The Keeper

Book 4: Murphy Shepherd Novel

by Charles Martin

Genres: Action & Adventure; Christian Fiction; Action & Adventure Romance; Suspense; Christian Suspense

Synopsis

Combine James Patterson and Colleen Hoover and you'll start to understand why readers are riveted by the Murphy Shepherd series: gripping action, heart-wrenching emotion, and deep questions that deserve to be considered.

In this fourth book in the Murphy Shepherd series, Murphy knows Bones didn't hesitate to give his life to stop the evil perpetuated by his brother, but there's still work to be done. Though Frank is gone, his organization is not, and almost even before Bones's funeral in Arlington is complete, Murph receives a call that the three daughters of presidential hopeful Aaron Ashley have been taken and there are no leads.

The girls' lives on the line and time is of the essence. But Murphy has never done this without Bones. How can he grieve his friend and mentor, figure out who he is without Bones, and navigate a new role for himself with team . . . all while putting total focus into finding these daughters?

When his daughters are finally rescued, Ashley steps back from the presidential race. But Murph knows something about the timing is a little too convenient for the senator who steps in to take his place. The far-reaching tendrils of Frank's organization are entangled even here, and Murph and his team will stop at nothing to root them out.

Release date: April 1, 2025

Publisher: Thomas Nelson

Print pages: 352

Sample

Prologue

Somewhere on the dark web in an encrypted chat room:

Man 1: “Money received. Target address?”

Man 2: “See attachment.”

Man 1: “Security protocols?”

Man 2: “Same package.”

Man 1: “House schematics?”

Man 2: “Same.”

Man 1: “Target?”

Man 2: “Three. And I want them all.”

Man 1: “Collaterals?”

Man 2: “The mother. Hands off. Not to be harmed.”

Man 1: “Dogs?”

Man 2: “Yes.”

Man 1: “Trained?”

Man 2: “Very.”

Man 1: “Father?”

Man 2: “Away.”

Man 1: “Secret Service?”

Man 2: “Make a statement.”

Man 1: “Define ‘statement.’”

Man 2: “Leave bodies.”

Man 1: “Orders following extraction?”

Man 2: “Photographed. Then taken and held at this address until further notice.”

Man 1: “And once there?”

Man 2: “Keep them alive.”

Man 1: “Any restrictions? I need to be specific with my men.”

A pause.

Man 2: “The spoils of war. Enjoy the fruits of your labor.”

Man 1: “Much obliged.”

Man 2: “Pleasure doing business with you.”

At 2:00 a.m., the blacked-out Suburban exited the asphalt onto a dirt road, at which time the lights were killed. A mile and a half later, six men exited the SUV and walked single file through a half mile of twenty-year-old pines. Aided by Trijicon night vision devices and thermal viewers, they stepped over or around infrared motion detectors and laser alarms, “speaking” through hand signals. A drone hovered a thousand feet above, allowing the man connected to the voice in their ear to monitor the heat signatures of the special agents guarding the compound and its occupants. The eye in the sky told them when to wait, when to walk, what code to punch, and where to step to avoid the cameras.

Reaching the edge of the field, two of the six lay prone behind Christensen Arms Modern Precision Rifles chambered in .300

Win Mag. While one member of the team ranged the target at 875 yards, the shooters dialed 7.03 MILs of elevation into Schmidt & Bender PMII optics, acquired a sight picture and superimposed the crosshairs on the target, pushed the safety to the fire position, then awaited the order. Following a seven-second countdown, both shooters pressed the trigger at zero, sending 210-grain solid copper projectiles out the muzzles at 2,804 feet per second, which reached the targets downrange 1.3 seconds later carrying 998 foot-pounds of impact energy.

Of the twelve remaining agents assigned to this protection detail, seven died in the next ninety seconds.

Once inside the home, the operatives donned gas masks and slipped felt outer soles over their boots, climbing the stairs in relative silence. Landing on the second floor, they stopped at the master bedroom, snaked a hose between the door and the floor, and opened a tank valve. They would not kill her on purpose—although when she woke, she would wish they had. Ninety seconds later, having neutralized occupant number one, they approached bedrooms two, three, and four, where each team snaked a small thermal viewer into the room to verify the condition of the occupants.

