[Anthology] Abby & Sei Thriller Starter

by Ty Hutchinson

  Don’t tell me...

  The map had also changed. It no longer only showed the three waypoints representing the Carlsons’ travels. There were a number of arced lines connecting many of the major cities all over the world. And each waypoint was color coordinated to a team on the leaderboard.

  No, this can’t be. Other teams! Global!

  My chest tightened instantly, erasing everything my relaxing bath had given me. A prickling sensation appeared along my arms and spread out across the rest of my body as my mind processed the information in front of me.

  A talk bubble appeared over France. It read, “Team Annihilate has completed the second Paris Attraction.”

  Is it updating in real time? Suddenly another talk bubble appeared over Northern California. That one read, “Team Carlson has completed the chase in San Francisco.”

  Nooooo! I shook my head. I didn’t want to believe, and yet I had no other choice. There was no denying what I had uncovered. Chasing Chinatown wasn’t just a game for the Carlsons; it was a game for multiple killers all around the world. Innocent people were being slaughtered so that some a-hole could be entertained. How many had suffered so far? How many more were to come? I knew right then that our investigation wasn’t over. It was only the beginning.

  Russian Hill is book one in the Chasing Chinatown trilogy. In the next installment, Lumpini Park, Abby and Kyle are faced with stopping the deadly global game, and the only way to do it is to move up the leaderboard themselves. For a preview, turn the page.

  An Excerpt from Lumpini Park

  Book Two in the Chasing Chinatown Trilogy

  The heat index that day was ninety-four degrees Fahrenheit. A fluke? Hardly. Every now and then, San Francisco becomes a hot, sticky mess—something Special Agent Scott Reilly would discover in less than forty minutes.

  The assault team consisted of twelve men from the FBI Special Weapons and Tactical Team packed into two modified civilian vans. Reilly and four other agents followed in a black SUV.

  Waverly Place was their destination, a small, alley-like street about fifty yards long, lined mostly with temples and a few shops. Mixed amongst the buildings were a couple of Chinese Benevolent Organizations, or tongs. The Hop Sing Tong was the target.

  The street was bookended by the vans, and two tactical teams approached the building on foot. The area was unusually quiet for that time of day. A blessing? More like a sign. A hushed murmur of Chinese was the only sound heard as the two teams approached the small crowd of residents that had gathered outside the tong.

  Team One was ordered to clear the crowd of looky-loos while Team Two, Reilly’s team, moved into position to breach the front door, only the lead man reported that it had already been forcibly opened.

  By the time Reilly and his men entered the tong, sweat had bubbled on his forehead, and salty streams seeped into the collar of his shirt. The Kevlar vest he had on didn’t help matters, but what really hit him hard, enough to stop him in his tracks, was the thick, metallic scent in the air.

  Reilly had found the red sticky to go with the red hot.

  Two feet into the tong lay a headless man. Reilly sidestepped the crimson pool that had poured from the severed neck. The edges had already coagulated into a gel dam, preventing further spreading. He thought of searching the man for identification but changed his mind. He’d have to step into the sticky to get close enough. He stood and shook his head at the splatter that had sprayed the whitewashed walls. What the hell happened here?

  The tactical team on the upper floors shouted Clear! faster than expected. That told him one thing—no resistance. More bodies, I imagine.

  He was right.

  What he had originally thought was the buzzing of an electrical current turned out to be an assault by another group of misfits associated with death: flies. Reilly let out a breath and turned to the bottom of the bloodstained stairs. Lead the way, my buzzing friends.

  After passing the second decapitated man, he gave up trying to avoid the blood. It’s like walking in mud; eventually, you say, “Screw it,” and give in, because what’s the point? The entire shoe would need cleaning.

  Reilly had seen a lot during his twenty years with the Bureau. Death didn’t bother him, but headless humans did. He had counted nine so far—more than enough to make him shiver under his weighted vest.

  He never understood the thought process behind choosing decapitation over the simplicity of a gun. A firearm provided distance. Decapitation was close and personal. All he could conclude was that a person who reveled in this manner of dispatching people put absolutely no value on life. How could they? It’s traumatic to see the aftermath, let alone watch it take place. Reilly couldn’t imagine being the executioner.

  He continued up the stairs as he heard the assault team’s stomping boots make their way toward him. The top floor had been cleared.

  “No threats,” said the team leader as he came into view. “Our job here is done. I’ll leave six men outside the building until SFPD can set up a contained perimeter.”

  Reilly nodded.

  The team leader took another step but stopped and grabbed Reilly by the arm. “It’s bad in there.” He motioned to what remained of a shattered door barely hanging by its hinges.

  Reilly’s intelligence indicated that the top floor was where Jing Woo held court. From the look on the team leader’s face, Reilly had a pretty good idea that questioning the elusive leader would be a no-go. He stepped through the doorway, careful not to spear his arm on a splinter.

  The room was still lit, by his count, with fifteen candles of varying heights. He didn’t see the body right away, his eyes needing a moment to adjust to the lower light levels. But once they did, it was unavoidable.

