Naughty

by J. A. Konrath

  Hammett glanced to the others, hoping their timing was better.

  The security room that Ludlum had entered was not covered by a camera, but the one on her jacket lapel showed the three guards all checking the cables and her palming a degausser wand that was half up her sleeve. Looking a little bit like a flat curling iron, the wand was powerful for its size, could scramble the security recordings in short order, wiping the hard drives. Of course, degaussing didn’t actually erase data, but it changed the alignment of magnetic data storage systems so that the data itself was unrecoverable.

  When Ludlum was finished, there would be no record of Follett’s four duplicates ever having been at the house. And if the rest of the night went as planned, and The Instructor came through on his end, no one would look deeply enough into Burling’s death to realize Follett was in so many places at the same time. Especially since no one but Isaac knew who Follett really was.

  On the next section of the laptop screen, Clancy had stripped down to nothing but a thong and draped her jacket in order to give Hammett a good view. For a second, Hammett marveled at Clancy’s body, identical to Forsyth’s, identical to hers, in every detail; even down to the mole just below the nipple of her left breast.

  Amazing.

  Then she focused on that bastard Burling.

  The man she knew as Isaac.

  Completely naked but only half aroused, he looked fairly fit for a middle aged guy. He showed a few signs of his obvious zeal for partying, the broken capillaries crisscrossing his nose, a little puffiness under his eyes. But all in all, he had the waxed and groomed sheen of a metrosexual man with power.

  Clancy stroked his still soft length, then fashioned her lips into a pout. “I have just what you need, baby.”

  “I’ll bet you do. I have to say, you’re the best bodyguard I’ve ever been assigned. What branch of the government did you say you worked for?”

  “Right now, I’m working for you. And I’m very good at my job.”

  Hammett shook her head. How many double-cross and sexual entendres was that? Four at once? Clancy knew Burling was Isaac, and Burling thought Clancy was Follett, whom he assigned to guard himself. If it got any more complicated, it would become some sort of Shakespearean farce.

  Clancy grasped the necklace draping between her breasts. A small cylinder-shaped piece of amethyst, the pendant wasn’t actually stone at all. She gave the end a twist, and it detached from the chain. Then she held out the cocaine to Burling.

  “This stuff is dynamite. A nice little pick me up.” She toyed with him as she said the words.

  He screwed off the cap and pulled out the tiny spoon attached, covered in white powder. “Oh, you know what I like, don’t you?”

  Clancy giggled, keeping her hands stroking as he snorted the cocaine into one nostril then the other.

  Hammett scanned the garden. No Follett, she checked Forsyth. The last thing she needed was the guard she’d been taking care of wandering around when Follett showed.

  Forsyth and her Romeo were sitting on the floor, Forsyth pushing her bottle of whiskey to his mouth.

  He finally took a few gulps then shoved her hand away. “I’ve got to go.”

  “What? I didn’t even get mine.”

  “Some other time, babe.”

  “Really? You’re one of those guys? Your poor wife.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to do my job.”

  She set down the whiskey. “You’re right. And your job right now is to get me off.”

  In a flash of movement, Forsyth had the guy’s back pinned to the floor. Holding his shoulders down with her feet, she lowered herself down onto his mouth.

  “Well,” said Hammett into Forsyth’s ear piece. “That’s one way to shut him up.”

  Hammett figured she had at least another thirty seconds before Follett arrived. She aimed the scancorder to her left. One and the dog, just standing there. Maybe having a smoke. To the right—

  —Follett threw open the door and attacked the moment Hammett read her heartbeat, leaping through the air in a Muay Thai cobra punch. Hammett barely had time to lean back, and Follett pulled the strike and actually ran up Hammett’s body like it was a tree, placing a foot on Hammett’s thigh and driving a knee into her chin.

  Hammett tumbled backwards, knocking over a crate of vegetables and spices, the bright stars in the night sky shining through the glass roof joined by the ones swimming in her vision.

  She managed to roll into a crouch, reaching for the Taser X26 in her belt holster, raising it and having it immediately batted aside, coming lose from her grip and falling into a bed of flowers. Then Follett began to rain down punches.

  Hammett tried to catch a wrist, but Follett was too fast and too strong. Hammett went for a foot sweep, and Follett side-stepped it and then sun-kicked Hammett in the cheek.

  She rolled with the impact, coming to her feet, instinctively throwing a punch that hit nothing but air.