And the location of the three Belgian Malinois.

The existence of the dogs had never been leaked to the press and no pictures existed. Their presence was highly protected information.

The first camera proved dog number one was asleep. The dogs in rooms three and four were not. The first dog received a suppressed subsonic round from a Glock 47. The second dog heard the rustle of the camera, jumped off the bed to investigate, and sniffed the strange tube, which released a gas, rendering dog two just as incapable as dog one.

Two teams entered the rooms, placing masks over the noses and mouths of occupants two and three, which startled them, forcing gas into their lungs. Two seconds later, a hypodermic needle was inserted into each neck. Sleep followed quickly.

The problem came at door number four. Neither the occupant nor the dog was asleep. Another tube was placed beneath the door. Another valve opened. A minute later, both the occupant and the dog slumped over, followed immediately by an injection into the occupant’s neck. Using facial recognition software embedded in their phones, each team scanned the occupant’s face and awaited confirmation. Once received, they exited in unison, finishing dogs two and three with suppressed rounds.

While the eye in the sky monitored their retreat along with the heat signatures of the five remaining agents, one member of each team shouldered an occupant and the other covered their retreat as they returned down a hallway, down two flights of stairs, out a side door, and back across the field. That’s when the eye alerted them to an agent exiting the bunkhouse just prior to shift change. He was met with nine rounds from a suppressed Daniel Defense 300 Blackout. Returning through the pines, the team retrieved both precision rifles, placed the occupants in the back of the SUV, then drove nine minutes to a private airport where each occupant was 

stripped, scanned, blindfolded, gagged, zip-tied, photographed, and placed in one of three different planes.

Four hours later, the video was sent.

Part I

“ . . . He who enters by the door is the shepherd of the sheep. To him the gatekeeper opens.”

John 10:2–3

Chapter 1

16 hours earlier

The snow blew sideways, carried on a brittle, cutting wind. Dusted dark coats, glasses, gloves, and umbrellas stood in stark contrast to the perfect rows of white headstones rolling off into the fog. In my life, I’d found myself in many places where I never wanted to be again. This was one of them. Arlington National. Not because the dead aren’t worth our greatest respect. They are. These are the best of us. Chances are good I’m writing this and you’re reading this because of those lying there.

But today was different. Today we’d add one more.

Today, we’d officially bury Bones.

It’d been a month since I watched Bones’s limp body, riddled with bullet holes and arms wrapped around his brother, disappear down the well shaft, splashing a hundred feet below. I’d replayed those events ten thousand times, and no matter how often I reached out my hand, I could not catch him. Since that moment, I’d dealt with guilt, shame, anger, and a soul-piercing sadness I’d known only once before—when I lost Marie. One half of me could not shake knowing I was responsible for his death, while the other half knew I was not. I lived somewhere on that narrow ledge between what my head understood by reason and what my heart would never accept.

Bones knew the cost. He’d always known. His life for one chance to turn his brother. A gamble. Had he? Had he turned Frank? I don’t know the answer to that. If I had it to do over again, I’d shoot his brother in the face and be done with it. But not Bones. Bones would not dismiss Frank. Never had. So, for the last time, he left the ninety-nine to attempt one more impossible rescue. In truth, it was a prisoner swap. His life for Frank’s. In Bones’s mind, it was the only way to bring Frank home. But that’s the crazy thing about all this: Not every prisoner wants to be rescued. Some prefer chains to freedom, darkness to light. Bones knew this. He also knew there are no second chances in this business. Bones himself told me that. It’s why he did what he did. Frank’s attempted rescue was a one-way trip. Always had been. Despite the cost, Bones stuck with his brother. Let Frank pull him down that well shaft. Bones knew what darkness lay at the bottom, and my guess is that he didn’t want his brother to face it alone.

