The next day the morning paper was handed to me, with an article about Deevon being shot and killed.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only killer Project Hydra had trained.
I’m close to leaving this place, which I never thought of as home, but I feel I might miss. I’ll be assigned a handler, given a new identity, and a new life as an undercover black ops hitter.
I have to cut off all ties with the past. That’s fine, since I don’t have a family. But I refuse to give up Kaufmann. The Instructor says I’m allowed to keep him as a friend, as long as I never reveal what I do, or who I am.
I’m told I’m the second best student that Project Hydra has ever had.
My codename is Chandler.
I haven’t slept with The Instructor again. And if I never see him again, I’m okay with that.
“It was an honor training you,” The Instructor said. “It’s doubtful we’ll ever cross paths. If we do, it might very well mean I’ve been compromised. Don’t hesitate to kill me if you have to. I won’t hesitate to do the same.”
I dug through my duffel and readied another syringe of amobarbital with trembling fingers. I wasn’t nervous, exactly, but along with hearing the sound of The Instructor’s voice, and its accompanying memories, came another upswing of adrenaline, and after so many of these swings in the past hours, my system was struggling to cope.
I found a woman’s jacket in Victor’s closet, pulled it on, and concealed the syringe in the right sleeve. Noticing Victor’s wallet and keys on the dresser, I stuffed them into my pocket. Easier to use keys to get in and out of the building than pick the lock. My gun slipped neatly into the back waistband of my jeans. I checked on Kaufmann, still sleeping, and then walked down the hall and passed through the living room without sparing Victor a glance.
I paused at the door, listening to check if the hall outside was clear. Victor called to me, “Going somewhere?”
“Out.”
I wanted to tell him more, but I knew the urge was selfish on my part. I had no idea what The Instructor had in mind. If something went wrong, the less Victor knew about me and where I’d gone, the better off he’d be.
But despite my better judgment, I turned and looked at Victor over my shoulder.
He sat on the edge of the couch, pants pulled up over his hips but fly gaping open, hand still cuffed to the radiator. But while some men might be annoyed that I’d left them naked and without use of the two hands necessary to zip and button, Victor appeared slightly amused. He gave me a questioning lift of the brows that was more than a little sexy. “You’ll be back?”
I probably shouldn’t have felt so pleased that he cared, but I managed to keep the smile off my lips. “Yeah, I’ll be back.”
I turned to the door, checked the peep hole and listened for movement outside. Sensing nothing, I slipped out to face my past.
I took the stairs to the street level, then kept on going. The Instructor had said he was parked out front, but I wasn’t about to take the direct route. I doubted anything I did would truly surprise him, but at least I wouldn’t be obviously predictable.
I emerged in the below-ground parking garage. It reeked of oil, stale exhaust and damp concrete. The space was small, with room for just a handful of cars. I moved at a fast clip, senses tuned for movement, detecting none.
Striding up the short ramp, I emerged from a side door into an alley. The air outside was brisk, cool, and wind kicked a Starbucks cup across the sidewalk in front of me. I moved to the corner of the building and peered down the intersecting street that passed in front of the building.
It was easy to pick out the car, a black sedan that practically screamed government issue. I noted the silhouette of a man in the driver’s seat. Both of his hands clutched the wheel, showing me he wasn’t holding a weapon. A good sign.
The distance to the vehicle wasn’t far, but I wouldn’t be able to cross the gap unseen. As soon as I stepped out from behind the corner of the building, I would be vulnerable.
What could The Instructor possibly want? I didn’t know how he’d found me, but it didn’t surprise me he had. It also wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been the one to call the police to my apartment in an effort to take me in.
Then again, he might also have been the one to call the assassins.
I could walk away. Disappear. But that would be the same as putting a bullet into Kaufmann and Victor myself. And if I did run, not only would I have to run the rest of my life, but I’d never know what the hell was going on.
I watched the street, the cars, the doorways, the rhythm of pedestrian traffic. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I did a quick circle around the block, looking for the back-up unit, the second team, or anything else that indicated The Instructor wasn’t acting alone. Everything appeared to be clear.
I was about to take a chance with a direct approach when the sound of a truck downshifting caught my attention. A semi hauling produce slowed and sidled up to the curb a couple of car lengths behind The Instructor’s.
The opportunity I was waiting for.
I darted across the sidewalk and stepped into the truck’s shadow. Circling the vehicle, I walked between the parking lane and traffic. I pulled my gun as I reached the sedan.
I stopped behind the driver’s door, and slipped into the back seat. The Instructor leveled his eyes at me in the rear view mirror, as if he wasn’t surprised. “Hello, Chandler.”
I held my gun to the back of his neck, alongside the headrest. “Slowly take the key out of the ignition, and drop it at your feet.”
He followed orders.
“Keep both hands on the wheel. If you take them off for any reason, I shoot.”
Again, The Instructor complied. His face had grown harder, the wrinkles deeper. But his expression, or rather his non-expression, was exactly as I’d remembered. I wondered, fleetingly, how many more he’d trained since me. Also, shameful as it was, I wondered if he’d slept with any of them.
