Stone Cold by David Baldacci Page B

least it appeared that way, and the police have officially closed that case. Cincetti apparently got drunk, stumbled into his pool and drowned.”
    “So natural causes for Bingham, suicide for Cole and an accident with Cincetti.”
    “And you don’t believe that any more than I do; three men from the same unit dying within two months of each other?”
    “It’s a dangerous world out there.”
    “Something we both know all too well.”
    “You think they were killed?”
    “Of course.”
    “And you invited me here to what, warn me?”
    “It seemed like the most prudent thing to do.”
    “But like you said, John Carr is dead. Who looks to kill a dead man?”
    “These three fellows had excellent cover. Cincetti was particularly deeply buried. If someone could find him, they could find out John Carr isn’t really in that box at Arlington. That he’s actually a man very much alive who calls himself Oliver Stone.”
    “And what about you? Carter Gray was the master strategist for our little group. And you’ve had no cover all these years.”
    “I have protection. You don’t.”
    “Then you’ve given me fair warning.” Stone rose.
    “I’m sorry things ended up as they did. You deserved better.”
    “You were prepared to sacrifice me and my friends not too long ago, for the good of the country.”
    “Everything I ever did was for the good of this country.”
    “At least how
you
defined it, anyway. Not me.”
    “We can agree to disagree on that.”
    Stone turned and walked out the door.

CHAPTER 14
    C ARTER G RAY ’ S MAIL was screened at an off-site center run by the FBI and then delivered to him in the evening. The courier duly drove up and the mail was given to one of the men assigned to protect Gray. These men lived in a cottage about a hundred yards from the main house. Gray would not agree to anyone living with him in the house, which was protected by a latest-generation security system.
    Gray opened the letters and packages, not really focusing on any of them until he reached one item. The envelope was red and had been postmarked from Washington, D.C. There was only one thing in it, a photo. He looked at the picture and then over at the file on his desk. His time had come, it seemed.
    He turned out the lights in his study and went to his bedroom. He kissed the pictures of his wife and daughter that had places of honor on the fireplace mantel. In a grotesque twist of fate, both women had perished at the Pentagon on 9/11. He knelt, said his customary prayers and then turned off the light.
    Outside, about five hundred yards away from the house, Harry Finn lowered his long-range nightscope. He’d seen Gray open the red envelope. He’d gotten a good look at the man’s face as he stared at the photo. Gray knew. The climb up the sheer rock cliff had been a challenge, even for Finn. But it had allowed him to get this far. And he only had a little farther to go.
    Finn waited another hour to allow Gray to fall asleep and then slid over to the gas regulator post. A natural gas line had been placed here specifically because Carter Gray preferred gas heat and cooking. Ten minutes later the gas pressure going into Gray’s home blew out all the pilot lights and overwhelmed the built-in safety systems. In seconds the house was full of the deadly gas. If he were still awake Gray would be able to smell it, because the utility company added an odor to the naturally odorless gas as a warning. Yes, Gray could smell it if he were awake, but that would be all he could do.
    Finn loaded one bullet into his rifle. It looked rather ordinary except its nose was green-colored. He took aim and fired at the long window in the back of the house. It was not a difficult shot. The slug cracked the glass and the small amount of flame-creating powder in the incendiary bullet he’d chambered ignited. The roof was blown ten feet into the air while the walls were knocked outward a dozen feet on all sides. What was left of the roof came