When I close my eyes and relive those last few seconds, the image that returns is the look in Bones’s eyes. It wasn’t anger. Not sadness. Not fear. It was peace. Resolve. Bones had done what he came to do, and he’d calculated and committed to the cost long before he met me.

When I first met Bones, I’d discovered quickly he was something of a genius. Given his life’s work, he’d been given broad latitude to hand-pick recruits and develop a program with a singular purpose: Find people. Specifically, lost people. One at a time.

When Bones first explained this to me, I had said, “So you work for the CIA.”

He shook his head. “No, but they often work for me.”

In my time at the academy, he’d routinely disappear for days at a time. No explanation. No goodbye. And then without notice, he’d return. When I started paying attention, I noticed that on several occasions, he was protecting some part of his body. Nursing an injury. One time he returned from a week’s absence with an obvious problem in his shoulder.

“Cut yourself shaving?”

He didn’t respond.

“You want to talk about it?”

I’ll never forget

his answer. He reached into his pocket and simply handed me a bullet. Not the cartridge that contained the shell casing plus the bullet. Just the bullet. The spent projectile. The copper thing had gone down the barrel at high speed and entered his body. When he dropped it in the palm of my hand, I picked up on the fact that Bones was playing for keeps, and this whole clandestine training thing ended somewhere other than a grammar school playground.

He stared at it. “Life is not a video game, and there is no do-over.”

No do-over echoed through my mind as I stared through the snow. Down at the box. And when I closed my eyes, I saw Bones staring back at me.

Two weeks ago, we’d met as a group on the beach near Bones’s childhood home and tried to say our goodbyes. I had lifted Shep onto my shoulders and waded out. Then, like now, we had nothing to bury. No ashes to scatter. So we buried his orange case at sea. Then, like now, I wanted to speak; I just couldn’t. So Clay broke the silence and spoke beautiful words over the water, his deep baritone a balm to my soul. Then Eddie. Followed by Casey and Angel. Final words spoken at random. Our tears mingling with the ocean. I stood shattered. One breath. Two. In. Out. Repeat.

Finally, Summer had patted me. “Your turn.”

I stared at the box. Scuffed. Scarred. One last voyage remaining. Solo. I tried to speak and could not. When I tried again, no words formed in my mouth. Then, on the wind, I heard his voice. There in that water, in that broken place of earth where the sand told the sea, “You will go no farther,” Bones spoke to me. And when he did, I could hear him smiling. Tell me what you know about sheep.

I shook my head and spoke out loud. “No. I will tell you about the one who keeps them.” Wanting to see him off, I had waded out past the breakers until the water rose above my chest and placed the orange box on the surface. There I let it go.

I let Bones go.

Staring through the snow at the flag-covered coffin, I knew I had not. I could not. As much as I knew I needed to, I was not able.

When we learned Bones would be buried with the highest of military honors, we scoured Freetown for mementos of Bones. Books, his Bible, a watch, a few nice bottles of wine, an old pair of boots, a pocketknife, his priestly vestments, a camera, a lens. I had deliberated adding the coin I carried in my pocket, but my hand wouldn’t let go. As we scoured Freetown, returning with our offerings, Gunner appeared with an old wool sweater Bones wore when he sipped wine by the fire. Worn, tattered, a couple holes here and there, leather patches on the elbows, it smelled like Bones. When Gunner dropped it in the pile, I pretty much lost it.

A string of black SUVs and limos lined the road. Not a large crowd but a crowd nonetheless. As “family,” Summer, Angel, Ellie, Casey,

Shep, and I walked behind the horse-drawn caisson. Summer held one hand, Shep the other. Whether I held them or they held me, I could not say. We walked over two hills and down into a valley protected by giant sentinel trees. The caisson came to a stop and the casket team approached from the side, lifted the simple wooden box, and began stepping backward in perfect unison. In lockstep, they carried Bones’s box to its final resting place, where one member spread a flag lengthwise.