  “Follett, stop,” Hammett said. “Paula just got back from Queens.”

  Follett paused at the code. “Who are you? Isaac?”

  Hammett considered saying yes. But she hadn’t been privy to the conversations Isaac had had with Follett, and didn’t want to be caught in a lie.

  “I’m Hammett, your twin sister. The Instructor sent me. We both work for Hydra.”

  Hammett was hit in the eyes with six hundred lumens. A tactical flashlight.

  “Jesus, you look just like me.”

  “Light off,” Hammett said, shielding her face from the glare. “We don’t want to attract the guard.”

  “He knows me.”

  “And how will he act if he sees two of you?”

  Follett switched off the beam. Hammett kept her hands up where Follett could see them.

  “I was ordered to recruit you.” Hammett studied her, and didn’t see her concealed carry. Which meant it was either in an ankle holster under her jeans, or tucked into her waistband at the small of her back. “Are you armed?”

  “Of course I’m armed. And I don’t work for The Instructor.”

  “You do now.”

  Follett shook her head. “Isaac is my contact. If you really did have the same training I did, you know The Instructor told us to trust no one, including him.”

  “Things have gotten complicated. Isaac has been compromised.”

  “And I’m supposed to take your word for that?”

  “Not just mine. There are more of us.”

  “Of us?”

  “Us. Sisters. We’re septuplets.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Hammett’s back stiffened. The defiance and mistrust she sensed in Follett were no doubt a prelude to another attack.

  “Isaac was my handler, too. He tried to kill me. The Instructor is taking Hydra away from Isaac. That’s what tonight is about.”

  “Why try to recruit me here? Now? Why did you…”

  Hammett saw her put it all together.

  “This is a sanction,” Follett stated. “Are you saying Burling is Isaac?”

  Hammett nodded, watching closely for a change in her sister’s stance.

  “Bullshit. He’s just a senator.”

  “He ordered you to guard him, to protect him from us. You’re an assassin, Follett. We all are. How many times have you been ordered to protect a politician?”

  “I… I need to talk to Burling.”

  Shit. Hammett read it in Follett’s posture, heard it in her tone. She’d slept with him already. Possibly even liked him. And now an alleged twin she’d just met was going to compromise Follett’s mission and challenge Follett’s direct orders. Hammett immediately realized she was going to lose this argument, and that Follett was going to draw her weapon and shoot her. After all, it’s what she would do if the roles were reversed.

  So—tempting fate for the third time in as many days—Hammett ran directly at a sister who was trying to shoot her.

  Follett drew like an Old West gunslinger, the weapon appearing
in her hand so fast Hammett didn’t see the movement. But she’d anticipated it, getting into Follett’s head, predicting exactly where the gun would be when it came out, striking at that spot.

  Hammett’s fist connected with the inside of Follett’s forearm, a two-knuckled blow that hit both the ulnar and median nerves. Her hand opened on reflex, and Hammett kicked the weapon away then spun around, catching Follett on the cheek with the back of her fist.

  Follett staggered back, putting up her hands to defend herself, and Hammett attacked her body like it was a heavy bag; left kidney, right kidney, stomach, ribs, ribs, finishing up with an uppercut.

  Follett slipped the last punch, then lowered a shoulder and sprang forward, driving Hammett to the ground.

  Hammett was better at sparring than wrestling, and according to The Instructor, Follett was a near-unbeatable grappler. She immediately proceeded with a full mount, a maneuver Hammett recognized from Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Once in the power position, Follett immediately began to work her knees up into Hammett’s armpits, ready to apply a stranglehold or an arm bar.

  Hammett couldn’t let that happen. If she did, she’d get bones broken at best, choked to death at worst.

  Follett was up too high to bridge her over with a raised knee, and she was moving down to cinch the neck lock.

  Electrified with panic, Hammett almost made the mistake of trying to claw at Follett’s face, which would just give her sister more leverage and a stronger advantage.

  Remember, it’s not about lifting your opponent. Just lift your own body to escape.

  Hammett slipped her right elbow under her sister’s thigh and managed to get her left shoulder up. Then she swung her foot over Follett’s leg and locked her ankle, at the same time grabbing her armpit and rolling over.

  Reversal, Hammett on top.

  Unlike her grappler sister, Hammett didn’t attempt a hold or lock. She knew she couldn’t win on the ground against a superior opponent. So instead she opted for an escape, kicking her legs away, getting to her feet—

  —Follett caught her foot—

  —and Hammett face planted onto the dropped crate of vegetables.

