To Die For

Book 0: 6:20 Man

by David Baldacci

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

The 6:20 Man is back in the newest thriller from #1 New York Times bestselling author David Baldacci.

Release date: November 5, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 416

Sample

TRAVIS DEVINE SAT IN THE cab staring at the note he’d just found in his coat pocket, and wondered how many more minutes he might have to live.

And here he thought he might just grab a cup of overpriced java, pick up a good book, and chill tonight after almost losing his life several times during his last mission.

And why am I still apparently in combat even though I no longer wear the uniform?

Devine had just returned from Maine, where most people ventured to fish, hike, and commune with nature. Instead, he’d run smack into people who wanted to plant him in the dirt without the benefit of a funeral service.

He read over the words again.

Nice bumping into you in the airport, former Captain Devine. We missed getting you twice before. But you know what they say, the third time is usually the charm. At least one can hope. See you soon. I promise.

XOXO

The Girl on the Train

The airport taxi driver, a gray-bearded Sikh wearing a pagri, glanced at Devine and said helpfully, “Just put your card or phone next to the screen, sir, and follow the instruction. Easy-peasy.”

Devine looked up at him, touched his phone to the device mounted on the plastic shield separating the front and rear areas of the vehicle, and completed the transaction.

“See, easy-peasy,” said the driver.

“Yeah, easy-peasy.”

Devine got out with his bag, his Glock, and his distrust of everyone and everything.

He took a few moments to perform a 360-sweep of the area, looking for what he wasn’t really sure, only he knew it was out there. She was out there. First on the train gliding like an eagle through the Swiss Alps, then on dark back country roads in murderous and cold-as-hell Maine, and now here within spitting distance of America’s capital.

It appeared the girl on the train was getting a little obsessive with him.

Devine walked into the hotel where he had earlier booked a room, since he currently had no permanent residence. His occupation didn’t really allow for putting down roots, and neither did his temperament. Since people were usually either trying to kill him or frame him for various felonies, he made for the world’s worst tenant or neighbor. But if your thing was long-range sniper shots through kitchen glass, or a C4 stick wedged under front porch flower pots, he was your man.

Maybe I should stop paying into Social Security, because I am never making it that far.

He bypassed the front desk and kept going until he reached the rear entrance. He turned left out of the pricey building and picked up his pace. Death threats almost always required a change in plans, and he had no desire to make himself an easy target. In fact, the rulebook said you made it as hard as possible. Otherwise, some people might take advantage.

Despite what the note had said, they had actually tried to kill him three times before, including, initially, on the high-speed train darting between Geneva and Milan. So this would be the fourth time, which wasn’t usually charming at all, not that violent death ever was. Yet if they did manage to murder him, Devine figured it would have to do more with incompetence on his part than skill on theirs.

He texted his boss, Emerson Campbell, and reported the threatening note.

Campbell immediately replied: Stay where you are, we’ll come and get you.

Devine answered: No, I’ll come to you. If I don’t make it good luck to whoever replaces me. And in lieu of flowers make a donation to the VA.

He walked into an office building and rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor, where he looked out through the wall of windows at all the activity down below. Time and space from the battlefield allowed one to think things through, details that might be important enough later to allow you to stay alive. But when the bullets were flying and you felt like you were inside the pulsing heart of an erupting volcano, he’d take sheer luck over brains and proficiency. But the harder Devine worked, the luckier he seemed to get, so there was that equalizer in a world that otherwise didn’t seem to make much sense.

Devine saw couples entering bars or restaurants; families heading to wherever families went; working folks hustling to their first, second, third, or gig jobs; and idlers idling while caressing long smokes or tutti-frutti vapes. But he saw no one who looked like they wanted to kill anyone generally, or him specifically. And from his point of view, that was a real shame and a wasted trip up to high ground in a war zone that usually revealed many answers.

He descended in the elevator while thinking of a plan going forward. Halfway down he had come up with fragments of one. As the elevator eased to a stop on the ground floor, he had formulated a strategy that probably had a 50 percent chance of actually working. But he would take those odds right now.

