Read Online Naughty by Ann Voss Peterson, J.A. Konrath, Jack Kilborn - Free Book Online Page A
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because I know when it’s over I’ll be killed. But something isn’t right here. You’re obviously my sister, or a clone. And I don’t know why I was sent to kill you.”
“Who sent you?”
“I’m Clancy. I work for a government organization called Hydra. I was sent by my handler, who I never met. He’s just a voice on the phone. Codename: Isaac.”
It was a lot for Hammett to absorb. This woman—probably related—had the same training and worked for the same group.
“Who trained you?” Hammett asked.
“He didn’t have a name. I knew him as The Instructor.”
Curiouser and curiouser. “How did you know where to find me?”
“I arrived in San Diego yesterday. Isaac called, gave me your location at the rental car place. I followed you to the shop.”
“What were your orders?”
“Sanction, with extreme prejudice. But I was told to stay at least a hundred meters away at all times. Now I know why.”
Because up close, you’d realize you were killing your sister.
Targets didn’t have faces or features through a scope. They were just walking bullseyes. But Isaac was apparently worried about a face-to-face meet.
Hammett asked more questions, and Clancy answered. When there was nothing left to say, Hammett took the scalpel from her pocket and did what she needed to do.
“It’s only called a safe house when it’s safe,” The Instructor said. “If it isn’t, flee.”
The flight to Atlanta had cost six hundred bucks. But Clancy, like Hammett, sewed money into the seams of her clothing, and Hammett had enough for the plane ticket, a mediocre airport Denver omelet, and taxi fare to her safe house in Buckhead, with a bit left over.
Knowing her former employer was gunning for her made Hammett edgy, and returning to one of her safe houses was a risky move. But there was only one way to call off the hit—kill Isaac. Even if he wanted a truce, she’d never trust the bastard again. But Hammett didn’t know where Isaac was, or even who Isaac was. Only one person in the world, other than Isaac, had that information.
The Instructor.
Of course, like Isaac, The Instructor was also an enigma. Or so he thought. Because Hammett had figured out how to find The Instructor.
The problem was that the key to finding him was at her Atlanta safe house. And there was a high likelihood Isaac had a reception planned for her when she arrived.
Hammett had the cab drop her off two blocks from her address, in front of a drug store. Inside she bought a Braves baseball cap, a windbreaker, a box cutter, and some cheap mirror sunglasses, and a Chipwich, since she’d been gypped out of the last one back in San Diego.
She put on the hat and glasses, and while eating the ice cream she took a circuitous path to her apartment, spiraling in one block at a time, taking everything in. She pretended to be talking into her stolen cell phone while she walked, stopping often to yell nonsense into it while she was actually checking out parked cars, open windows, and people on the street. When Clancy failed to check in, that would raise red flags with Isaac. If he was smart—and all indications pointed to him being just that—he’d send a team this time instead of a lone hitter. So besides paying attention to singles, Hammett also focused on pairs.
Was that really two guys arguing sports, or were they killers waiting for her to show up?
Was that couple holding hands really married, or were they on the lookout?
This type of recon was slow and arduous, but in the cat and mouse game the odds were better if you played the cat. Hammett wanted to spot them before they spotted her, and that meant taking her time and being careful. But even as careful as she was being, she almost missed it.
Just fifty meters in front of her house, standing at the bus stop across the street; a woman, wearing jeans and a white poncho wrap which made her upper body shapeless, a floppy sunhat, and sunglasses.
Reflective sunglasses, just like Hammett
“Who sent you?”
“I’m Clancy. I work for a government organization called Hydra. I was sent by my handler, who I never met. He’s just a voice on the phone. Codename: Isaac.”
It was a lot for Hammett to absorb. This woman—probably related—had the same training and worked for the same group.
“Who trained you?” Hammett asked.
“He didn’t have a name. I knew him as The Instructor.”
Curiouser and curiouser. “How did you know where to find me?”
“I arrived in San Diego yesterday. Isaac called, gave me your location at the rental car place. I followed you to the shop.”
“What were your orders?”
“Sanction, with extreme prejudice. But I was told to stay at least a hundred meters away at all times. Now I know why.”
Because up close, you’d realize you were killing your sister.
Targets didn’t have faces or features through a scope. They were just walking bullseyes. But Isaac was apparently worried about a face-to-face meet.
Hammett asked more questions, and Clancy answered. When there was nothing left to say, Hammett took the scalpel from her pocket and did what she needed to do.
“It’s only called a safe house when it’s safe,” The Instructor said. “If it isn’t, flee.”
The flight to Atlanta had cost six hundred bucks. But Clancy, like Hammett, sewed money into the seams of her clothing, and Hammett had enough for the plane ticket, a mediocre airport Denver omelet, and taxi fare to her safe house in Buckhead, with a bit left over.
Knowing her former employer was gunning for her made Hammett edgy, and returning to one of her safe houses was a risky move. But there was only one way to call off the hit—kill Isaac. Even if he wanted a truce, she’d never trust the bastard again. But Hammett didn’t know where Isaac was, or even who Isaac was. Only one person in the world, other than Isaac, had that information.
The Instructor.
Of course, like Isaac, The Instructor was also an enigma. Or so he thought. Because Hammett had figured out how to find The Instructor.
The problem was that the key to finding him was at her Atlanta safe house. And there was a high likelihood Isaac had a reception planned for her when she arrived.
Hammett had the cab drop her off two blocks from her address, in front of a drug store. Inside she bought a Braves baseball cap, a windbreaker, a box cutter, and some cheap mirror sunglasses, and a Chipwich, since she’d been gypped out of the last one back in San Diego.
She put on the hat and glasses, and while eating the ice cream she took a circuitous path to her apartment, spiraling in one block at a time, taking everything in. She pretended to be talking into her stolen cell phone while she walked, stopping often to yell nonsense into it while she was actually checking out parked cars, open windows, and people on the street. When Clancy failed to check in, that would raise red flags with Isaac. If he was smart—and all indications pointed to him being just that—he’d send a team this time instead of a lone hitter. So besides paying attention to singles, Hammett also focused on pairs.
Was that really two guys arguing sports, or were they killers waiting for her to show up?
Was that couple holding hands really married, or were they on the lookout?
This type of recon was slow and arduous, but in the cat and mouse game the odds were better if you played the cat. Hammett wanted to spot them before they spotted her, and that meant taking her time and being careful. But even as careful as she was being, she almost missed it.
Just fifty meters in front of her house, standing at the bus stop across the street; a woman, wearing jeans and a white poncho wrap which made her upper body shapeless, a floppy sunhat, and sunglasses.
Reflective sunglasses, just like Hammett
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