  Lying on top of a small teak table, in the middle of the room was Jing. His head, both arms, and both legs from the knees down hung off the edges. The flaps of his robe lay open, revealing his grisly death. He had been opened from sternum to pubic bone.

  Reilly took a step forward, unsure whether the shadows from the candle lighting were deceiving his eyes. They weren’t. Jing had been gutted. Only an empty cavity remained. Careful of where he stepped, Reilly moved around to the other side of the table where he discovered Jing’s innards, completely intact and left to rot.

  Later, when medical examiner Timothy Green weighed in, he said, “He was alive when his organs were removed. While the procedure was speedy and precise, I believe he felt every bit of it.” Green also reported high levels of amphetamines in Jing’s body. “Most likely used to keep him from passing out during the procedure.”

  It was obvious to Reilly that someone else had wanted Jing more than he had. Was it to punish Jing for the disorder that had taken place on his watch? Had they wanted to silence him? Who knew? This was a first for law enforcement in San Francisco. Never had the walls of Chinatown been breached. The department had moved into uncharted waters, and no one knew what to expect from the vacuum created by Jing’s death. All they could do was hope for the best.

  Start reading now.

  Contract: Snatch

  Sei Assassin Thriller #1

  They used her daughter to pull her out of retirement. They messed with the wrong mother.

  Sei abandoned her life as an assassin to try to find peace—but when contacted by a source claiming to have information about the daughter she thought she’d lost, Sei finds herself taking on one last mission. Can she unravel the truth before time runs out?

  1

  The massive beast charged out through the tangle of brush. Its two front hooves dug deep into the soft forest floor, propelling it to top speed in only a few feet. It had dark eyes, small and deep set, and a thick neck that held its mammoth head steady like a battering ram. Four-inch tusks curved upward from the sides of its mouth, popping against the coarse coat of black bristles. The mane running down its spine, a pronounced Mohawk, signaled its aggression. Its throaty growls grew louder as it closed the distance.

  In an instant, my s
enses erupted.

  Run!

  Climb!

  Fight!

  The wild boar stood larger than any I had seen in the forest. From my estimate, it had a shoulder height of at least forty inches and a weight in the high four-hundred-pound range—nearly the size of young brown bear.

  The attack triggered a tingling in my skin and threw the beats in my chest into overdrive. I lowered my head and ran toward the snarling animal. I had enough time to take the few steps needed to leap upward and tuck my body into a tight ball, rotating once before landing squarely behind it. The boar’s size didn’t hamper its agility, and it deftly pivoted, resuming its attack.

  I had expected that.

  The momentum from my somersault propelled me forward toward a birch tree, allowing me to run straight up the smooth silver trunk before pushing off with my second step. As I rotated back over the black beast, I withdrew a razor sharp knife from a sheath I had strapped to my hip. I timed my rotation perfectly and landed on the back of the boar, driving the seven inches of hardened steel into the base of its skull. The blow crippled the animal, causing its forelegs to give way, but I hadn’t killed it. And I didn’t want to leave it to suffer.

  Still thrashing its head from side to side, the boar could easily shred my arms with its sharp tusks. A throat slash to the neck would be too risky.

  Instead, I yanked the knife out and reached back to its hind legs, severing the tendon. The boar fell over to its side. I quickly grabbed the exposed front leg, lifted it up, and drove my knife deep into the soft, vulnerable armpit and into the animal’s heart. The end came quickly.

  I removed my blade and used the boar’s hair to wipe it clean. It had been only minutes ago that I ran peacefully through the forest. I couldn’t understand why the animal had decided to attack me. I looked the boar over carefully and discovered a small bullet wound near its hindquarter. It was the case of a novice hunter using an inadequate gun for such a large animal—a small caliber, most likely. Had they hit the boar anyplace else, the bullet probably would have bounced off. But it hadn’t, and the animal had run off. And into me.

  Barking dogs in the distance told me the hunting party was near, and I didn’t necessarily feel like explaining why I’d finished their job. I wasn’t that big of a meat eater, but I was sure someone would enjoy grilling the animal’s carcass. They should be thanking me, I thought as I hurried away.

  It was early autumn and colorful leaves blanketed the floor of the Ardennes forests. Mostly narrow birch trees populated the region, which sometimes gave certain areas an almost impenetrable thickness, but I knew the area fairly well and could thread through them easily. Pine trees made up the other half of the forest. Other ground vegetation consisted of lush ferns and grasses.

  That day, thick, gray clouds padded the skies, giving the forest an appearance worthy of a Grimm’s fairytale. But it was those very days that I found the forest to be at its liveliest and most serene. Experience that, and it was not hard to understand the attraction to the woods surrounding Saint-Hubert, Belgium.

  Unlike most residents of the town, I chose to live away from the center. My cottage sat on a large patch of property near the forest’s edge. I had no neighbors, well, none close enough that I would be bothered. No need to explain my existence, what I did, or why a single woman chose to live alone in the woods. Those were questions nosy individuals asked, and I had no intention of revealing information about myself to anyone. I relished my privacy. Living like a hermit was justifiable if I wanted to stay alive.