He stood looking out of the elevator car and started to combat-breathe, four up, hold for four, four down, hold for four. Rinse and repeat. He wasn’t expecting to kill or be killed as soon as he stepped clear of the elevator car, but his mind and nerves needed a reset, and sucking air in and letting it out in a controlled manner did that.

Devine stepped out of the elevator thinking that these people killed for a living, as he did, in certain respects. He’d just assumed he occupied higher moral ground. Yet who really knew? Dead was dead after all, with the victors left to tell the story all their own way.

He hailed a taxi but then waved it off when his warning sensors started to tingle, perhaps simply from paranoia. Better to be safe than deceased. He walked a few blocks and watched from inside another hotel lobby as the dented silver Honda pulled up across the street in response to his Uber request, the driver on his phone maybe already checking what might be next in his queue.

As he continued to observe, two men strolled into view. One on either side of the street. The humps under their jackets signaled the weapons they carried. The bumps on their rear waistbands were clear tells of the transponders powering the squiggly-lined earpieces so they could communicate hands-free.

They were trying too hard to be cool, nonchalant, and also kept their gazes dutifully averted from one another. But their guns and communication hardware and fluid synchronicity of movement were all Devine needed to conclude that they were working together with the firm goal of ending his life, unless POTUS was coming here and they were the Secret Service advance team. But they didn’t look legal. They looked the opposite.

Devine got confirmation of that possibility when he noticed the bulky black Lincoln SUV with wrap-around dark-tinted windows slide into view like a slimy snake bellying out from its hole looking for dinner.

They knew about the Uber. And they probably followed me here from the airport. And the SUV is here to take me to the girl on the train so she can say goodbye properly with a bullet to my brain. But that is not happening. Not right now at least. I have things to do.

He three-pointed his phone into the trash since it was now clearly compromised and thus akin to a laser sight on his skull. He didn’t turn it off or take the SIM card or crush it, because they would waste time tracking it (and him, they would think) to this receptacle. And without his facial recognition authenticator and password to access his cloud, the phone was a useless brick instead of a data treasure trove.

Devine exited the rear of the building, found an old-fashioned cabstand in front of another expensive northern Virginia hotel, and got into the lead taxi.

He gave the driver the address and said, “Ride like the wind, friend.”

“I’m not looking to get a ticket,” said the gent, eyeing Devine in the mirror.

Devine flashed his badge. “Don’t worry, you won’t. Now, just drive.”

The driver noted the embossed symbol of federal authority.

“You the man?” he asked.

“I am today,” replied Devine.

ALL DURING THE RIDE DEVINE maintained a vigilant lookout as they careened along the capital beltway with thousands of other vehicles on the hamster wheel known as the DC metro rush hour, which actually extended to more hours than any weary commuter ever dared to admit. That was one reason why Devine had never wanted a nine-to-five desk job.

As they got off the highway, he wasn’t so sure.

Annandale was a bubbling brook of immigrant-owned mom-and-pop businesses, and restaurants serving dozens of international cuisines, the smells of which constantly enticed the famished. For its part, US 50 was a perpetually bottlenecked artery of weary travelers heading directly into or out of the heart of the nation’s capital. There seemed to be no reason to associate Annandale’s ordinary commercial and commuter activity with anything clandestine.

Which was the point and also the only reason Devine was here.

He surprised the driver by paying in actual cash, and got out, his gaze sweeping fore and aft, threat-assessing all the way.

The outdoor strip mall looked just like thousands of other such places across America where cheap and pointless was the signature style of a nation falling into the fragments cast off from capitalistic excess. The small office located there was so bland that one would forget its existence in three or four footfalls.

That was also the intended reaction.

The front window held a sign that read BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

Devine had to smile at this prop of deceit, when he had little else to smile about.

This was one of the places of operation for the Office of Special Projects, a tiny, stealth sub-group under the crowded circus tent cover of DHS, the conglomerate of the government world stuffed full of acronym agencies.

Devine doubted that many at Homeland Security even knew of its existence. He worked for the little boots-on-the-ground organization that could and often did punch above its weight. However, his service was not entirely voluntary.

