by Jude Hardin
So she was off the grid for the night, which felt very odd, almost as if a part of her had been stripped away. She felt somewhat vulnerable, and maybe even a little afraid. It wasn’t something she would ever admit to anyone, and she would never allow it to affect her performance as an operative, but she felt it nonetheless.
She put another log on the campfire, stared into the flames and thought about everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours. The events at the CHOKE camp in Florida seemed like ancient history now, something for the archives, something to be passed on to future operatives in similar situations. Mistakes had been made, but she and Kobe Dreisler had made it out alive, and in the end that was the most important thing. They’d survived to fight another day.
For national security.
For the safety of the citizens of the United States.
For freedom.
Diana shivered. She opened her palms and stretched her hands out closer to the fire. She thought about Taggert’s offer, about his invitation for her to sleep in the same tent with him. For comfort, he’d said. For the very reasonable and practical concern of keeping warm through the night.
The temperature was dropping, that was for sure. And the ratty old sleeping bags The Circle had packed for them weren’t really heavy enough for this climate. They’d been included for looks, mostly. Like props on a movie set. Diana Dawkins and John Taggert—Camille Weatherby and Brent Holbart—were supposed to have been inside the CHOKE compound tonight, on cots in a heated barracks, not on the ground in the cold woods.
Diana looked over at Taggert’s tent. He was snoring already. Maybe she could sneak in there without waking him up, she thought.
But then there was a part of her that wanted to wake him up.
There was a part of her that wanted those strong arms of his wrapped around her, a part of her that wanted to be held and kissed and caressed.
It had been a long time.
Diana took a deep breath and tried to get those thoughts out of her mind. She and Taggert were professionals. They were spies. Assassins. Expected to focus on the mission, and nothing else. Any sort of intimate involvement was against policy.
Although it happened sometimes.
And everyone knew that it happened sometimes.
Diana tried to get those thoughts out of her mind, and then she walked over and reached for the zipper on the outside of Taggert’s tent.
THE CIRCLE RECRUITED OPERATIVES FROM all walks of life. Lacy Farrington—her code name for this mission—had spent four years pursuing an acting degree at a small liberal arts college in Kentucky, and two more trying to make a career of it in New York. She’d landed a couple of decent parts in a couple of off-Broadway productions, but most of the money she’d earned during that period had come from bartending and waiting tables.
Then, a little over a year ago, on a slow night in July, she was approached by a fellow restaurant employee with a very intriguing offer, an offer to make more money every month than most actors made in a year.
After giving it some thought, she’d decided to go for it, especially since she would still be able to use her acting skills. And as an operative for one of the most clandestine government agencies in the world, she used them almost every day.
Lacy looked at her watch. It was a little after eight o’clock. She’d been sitting in a small room by herself for over an hour, waiting for someone to come and assign her a bunk in the women’s barracks. Eventually she might earn the privilege to stay with Kevin in a private hut, but that would take some time, a few weeks maybe, and if all went well the mission would be over long before then.
She heard footsteps. The door opened, and two men walked in, both in uniform, one of them carrying a briefcase.
“Hello,” Lacy said.
Neither of the men said anything. They sat at the table across from her. She looked at their nametags. Boggs on the left, Saddleton on the right. Boggs was probably about Lacy’s age. Saddleton was older. Mid-to-late thirties, maybe even early forties.
Saddleton set the briefcase on the table and snapped it open, positioning it so that Lacy couldn’t see what was inside.
“We need to take your fingerprints,” Boggs said.
“My fingerprints?”
“It’s standard procedure. Don’t worry. It won’t take long. Then we’ll take you to your barracks and you can get some rest.”
The summer after her freshman year as an acting major, Lacy had applied for a job as a teaching assistant at one of the local high schools. It was just for the summer, but they still required her to go through an extensive background check, which included having her fingerprints run through the FBI database. The Circle knew about this, and The Director had assured Lacy that all of her previous records had been erased from the files, but the possibility that something had been missed worried her as Boggs lifted the ink pad out of the briefcase and set it on the table in front of her. He opened the pad and then set a piece of paper beside it, the paper marked in grids, one square for each finger of each hand.
“My fingerprints?” Lacy said again. “Why do you need my fingerprints?”
“It’s part of the application process,” Boggs said. “Mandatory. If you still want to join the organization, that is.”
“Of course I still want to join. I wouldn’t have come all this way if I didn’t want to join.”
“Great,” Saddleton said. “Let’s start with your left hand.”
“Okay, but I—”
“It’s no big deal. Let’s just get it over with.”
Lacy put her hand on the table.
“Make a fist, and then extend your index finger,” Boggs said.
Lacy did as instructed. Saddleton reached across the table and guided her finger to the ink pad, and then he pressed it hard against the appropriate square on the paper. While her finger was still stretched out over the grid, Boggs reached into the briefcase and—in one swift and decisive motion—grabbed a meat cleaver and brought it down like a guillotine.
Lacy screamed. The pain was immediate and excruciating. Blood everywhere. She saw her left index finger still on the table as she cradled the wounded hand against her chest.
She turned to the side and retched.
Heaving.
Heart pounding.
Everything was a blur now. Lacy fought to stay conscious as one of the soldiers walked around to her side of the table and tied a blindfold over her eyes.
“We need to know your real name,” he said. “And why you came here.”
Thanks so much for reading THE JACK REACHER FILES: CHOKE 2!
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Jude
Copyright © 2015 by Jude Hardin
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
January 2015
Table of Contents
CHOKE 2
Thanks & Newsletter
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