’t asked. Perhaps the man riding shotgun and the vault guard were getting restless with the squeaky-clean messenger runs and had grown eager to go rogue, make a boatload of money, and vanish. But then, why with a person involved, instead of a load of gemstones or bearer bonds?

Proctor shrugged into his jacket and exited his bedroom, turning off the light. Speculation without adequate information was counterproductive. He already had all the intel he was going to get.

He glanced at his watch: twelve thirty. If he left now, he’d have time on the way to fill the tank of his indigo Taurus SHO and check its tires: the left rear was looking a little low.

As he closed the living room windows, one after another, he made another habitual glance around the neighborhood. The young mother had vanished from view. The utility man had left his van and was starting up a pole a few houses nearer, tool belt hanging low, butt crack the envy of any plumber. Burdette next door, who ran his retirement like clockwork, had turned off his radio and gone in for lunch. Proctor knew the man would spend the afternoon napping, have dinner, then watch cable channels until he fell asleep in his Barcalounger.

Proctor spent an extra moment looking still farther down the tree-lined street but saw nothing of note. As he closed the window, he shook his head. Foreman’s paranoia must be rubbing off on him: if there really was an inside job in the offing, he’d be the last guy the offenders would worry about.

Foreman had said the delivery would take six hours, out and back: that meant he’d be home after dark. He pulled the shades down and turned on the outside light as he bolted the front door. Then he walked back into his kitchen and closed those blinds, as well: a young couple lived in the house to the rear, but they both worked downtown and he didn’t know their names.

Grabbing his keys, he stepped into the garage and pressed the opener. As the motor hummed and the door began to rise, he wondered about the years he’d spent in prefab houses just like this, and how they had ultimately brought him to this particular neighborhood. Once again, New Orleans was temporary parking. Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home, Lao-tzu had said. A rather contradictory phrase from Jung immediately came to mind: I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.

Idly, Proctor wondered who would win in a knife fight—the poet or the philosopher.

As he was musing, he suddenly recalled he hadn’t armed himself. He’d grown so used to jamming his 1911 into his jeans that, now in a suit jacket, he’d forgotten to don his shoulder holster. He went back into the bedroom, took off his jacket, rummaged around in his dresser for a holster, grabbed it and poked his arm through it. Then he put his jacket on again, took his sidearm from its drawer in the bedside table, and slipped it in place.

Stepping out into the garage again, he looked up from the holster to see somebody standing before him—the utility worker who’d been climbing the pole a few houses down. The man, holding a metal-cased clipboard, smiled. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” he said. “But have you experienced any problems with your electrical supply? I’m having a difficult time tracking this down.”

Proctor unexpectedly found himself doing several things at once: ensuring his weapon was concealed and the holster was tight, glancing over the man’s shoulder in search of his utility van—and so when the man’s free hand shot forward holding a two-foot cattle prod, and its twin contacts pushed an ungodly voltage through his clothes and into his body, Proctor was astonished even as he was instantly incapacitated. As he fell to the floor, head slamming against a tool cabinet on the way down, stunned paralysis gripped him. In a flash, the man flipped him on his stomach and cuffed his hands behind his back. Next, a hood went over his head and the sting of a needle pierced his neck—and a blackness fell over him.

PROCTOR WOKE IN DARKNESS.

For several minutes, he remained motionless as he tried to piece together what had happened.

It came back to him in reverse order. He’d been injected with something that had rendered him unconscious. Before that, he’d been felled by a cattle prod, his wrists bound behind his back, and a mask slipped over his head. All this had been the work of the utility man he’d first noticed a few houses down.

Incredibly, the man had gotten the drop on him.

He took stock of his physical constraints. He was sitting with his back against a padded wall, his hands now bound in front instead of behind. Unusual: his captor cared enough for his welfare not to impede his circulation—in fact, the cuffs were relatively loose and forgiving. He moved around, testing his bindings, and realized his wrists were held by a double set of zip ties, the right slightly looser than the left, but not enough to make a difference. It was a secure and sophisticated binding system, designed to be comfortable—under the circumstances.

Interesting.

His ankles were bound as well, in a way that made it impossible to stand. As he moved his legs, he realized that his ankles were also chained to the wall. Other than his head, which throbbed where it had hit the tool cabinet, he seemed to have suffered no additional injury.

As he went systematically down a mental checklist, he noticed that the space he was in was not just dark but completely black. This was also unusual: in most cells or holding areas, especially improvised ones, there was a little light—from under a door, a crack in the ceiling, a ventilation shaft. Here there was none. It was silent, too—utterly so.

As he continued the inventory, he noted his clothing had been exchanged for sweatpants and a light, loose, sleeveless top that felt like a hospital gown. His shoulder holster was, of course, gone.

He tried to assess how much time had passed. He felt no strong desire to urinate; then again, it was possible he’d pissed himself and his captor had rinsed him off before dressing him again. But he felt roughly the amount of hunger he normally would when returning home from a job, which reinforced a growing conviction he’d been out only a few hours.

Returning home from a job. Was this fallout, or collateral damage, from Foreman’s warning? It seemed likely—Proctor did not believe in coincidence. Should he, then, have been more on the alert during the moment he stepped back into his garage? Where, exact. . .