Devine was a closer, snooper, fixer, investigator, and sometimes he had to kill in order to keep on breathing or complete a mission. He tried not to think too much about it, just as he had when he’d worn a uniform on behalf of his country. But killing was killing, no matter the reason, noble or cruel or a combo thereof. If it didn’t make you feel something, maybe you were incapable of feeling anything, becoming akin to Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, or Jeffrey Dahmer, which had never been a life goal of his.

Inside, he sat across from Emerson Campbell in an office outfitted with dinged governmental hand-me-downs. His boss was a retired Army two-star whose aversion to bullshit military politics had cost him a legit shot at the third and fourth stars. He had close-cropped iron gray hair, a workingman’s lead pipe fingers, and a tree trunk neck, with a low whisper that was more menacing than a drill sergeant’s spit-shot baritone. He deserved lusher surroundings, but Devine also knew the man didn’t give a damn about that. He had fought wars in hellscapes; impressive office furnishings and vanity photo walls like they had at the senior officer level at the Pentagon did not move Campbell’s internal needle even a little bit.

He eyed Devine cautiously. “Any problems getting here?”

“Aside from the fact that they seem to know my every move, no problem at all. By the way, I need a new phone. My old one’s in a trash can over in Reston. And new plastic, too. They’ve probably hacked that as well.”

Campbell sent a text, and a minute later Devine was presented with a new phone and credit card.

Devine pocketed them and said, “Your assistant, Dawn Schuman? You thought she was the leak that I’m dealing with?”

“We haven’t found her. Or her body. Yet. But it seems clear that she’s the one. I still find it hard to believe that she was turned, but there’s no other explanation for her disappearance.”

“So she compromised my phone before she ran for it?”

“Or gave the folks she was dealing with the info they needed to crack it.”

“I guess I’m lucky the girl on the train didn’t stick a syringe filled with liquid fentanyl in my gut when she slid the note in my pocket.”

“I am surprised they let that opportunity go by,” noted Campbell.

“And hopefully relieved,” added Devine coldly.

Campbell gave him the military once-over: stare, glare, but then, out of the blue, a touch of understanding, compassion even. “Look, Devine, I know you’re pissed about this and you have every right to be. But we are doing all we can to resolve this as quickly as possible.”

“Good, because I’m not sure I can count on them to keep sending idiots I can kill before they kill me.”

“I understand your frustration, soldier. I really do.”

“Then my work on that is done, sir.” He drew a four-second breath to quell the fury in his chest. “What now?”

“Another assignment. West Coast.”

“Why? To get me far, far away from here?”

“And to get you to a place where you’re needed. To provide security for someone.”

“So I’m now a glorified bodyguard?”

“And maybe a blast from the past for you.”

“Okay, you have my full attention.”

“Danny Glass? Name ring a bell?”

Devine nodded. “Iraq. We were thrown together during a mission. His actions helped save all our butts. I recommended him for a commendation. What’s his involvement?”

“He left the Army shortly after the battle you just referred to. And his reputation is not a good one.”

“I’d heard some scuttlebutt way back when about him, but feel free to elaborate.”

“The government is going after him in a big criminal lawsuit out in Seattle. Buddy of mine at the Justice Department got in touch. Wanted to know if I had a good man for this mission. He mentioned Danny Glass’s involvement, and I recalled that you had known Glass from your military days. It seemed like a good fit. I told my buddy that and he agreed.”

“And do you trust your buddy?”

“Yes. We served together before he jumped to the civilian side. Saved his life once.”

“In combat?” asked Devine.

“No, on the LA freeway. Road rage incident.”

“Okay, what else?”

“Glass has a niece, Betsy Odom, age twelve. Her parents recently died, and Glass is her only living relative. He wants to become her guardian and eventually adopt her.”

“And why does that interest DOJ?”

Campbell pulled an old-fashioned paper file out of his desk and plopped it in front of him. “To be perfectly candid, I don’t know all of it, which I don’t like one bit. It’s not how we did things in uniform but it’s something we apparently have to live with in joint ops like this. But with that said, I’m going to do all I can to get a fuller picture. And anything I find out you will know right away. I don’t like sending my people into harm’s way on half-ass briefings.”

Devine relaxed and leaned back in his chair. He greatly respected this man who, in some ways, was an older version of himself. And Campbell’s last words had hit every reassuring mark for Devine.