I scanned the attendees and knew Bones would be uncomfortable with the attention. Platitudes were never the reason for the scars he carried. The directors of the CIA, FBI, and Homeland Security. The joint chiefs. Multiple members of the House and Senate. Speaker of the House. President pro tempore of the Senate. Secretaries of State, Treasury, and Defense. As well as the chief of staff to the president, who had been detained overseas. A bomb here could really mess up presidential succession. Most of these men and women had personal experience with Bones—he’d rescued someone they loved. Returned them to the dinner table.

Lastly, escorted by multiple Secret Service agents, the vice president exited a limo, refused an umbrella, and approached the coffin.

Chapter 2

Aaron Ashley was political royalty. The son of the former secretary of state and later vice president, Aaron was ruddy-faced, with tight-cropped red hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. He was also very physically fit. A stark contrast to his soft earlier life.

Having a father who held every significant political office save POTUS, Aaron spent his childhood in the lap of political protection and the privileged life of Riley. This childhood bosom led to an illusory superiority—not only did he think he was better than others, but he seldom thought of others. Having been raised under the watchful eye of the Secret Service, he never touched an elevator button. Never did his own laundry. Never cooked. Never did many things. In his youth, this made him a goldbrick who shirked any responsibility and stared down his nose with indifference at those who did shoulder it. Coddled as the vice president’s son and strapped with a last name that sounded more female than male, Aaron made an unlikely cadet at the Air Force Academy. The laughingstock of the freshman class. His initials, along with the fact that he was rather scrawny and not overly coordinated, earned him the nickname Double-A. After the battery. As in small, containing little juice, and disposable. But then one day a bully on the playground—a fellow cadet jealous of Aaron’s privileged existence—put two and two together, taking note of his reddish hair and ruddy complexion, and took it a step further. “Copper Top.” Laughter ensued and the name stuck.

After a difficult freshman year, Aaron took a chance ride in a glider and, interestingly enough, found something he was good at. Really good at. Aaron took to flying like a fish to water and set his sights on pilot training. Something for which he had a knack. Turns out all that time spent playing video games had honed his eye-hand coordination, a talent that would one day make him one heck of a pilot. Graduating with honors, he was selected for United States Air Force Weapons School—the Air Force equivalent of the Navy’s Top Gun school—where he excelled and graduated first in his class. Quickly assigned to foreign theaters, call sign Copper Top made a name as one of the military’s best pilots. Shot down twice, he safely ejected and then found his way home. The first time, he hitchhiked back to base after spending a few days in a culvert pipe and an abandoned brothel. The second, he walked some forty miles across the mountains in freezing temperatures wearing what was left of his leather flight jacket. Upon his return, he climbed back into the cockpit and resumed duty. The same day.

Aaron didn’t suffer fools, and getting shot down was all a part of flying. Not to mention payback was a . . . well, a real bummer. Copper Top had found his juice.

Following decorated service, he returned to the States. A no-nonsense, straight-shooting war hero with ice water coursing through his veins. For vacation, he took a few weeks off and drove cross-country in an old truck. Avoiding highways. Sleeping in RV parks. Something he’d always wanted to do. Somewhere in there, he stopped at a roadside produce stand in central Georgia. Squash. Carrots. Tomatoes. Turnips. And a pretty girl wearing a straw cowboy hat and jean overalls.

“Morning.”

She nodded. A faint smile. The contrast between the two was striking. His shirt was tucked in. She’d been mucking the stalls. She noticed his flight jacket. “You a pilot?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He would soon learn she was spunkier than her attire suggested. “You any good?”

He nodded and said nothing, which was good because he couldn’t take his eyes off her and any word coming out of his mouth would not help the situation.

“Can I help you 

with something?” Her South Georgia accent was intoxicating.

He held up the nearest vegetable and tried to speak but couldn’t.

She laughed. “You like butternut squash?”

Another nod. More silence.

“Really?” One hand rested on her hip. “And just how do you cook it?”

He shrugged. “Soup.”

The nearest RV park sat a few miles away, so he stayed a week. Returning each day. Finally, after a few days of beating around the bush, he asked, “Would you like to go flying sometime?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“What?” He had not prepared for this contingency. “Why?”

Another half-smile. “I don’t even know you.”

“You ever been?”

She shook her head.