I pushed the unbidden memories back, then gave him a little prod with the barrel of my gun. Afternoon sun slanted through the back window. He squinted into the glare.
“Project Hydra,” he said, “began in 1982. An unusual group of septuplets were born, to a mother who died during childbirth. These sisters were truly unique, because they shared a trait that had never been seen before. They all shared the same fingerprints.”
Sisters.
My gun hand twitched, and my stomach lurched.
Oh, Jesus… those women I killed…
“The Cold War was at its height,” he went on. “Espionage was essential to our nation’s security, and the advantage of seven identical covert operatives in infiltration, undercover, intelligence gathering, and assassination scenarios was obvious. These sisters, if properly trained, could be used against foreign powers in a myriad of ways, causing massive confusion and loss of morale in our enemies. So, naturally, the government stepped in.”
I knew The Instructor was talking about me. But I couldn’t let this be about me. I had to treat this like any other op and keep my emotions at bay. Because if I let myself dwell, even for a second, on the fact that I’d killed three of my—
I jerked my thoughts away and focused on his words.
“A special branch of the National Security Agency was created, expressly to oversee the upbringing of the sisters. They were put into separate, specially chosen homes with military families who knew the importance of the children they were raising.”
I was grateful for the dry, almost textbook nature of his narrative. Listening to his recitation, I could almost pretend it was one of those boring history lessons I ignored in school.
I could almost pretend that it had nothing to do with me.
But it was impossible to distance myself from this. My parents? The couple who raised me, the loving mother and father who died in a car crash shortly before my tenth birthday, they weren’t my real parents? They were chosen for me by the government?
“And were my fo
ster families chosen, too?” I said, my hand tightening on my weapon. After my parents died, I was bounced around from one uncaring home to another, and wound up the sole child of a sixty-five year old retired businessman who confused love with discipline. I could count the number of hugs he’d given me on one hand. The number of beatings—too many to remember. “And the bastard who adopted me? Was his abuse part of my training?”
“Of course we regret the abuse, Chandler. When the Cold War ended and Clinton took office, many of those in charge of Project Hydra were re-purposed. You, and your sisters, were no longer considered a priority, funding was cut, mistakes were made. William Rector, the man who cared for you—”
“Cared isn’t the term I’d use.”
“—was former NSA. We only found out about his treatment of you after your arrest.”
I thought back to Cory. How sexy and dangerous and exciting he was. But the biggest attraction for me might have been that deep down, I knew Cory was a psycho. Which was the best way to strike back at my straight-laced, unloving, surrogate father. The best way to say fuck you to a bad parent is to sleep with a criminal.
“If it matters at all,” The Instructor said, “some of the others had a worse time than you did. Rector wasn’t the best choice. But in his own way, he set you on the path to what you have become.”
“A killer,” I stated flatly.
“One of the best in the world. It wasn’t accidental all seven of you wound up working for your country. As all of you grew, you were groomed by your families, teachers, and college recruiters, for military service. That’s how you came to me.”
“Tell me about my…” I felt the word stick in my throat. “Sisters.”
The Instructor had no way of knowing what my life had been like, after my parents died, going to live with Rector. I wasn’t allowed to ever have friends over, in the chance they might mess up his precious house. And I wasn’t allowed to visit anyone, because he kept me a virtual prisoner, doing chores, studying constantly, making me take extra classes on top of regular schoolwork.
My one dream, my only wish, was to have a sister, to be able to share some of those lonely, miserable times with someone else, someone like me.
To find out now that I had six of them, and three were already dead by my hand…
“You were all given code names,” The Instructor said. “Chandler, Hammett, Fleming, Ludlam, Follett, Clancy, Forsyth.”
“Those are all writers.”
“Spy novelists. Reagan was a fan. Of these, you dispatched Follett in your elevator, Ludlam at the health club, and Forsyth on the street not far from here.”
He didn’t have to remind me. I could still feel Ludlam go limp after I rammed her head into the sink, still hear the pop as I snapped Forsyth’s spine. I pushed thoughts of my three dead sisters away and focused on the rest. “So besides me, there are three still alive?”
“Two. Fleming died during a mission overseas several years ago. The remaining Hydra members are Clancy and Hammett. Hammett is the reason your cover was blown. She’s the one who orchestrated this effort to eliminate you.”
My throat grew tight, my skin hot. When I’d learned the hitwomen were my sisters, I’d assumed they were following orders. I understood that. I could rationalize that. But to discover the orders were given by one of them? That I had no idea how to process. “Why?” I whispered.
“Because your sister is a psychopath, and the most dangerous person I’ve met in thirty-eight years with the military.”
“Your ability to survive is based on how well you react,” The Instructor said. “But your ability to thrive is based on how well you can act first. You cannot fully trust anyone, ever. So what road shall you walk? The one paved for you? OR the one you pave yourself?”
Hammett stares at the blips on the screen, then presses the button to make her computer tablet sleep. She’s tired, but at the same time, exhilarated.