“Well, what else do I have, except minutes to burn and blood to shed, sir? Let’s get to it.”

TWO NIGHTS LATER DEVINE WALKED resolutely up a steep, slippery street in Seattle, while the darkness, varnished with a marine layer, shrouded him like a sheet fort laid by a child. The nearly forty-five-degree upward angle caused his heartbeat to accelerate. At least he wasn’t carrying an eighty-pound rucksack, only a six-ounce cup of coffee.

Behind him was a harbor filled with commercial, military, and recreational activities all of a nautical kind. Ahead of him the rest of the city was splayed out on multiple hills like a modern fortress with clear views of approaching armies. He was staying at one hotel and now heading to another, to meet with someone. Well, two people, actually. He knew very little, but at least he knew that.

The flight here had been uneventful. Five hours on a United Airlines A320. Campbell had sprung for first class so Devine could stretch out his long legs on the narrow-body jet. He’d also allowed himself the luxury of a beer since it was free in that part of the plane. In any event, it beat a vomit seat on a cram-packed Air Force C130, but then again, riding coach, or even being out on the damn wing, would’ve done that.

Seattle was always chilly, rainy, and foggy at this time of year. Devine had been here before and found the city interesting and consistent in certain respects. But like any large metropolis, something could jump out and bite you with little warning.

He located his destination in a part of the city that was still awaiting a full facelift. The four-story hotel was sandwiched between a vape shop and a cannabis dispensary that had fake ivy glued to its brick exterior. The combined smells reminded him of the time he’d been thrown into a Dumpster as part of an unofficial West Point meet-and-greet courtesy of a half dozen drunken upperclassmen, all of whom were now commanding armed men in uniform.

The small, shabby lobby was empty, and the single banged-up elevator was out of order. There was a silver coffee urn and a stack of cups set on a round table with a sign that read HOT APPLE CIDER, HELP YOURSELF.

Devine did not help himself. He threw his coffee into a trash can and headed up the stairs.

On the third floor he turned right and trudged to the end of the hall. The carpet was torn and stained; the walls needed repainting. And apparently, the fuggy cannabis smell and sickly sweet pop of the vape shop had pierced the thin exterior walls on either side of the hotel, morphing into an alchemy of intoxication for those dwelling here. Devine held his breath so he wouldn’t get stoned and addicted simply by inhaling air.

He thought he heard the creak of a door, the slight sound of a footstep, and Devine also seemed to sense a shadow or two here and there. Yet no threat materialized, so he assumed it had to do with the curiosity of people working or staying here. He let go of the butt of his Glock and kept going.

He gave a special rap at the last door on the hall and got another one in return, which he answered with another combo of raps. He felt a bit like he was in a 1960s-era spy flick, but at least you couldn’t computer-hack a secret knock. The door opened by the width of the slender burglar’s chain, and a woman peered out at him.

“Travis Devine?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“ID?”

He produced it. She unchained and opened the door fully, and motioned him in. She poked her head out and glanced down the corridor before closing and locking the door.

He noted that she held a dark, matte-finished Sig nine-mill in her right hand. She was around five-five, a little lumpy in figure, and her features were drawn. Her stringy brown hair, with more than a few gray strands, bracketed her forty-something face. She looked sleep deprived and unhappy all in one dreary package.

She reholstered the sidearm and showed her credentials. “FBI Special Agent Ellen Saxby.”

Devine ran his eye over the tiny room, noting the tattered carpet, the old furnishings, and the general air of neglect. Devine next spied the half-eaten meatball sandwich from Subway on a side table. An open door off this room revealed a modest bathroom that looked like it dated back to the 1970s. He also noted a closed door apparently leading into the sole bedroom. Then there was the stained couch with a pillow and blanket strewn across it that rested against one wall of the room. This was apparently Saxby’s humble place to lay her weary head.

“FBI per diem gone through the shitter?” he said, eyeing the woman.

“The government has to live within a budget, too, Devine.”

He thought about his flying out here first class, but that was a rare thing indeed.

“I know, but most Americans probably wouldn’t think the government even has a budget. Where’s Betsy Odom?”

“Napping. In the only bedroom.”

“Just you here?” Devine said.