  I picked up the pace for the remainder of my run. Boar blood had splattered on my insulated running pants, and I was keen to wash it out. At about two hundred yards out from my property, I slowed down. It was the same careful approach I had always taken when returning home.

  With the cottage in view, I stuck to a thicket of waist-high ferns and slowly circled the property. My skin prickled, thanks to the chilly autumn weather and the diminishing effects of my run. My body had cooled faster than normal, and I wanted badly to jump into a warm bath, but I stuck to my protocol.

  From behind a tree, I scanned each window carefully, looking for movement. It wasn’t a big house: two bedrooms, two baths, an office, a cozy living room, and kitchen. I had the attached garage remodeled into a training space: mirrored walls and padded floors. Various punching and grappling dummies, even a wooden Wing Chun training dummy. Free weights and a stationary bike rounded out the remaining equipment.

  I was confident that those who knew of me didn’t know I called this idyllic town home, but still, I took precautions as I moved closer. I had gone through great lengths to establish this safe house, and I preferred not to leave anything to chance.

  Satisfied, I moved toward the back door. I never entered from the front. People get killed entering their homes from the front. Happens all the time.

  2

  Once inside, I walked the premises like always before stripping down, throwing my clothes into the washing machine, and stepping into the shower. Under the rush of warm water, I stood still, arms resting against my sides and my head tilted forward. My hair clung to my face, neck, and back as the soothing water lulled me into a standing coma. I allowed myself another thirty seconds of bliss before lathering and washing the day’s grit off of my body.

  I towel-dried my hair in the warmth of the bathroom. It was long, hovering just above my lower back. Up until two years ago, I’d never allowed it to grow beyond my shoulders. It was less of a liability at that length. But since I had stopped accepting contracts, I relaxed that rule.

  I picked out a matching set of black lingerie from my dresser drawer; I loved how the color popped against my skin. As I stood nude in front of the mirror clutching my panties, I stared at the barely visible four-inch horizontal scar above my pubic bone. Although it was barely visible, it was still the only thing I saw when I looked at my stomach. I pushed the thought from my head and finished dressing.

  The sun had set, but I wasn’t one to keep all the lights on. I switched off the bedroom light and navigated to the kitchen in the dark, turning on the small lamp above the sink. I put a kettle of water on the stove and switched it on before opening a Mason jar I kept on the counter. Into a hand-painted, porcelain teapot I put two pinches of premium jasmine tealeaves before retrieving a five-inch tactical push blade I kept in the drawer. I placed it on the counter next to me.

  “Haven’t you heard the saying that you shouldn’t bring a knife to a gunfight?” said a male voice from the darkened hallway behind me.

  “Just because you’re inferior with knives does not mean I am,” I said, my back still facing the hallway.

  A floorboard creaked. “How did you know I was here?” the voice asked.

  “I spotted you outside, in the tree.”

  “Is that so?”

  I turned around, and my lips widened into a smile. Standing in the kitchen doorway was my childhood friend, Long. “I thought you would have come inside sooner.”

  “One of these days, I’ll approach you unseen.” He moved into the kitchen and threw both arms around me, giving me a mighty bear hug. “Sei, it’s really good to see you.”

  It had been nearly five years since we last saw each other. From the ages of five to fifteen, we were nearly inseparable. We were both orphaned and taken in by the same clan of assassins and raised as such. That link kept us joined at the hip throughout our childhood and most of our teen years. We both also specialized in high-value targets. There were plenty of run-of-the-mill assassins for hire if a jealous wife had enough of a cheating husband, but we were a rarer breed.

  “You hair is longer,” he said, still grasping me.

  My head was turned to the side, resting against his chest. “Do you like it?”

  He pulled back a bit, and I watched his brown eyes trace my forehead, down the side of my cheek and to my shoulders before he gently spun me around. “I like it. It’s…silky.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It looks goo
d on you but it’s…”

  “A liability?”

  Long smiled that same crooked grin. “So fill me in? No one has seen or heard from you in a while, including me. You’re not working; I know that much.”

  The kettle whistled, interrupting our reunion. I switched it off and poured water into the teapot and covered it. “What have you heard?”

  “Eh, it’s a little slow to tell you the truth,” he said, running his hand through his short black hair. “It’s those damn drones. People are anxious and would rather just bomb an entire building to get a target. There’s an art to being an assassin, it’s a—”

  “I’m not talking about work.”

  “Oh…you mean the other thing.”

  A few years ago, the figurehead and leader of our family of assassins had been killed. We called her Ma.

  “Most think Ma was killed by an FBI agent during an investigation.” Long’s eyes darted away from my gaze and to the floor. “But you know how it is. People are wondering because, you know, you were with her and then you disappeared.”

  “And you? What is it that you believe?”

  “Come on, Sei. You know I support you no matter what. I don’t care what the answer is. Never had an opinion on it.”

  “Surely you’re wondering why I went underground.”

  “Look, we all live off the grid, but what I don’t get is why you stopped working. You were in such high demand.”

  I grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and filled them with tea. “It wasn’t easy, but I felt like I needed time to think.”

  Long blew into his cup before taking a sip. “Mmmm, you always have good tea. Nothing like the cheap stuff I’m used to slurping.”