“You’ve never been in a plane?”

Another shake.

“Well . . .” He pointed. “I’m more comfortable up there than down here.”

She laughed out loud. “I believe it.”

“I could take you. Be no trouble.”

She shaded her eyes with one hand and put her other hand on her hip. “You’re not from ’round here, are you?”

He shook his head. “What gave it away?”

She laughed and glanced at a farmhouse set on the hill. A man standing on the porch. “You’d better talk to him first.”

Fortunately for her, Ashley was not afraid of imposing men. “Take me to him?”

Turned out Esther loved flying.

Ten years and three kids later, Aaron hung up his flight suit and traded the military’s most advanced fighter cockpit for farm life and then, when statewide conflict presented itself, the state legislature. Which led to the House. Then the Senate. Where he served several terms and worked tirelessly to protect Esther and the kids from the swamp in which he worked and the journalists who wanted access to his personal life. Remarkably, Esther made the transition from private farm to national platform and served with distinction both her husband and the country. And while she felt called to her role, her children were not. So she protected them like a hawk. Built a wall between them and the public. Three of the most beautiful children ever born on planet earth. Hair so blond it was almost white. Green eyes. Smiles that lit a room.

Following a distinguished Senate career, Aaron was tapped to serve as Secretary of Defense. Four years during which his popularity and name recognition grew and made him the first choice to be tapped to serve alongside the current president. America had fallen in love with Copper Top. Currently, Aaron was three years into his first term as vice president, and

given that the current president had termed out, Aaron had thrown his hat in the ring, declared his candidacy, and received his party’s nomination. Polls had him well ahead.

Placing both hands on the coffin, Aaron whispered words I could not hear, kissed the snow-covered flag, and took his place alongside Esther. Either unable or unwilling to sit, I stood behind Summer and the girls. As did Gunner, who stood alongside me and Clay. The rest of the team huddled closely.

While my body was here, my mind was not. The memories flashed like a slideshow across my mind’s eye. I remembered lying in that cave. Having been shot with my crossbow days earlier. Infection had long since set in. My ship had sailed. I had an hour, maybe two at the most. Then Bones walked in. He’d found me. Saved me. He’d done what I had not.

The next slide showed me tending bar in Key West. Bones had found me at my lowest, put a pen and pad in front of me, and said, “Tell me what you know about sheep.” Out of that rescue, David Bishop wrote books that caught fire, which funded Freetown, which gave Murphy Shepherd a reason for living. I’d found my place in this world because of Bones. Why? One simple reason. I’d mattered more to Bones than Bones mattered to Bones.

The needs of the one . . .

My tutor still taking me to school.

The slide flipped again and I found myself in Bones’s wine cellar, his orange box resting on a shelf. We had come to our wits’ end. We couldn’t find him. Had no clue. Then Shep pointed at the bird. The pelican. And the Pelican case. I remember spinning the box, clicking open the latches, lifting the lid, and staring wide eyed. Bones had left us, left me, several things: a bottle of wine, an opener, loaded spare magazines for his Sig, his satellite tracker, a first aid kit, a Williams pocketknife, a lighter, a pair of reading glasses, three canisters of unused Kodak film, a compass, paracord, a pair of Costa sunglasses, a small package of fishhooks with fishing line, a ballpoint pen, and a worn Bible. Taped to the underside of the lid was a picture of two suntanned, towheaded identical boys fishing out of a small johnboat. One standing in the front throwing a cast net. The other sitting in the rear with his hand on the tiller of the outboard. They might have been eight years old. And the bottom of the boat was piled three high with mullet. It was the same picture Frank had laid down before he died. Somehow, it held meaning for both of them.

Then I’d seen the

letter. Lying folded across the middle. And across the envelope, Bones had written, “Murph.” I remember everyone leaning in, focused on that envelope, and each one of us wondering, Is that real? Is that what I think it is?

While the snow dusted my shoulders, with Gunner pressed against my leg and Summer holding my hand, I recited the letter to myself. I didn’t need to read it. I’d done that enough. I knew it by heart. ...