She nodded. “I’ve gotten about ten hours of shut-eye total over the last few days.”

“How’d you get so lucky?” he asked.

“Probably because I accused my supervisor’s fav boy of being a misogynistic dick. My complaint got fav boy reassigned to a cushy post at the New York Field Office and here I am, a glorified babysitter in a shithole masquerading as a hotel that smells like wolf’s piss.”

Devine leaned against the wall, a bit surprised by both the woman’s negative attitude and her revealing such personal information to a stranger. “So tell me about what’s going on.”

“Your people didn’t brief you?” she said, obviously caught off guard by his query.

“They said they hadn’t been fully read in. So I need to get updated.”

“Tell me what you do know and we’ll go from there.”

“On the other side of that bedroom door is, presumably, Betsy Odom, age twelve. Her parents recently died. The Bureau is interested in the girl because of her uncle, Danny Glass.”

“Okay, do you know who Danny Glass is?”

“I actually knew him, briefly, when he and I were in the Army.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“I was West Point and he was enlisted but we fought together once in Iraq. I lost track of him after that, but now I know the government is going after him for a bunch of crimes.”

Saxby glanced at the bedroom door and started speaking in a low voice. “He’s currently the defendant in a federal RICO prosecution that will start up soon right here in Seattle. It was originally filed in New York but a change of venue was granted, so here we are on the West Coast. Glass is out on bail because he can afford the best lawyers. But he’s on a tight leash. He’s got unlimited financial resources and his own jet. So they took his passport and he’s wearing an electronic monitor on his ankle. One step out of line and his butt goes to jail for the duration.”

“I understand he’s trying to become his niece’s guardian with an eye to adoption?”

“Yes. He’s filed a petition for emergency minor guardianship.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“Washington state changed its laws and procedures on guardianship a few years ago. Now, it usually takes sixty days to finalize a guardianship petition. But you can circumvent that by filing an emergency petition, as Glass has done. If granted, the emergency guardianship usually lasts only sixty days. That’s why at the same time Glass also filed for what’s called Minor Guardianship. The family court overseeing the matter merged those two cases into one, which is customary.”

“But he doesn’t have custody of Betsy. The Bureau does. How did that happen?”

“DOJ went straight to court on the same day the Odoms died and got the court to grant the FBI temporary guardianship. But Glass’s lawyers found out we were Betsy’s guardian before the ink was hardly dry on our emergency application. And the next day, Betsy, since she’s over twelve, was served with notice that Glass was looking to become her guardian and knock us out.”

“I guess that was no surprise.”

“But it was also suspicious. It was like Glass knew her parents were going to die and had everything prepared beforehand.”

“Do you have proof of that?”

“I wish.”

“Will he be able to become her guardian? And adopt her? I mean, the guy’s a criminal.”

“An alleged criminal. The RICO case hasn’t been proven and you’re innocent until that time. So technically, to the family law court, he’s clean as a whistle.”

“But the judge can consider the RICO indictment?”

“Absolutely. And we hope that’s enough to keep him from becoming her guardian.”

“You got guardianship on the day her parents died? How so fast?”

“We’ve been after Glass for years and knew all about his sister and brother-in-law. We refocused on them when they came into money recently under suspicious circumstances. When they died DOJ worked their legal magic, and I was sent here to assume guardianship of a girl I’d never laid eyes on before.”

“You said the Odoms came into money under suspicious circumstances?”

“We suspect Glass was the source, but have no proof. Maybe as a bribe if they knew something incriminating about him. The funds were used to purchase a home and a car.”

“So exactly why is the girl important to you?”

“She could have overhead something. Seen something. If she’s a danger to Glass, or he thinks she is? That’s why we stepped in.”

“Have you gotten anything out of her along those grounds?”

“No. She’s pretty tight-lipped.”

“What exactly are Glass’s ‘alleged’ crimes?”

“The RICO suit charges drug manufacturing and distribution on a grand scale, extortion, fraud, bribery, human trafficking, and the theft and sale of historical artifacts from the Middle East and Asia, among other charges. Glass has a string of legit businesses of all shapes and sizes, and we believe the illicit proceeds are laundered through them.”

“So how can a judge allow a guy like that to adopt her?”