It has taken almost a year of planning to get to this point. And though she’s taken every variable and contingency into account, the death toll has been higher than expected.
Three of the Hydra sisters, dead.
That was an incalculable loss. The time, the money, it took to train them. The personal investment Hammett had made to recruit them. All for nothing.
Chandler is good. Very good.
But not as good as I am.
Hammett tucks the computer away and stretches, arching her back like a cat. Soon Chandler will be under her control, at her mercy.
Hammett smiles at the thought.
And I have no mercy.
She starts up the stairs, remembering an op from two years ago. A French diplomat, some low-level power broker in the confusing, interconnected spider web of international espionage. By all accounts, he was one of the good guys who just happened to have an agenda at cross-purposes with those who gave Hammett orders.
Hammett snuck into his suite, to his bed, and did what she’d grown accustomed to doing. She woke him up before she killed him.
This began as a game for Hammett. She enjoyed watching them squirm. Watching them beg. Sometimes they offered her things. Sometimes they offered her everything. Once she fucked a particularly handsome Arabian prince, riding him even as he trembled with fear, shooting him at the peak of her orgasm.
Though sadism was one of the baser emotions, that didn’t make it any less of a rush.
But with the last few jobs, right before she went rogue, Hammett had begun asking her marks questions. Questions about life, and what they thought the purpose was.
Profound shit. Especially for those who were about to die. And it interested Hammett, because at that time, she had yet to figure out her ultimate purpose.
The Frenchman babbled on about love, being a good son to his parents, a good husband to his wife, a good father to his children—Hammett even allowed the poor sap to show her pictures of the little brats while he cried all over them. But she pressed him, pushing further, asking him why, if his precious family was so important, he’d taken a job where he was away from them two hundred days out of each year.
And that’s when he’d given her the real reason for his existence. The real reason for everyone’s existence.
He’d said, with elegant simplicity, “I’m trying to get to the top of the food chain.”
That resonated with Hammett, long after she put the bullet through his eye.
She smiles with the memory of this epiphany. Human beings are creatures forged by evolution. We exist because natural selection deemed us the strongest. So it makes perfect sense for each of us to attain as much power as we can, to be the strongest of all.
Hammett has almost everything she wants. A job that pays well and lets her indulge her sadistic streak, nice clothing to wear, expensive toys to play with, and any man she desires, whether he is willing or not.
But she doesn’t have true power. The power only felt by the heads of state. The power over entire countries, deciding who lives and who dies.
That is the pinnacle of Darwinian evolution. That’s what drives kings and dictators and presidents. That’s what forges nations and shapes history.
That’s what Hammett wants.
And very soon, she’ll have it. The transceiver is the key to ultimate power. All that stands in her way is her sister. A sister who is weaker than Hammett in every possible way.
Hammett climbs the last few stairs and reaches the door to the apartment. She slips inside, silent as death. Almost immediately, she sees the man on the sofa, his pants undone, his arm handcuffed to the radiator.
The sight makes her laugh out loud.
“Well… what do we have here?”
“At some time, you may encounter intel that is so big, so important, it will be difficult to act,” The Instructor said. “You need to file that away, process it later. Don’t let anything impede your ability to function. If you do, you’re dead.”
The Instructor studied my reflection in the rear view mirror. “Remember when I
said you were my second best student? Hammett was number one.”
I shifted in my seat. His voice held a note of awe, something I found almost more disturbing than his words.
“She’s the perfect operative, the perfect assassin, because she lacks something that you have.” He paused, as if allowing me to soak in what he was saying, or to ask him to continue.
I didn’t bite. Instead I focused on the whoosh of passing cars, the odor of the sedan’s worn leather seats, a woman strolling by talking on her cell phone.
“Do you remember the cows?” he eventually asked.
I offered a slight nod. A day didn’t go by where I didn’t remember those poor cows.
“The first time I ordered Hammett to kill one, she didn’t shoot it in the head. She shot its legs out, then used my knife to slit its throat.”
I filed those images away, not letting myself absorb them, not allowing my emotions to react.
“Hammett isn’t held back by the trappings of humanity. Because of that, she’s willing to do things you’re unable to. She lacks the conscience you have, which makes her a very dangerous opponent. She has all of your training and none of your boundaries.” His eyes bored into mine. “Whatever she’s after, we can’t let her get it. Even if it means our deaths.”
I watched The Instructor through narrowed eyes. When I was in training, he’d known the answer to every question, understood every motivation, seen through every defense. Where Hammett was concerned, he seemed to be at a loss, as if he was struggling to catch up, like me.
“So how do I stop her when I don’t even know what she’s after? Kill her?”
“If you have the opportunity, take it. But she’s smart, and she’s been planning for a long time. She’s also persuasive. When Hammett went rogue, she was able to recruit her sisters to help her. So far, her only mistake has been underestimating you. But she’s learning, fast. Chandler… where is the phone your handler gave you?”
Jack Kilborn & Ann Voss Peterson & J. A. Konrath Page 11
