Read Online The Shadow Hunter by Michael Prescott - Free Book Online

She couldn’t say what Travis wanted.
    He sent her to a self-defense institute specializing in the Israeli street-fighting technique of krav maga.
    Most martial arts programs were glorified exercise routines blended with elements of dance; their usefulness in actual hand-to-hand struggle was limited.
    Krav maga was different. There was no beauty in it. It was a brutal skill that aimed at one objective—the immediate, unconditional defeat of one’s adversary by any means available. Abby had never used violence against anyone, and the first time she had to deliver kicks and punches to her instructor’s padded torso, she did it with trembling reluctance, her vision blurred by tears. After a while she learned not to cry. Inflicting pain was a necessary evil. She could deal with it.
    She could be tough. Like Travis. Like her father. She took acting lessons in Hollywood. She rode in a private detective’s surveillance van, monitoring radio frequencies.
    She accepted a variety of odd jobs—waitress, cashier, clerical worker, hamburger flipper—partly for extra cash but mainly for a range of experiences to draw on when she went undercover.
    Two years ago, at twenty-six, she was ready. Her first assignment had been for Travis Protective Services.
    More jobs followed. She divided her duties between TPS and other security firms. Keeping her distance, as usual. She prided herself on being an independent contractor. Independent—that was the key word. Nobody owned her. Nobody controlled her. At least, she liked to think so.
    When she had paid for the items in the bookstore, she stopped in a bar down the street and ordered a pina co lada her one weakness. Normally she didn’t drink alone, but her new assignment with TPS was worth a private celebration.
    Midway through the drink, a young man with a fuzzy mustache that barely concealed a rash of acne sat down next to her. He ordered tequila, presenting his driver’s license to get it, then glanced at her shopping bag.
    “Been buying books?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “I’m really into Marcel Proust. You know him?”
    Abby ignored the question. She showed him the gun in her purse.
    “LAPD,” she whispered gravely.
    He blinked at the gun, unsure whether to be scared or turned on.
    “You running some kind of plainclothes operation?”
    She nodded.
    “We’ve heard rumors this bar is selling drinks to UCLA students with fake IDS.”
    Most of the color left his face. He mumbled something and moved away, leaving his tequila behind.
    Abby smiled, pleased with herself, and then a voice behind her said, “I could have you arrested.”
    She turned on her barstool. A man stood a yard away, watching her. He was in his early thirties, wideshouldered and sandy haired, dressed casually in a dark sweater and cotton pants.
    “For what?” she asked.
    “Impersonating a police officer.”
    She swiveled away from him and picked up her pina co lada
    “Go easy on me. It’s my first offense.”
    “I’m not sure I believe that.” He took a seat next to her, resting his hands on the bar. He had blocky fingers and thick, muscular wrists.
    She sipped her drink.
    “Are you saying I’m a criminal?”
    “I wouldn’t want to jump to conclusions. It might have been an innocent mistake. But I don’t think so.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “You don’t look innocent. But don’t be offended. Innocence is boring.”
    “Well, at least I’m not boring. I would hate to think I was wasting your time.”
    “You never do, Abby. You never do.”
    He ordered a draft beer. For a minute they were quiet as he worked on the beer and she finished her drink.
    “So,” she said, “how’s it going. Vie?”
    “Could be worse. You?”
    “Can’t complain. Streets getting any safer?”
    “So we’re told. Couldn’t prove it by me.”
    Abby had known Vie Wyatt for roughly a year, ever since the Jonathan Bronshard case. Bronshard was a stockbroker who had put up a website with pictures of his family and a