“There are no guarantees, Devine, but we do have one potential ace in our hand.”

“What?”

“Betsy has a say in all this.”

“Does she want to go with him?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, she plays her cards very close to the vest. That’s why I said it was a potential ace.”

“And I’m here to escort Betsy to a meeting with her uncle?”

“Yes. Tomorrow at the Four Seasons.”

“Why do they need me? You’re her guardian.”

“When two eight-hundred-pound gorillas like the FBI and DHS climb into the ring with each other, Devine, who the hell knows what will happen? Now, what’s so special about you that you got this gig?”

“I guess it’s because I knew Glass from our military days back in Iraq. I suppose the powers-that-be thought that might come in handy. So how did her parents die?” he asked.

“Dwayne and Alice Odom died of drug overdoses in their car. Betsy apparently tried to revive them with Narcan. Not the first time she’d done that, I heard. Word is they ingested a heavy dose of fentanyl, so they were goners as soon as it hit their bloodstreams. Died right in front of her.”

“Damn. Pretty traumatic for anyone, much less a kid.”

“Their lives up till then were a bit of a shit show. Moving constantly. Homeless off and on. Not sure how Betsy even managed to go to school on a consistent basis. We did learn that Glass and Dwayne Odom were not close. Glass was considerably older than his sister. Sort of a big brother protector growing up.”

“So brother and sister were tight?”

“Apparently. But then Dwayne entered the picture when Glass was still in the Army and swept Alice right off her feet. Dwayne was also a number of years older than Alice. He’d been around in life while she was pretty cloistered and naïve. I guess Alice saw something in Dwayne that she wanted. They got married and had Betsy sometime later.”

“So can I talk to her?”

A slight sound made Devine glance over at the bedroom door. It was now open. And standing there was Betsy Odom, with her curly auburn hair, freckled skin, and a round face of stone staring dead at him.

BETSY ODOM, THIS IS AGENT Travis Devine,” said Saxby.

Devine stepped forward. “You can just call me Travis, Betsy.”

He ran his gaze over her. She wore baggy faded jeans with holes in the knees that looked real rather than manufactured, a pale blue Nike sweatshirt, and pink ankle socks with the right big toe showing through a tear. She was chubby in all the usual prepubescent areas, extra weight that would be used for growth spurts and to stretch out the girl’s frame. Her eyes were a muted hazel, her lips set in a firm, unyielding line.

“Mr. Devine would like to talk to you,” said Saxby.

“I’m hungry,” said Odom, not looking at her.

“You can finish the other half of my meatball sub. I can get you a soda and chips from the vending machine down the hall.”

“No. I’m not eating your shitty leftovers. I want to go out to a place to eat.”

“What place?” said a startled Saxby.

“Any place.”

“But Mr. Devine wants to talk to you.”

“He said I can call him Travis. We can talk at the place.”

“Okay, well, let me get my coat,” said Saxby.

“No, not you. Just me and Travis.”

“That is not—” began Saxby.

Devine interjected, “Look, it’s no big deal. I passed a burger place on the next block.”

“Then I need to come.”

“No,” said Odom. “Just Travis. You can stay here and finish your meatballs.”

“I need to make a call,” said Saxby.

“It’s barely a hundred feet,” noted Devine.

“I still need to make a call,” Saxby reiterated.

“Then make it.”

“I’ll get ready,” said Odom enthusiastically, seemingly sensing an advantage here.

“Betsy,” began Saxby, but Odom slammed the bedroom door behind her.

Devine said, “Look, it’s just the next block. Maybe you can grab a nap.”

Saxby looked at the couch greedily. “That would be nice. But—”

The bedroom opened and Odom stood there wearing a faded blue ski jacket and chunky tennis shoes.

“I’m ready.”

“Let’s go,” said Devine.

Saxby picked up her phone. “Can you just wait until I get the okay?”

Devine looked at her. “If the Bureau has a problem with this, just text me and we’ll bring the food back.”

Outside, the two turned right and walked to the next block.

“That lady’s a wacko,” said Odom as she clipped back her hair.

“No, she’s just trying to keep you safe.”

“From what exactly?”

Good question, thought Devine. Maybe your uncle who wants to