  Twisting onto her back, Hammett reached out one hand for Follett’s inevitable mount, the other groping through the scattered vegetables for something she hoped would be there.

  Still grasping Hammett’s leg, Follett bent it sideways and dropped onto Hammett, knocking away her arm. Then she went for an unconventional move, driving her knee into Hammett’s neck.

  As unconsciousness zeroed in, Hammett’s free hand found what she sought. She squeezed, then flung it, jalapeño pepper seeds, pulp, and juice splattering across Follett’s face.

  Follett continued to press down, apparently trained to ignore the pain just as Hammett had been. But she couldn’t open her eyes with capsaicin in them, and Hammett lifted her leg and to the side—not dissimilar to the yoga position Eka Pada Koundiyanasana 2—and was able to reach the Beretta in her ankle holster.

  Hammett shot Follett in the shoulder—the suppressor screwed into the barrel making a sound like a wet cough—and when her sister recoiled she sat up and smacked the butt of the gun into Follett’s forehead.

  Follett fell backward, onto her ass. Hammett, sore as she was, kipped up and kicked Follett in the side of the head. Then she sighted the dropped Taser, scooped it up, and shot her in the leg with it, giving her a ten second pulse burst.

  Follett seized, and when the neuro muscular incapacitation and subsequent pain ended, she once again tried to sit up and attack. Hammett gave her a fifteen second jolt, and finally her sister passed out.

  That was one tough bitch.

  Exhausted and more shaken than she wanted to admit, Hammett took advantage of her unconsciousness and bound her hands and feet with plastic zip lines. Then she recovered the laptop. A quick glance showed Clancy hovering over a spasming and naked senator, the Secret Service agent by her side calling for an ambulance.

  That seemed to be going well. But what else was to be expected when good quality cocaine was blended with good quality strychnine? If Clancy had followed protocol, after Burling began to seize she’d blown more up his nostrils, ensuring his demise. A thorough autopsy would discover the poison if it was tested for, but The Instructor said he’d take care of that end. Besides, this death by natural causes bullshit was tough. If they’d wanted something completely undetectable, they should have hired that half-Japanese assassin Hammett had heard rumors about.

  Forsyth was still in the security booth, only this time she was wearing her bra and panties and pulling on the rest of her clothing. The guard was passed out on the floor, the bottle of roofied-up whiskey next to him. Shrugging on her jacket, Forsyth pulled a half empty, whiskey bottle from her bag and switched it with the drugged bottle.

  All going according to plan there, too.

  Ludlum, on the other hand, was still in the security room with her degaussing wand.

  “Ludlum?” Hammett said into her earpiece. “Get the hell out of there.”

  The shriek of an ambulance pierced the night.

  “Hurry,” Hammett added.

  “I got nothing,” one of the guards said, Ludlum’s camera showing him on hands and knees on the floor.

  Hammett heard Ludlum give a dramatic sigh. “The whole damn thing seems screwed up. I’m going to call the security company. If you two figure it out, give a yell.”

  Back up in the master bathroom, the Secret Service agent was heading out the door.

  Shit.

  “Keep him there, Clancy,” Hammett said. “A few more seconds.”

  “Where are you going?” Clancy asked.

  He paused. “I have to let the guard at the gate know.”

  Hammett glanced back at Ludlum’s progress. “Out through the living room. Now.”

  “Listen,” Clancy’s voice trembled. “I know I’m supposed to be able to handle this, but the senator and I, we’re close, and I just…” She covered her face with her hands, and when she looked up, tears trickled down her cheeks. “You have to take care of him.”

  “I need to—”

  “I’ll call down to the gate. Please. I’m a mess. I can’t do this.”

  Hammett held her breath.

  The agent nodded, and switched places with Clancy. Grabbing her phone from her jacket, Clancy slipped it on and made the call, pretending to talk to a man who was passed out on the floor of the guard booth.

  Hammett let out a breath. That was too damn close.

  The siren grew louder. Red light pulsed over the garden as the ambulance raced past. When they reached the gate, Forsyth motioned it through, wearing the guard’s uniform jacket, his hat shielding her face.

  The emergency caravan moved up the driveway to the house, and Hammett heard breathing from the edge of the lawn.

  “Just in fucking time.”

  Ludlum followed her voice, coming to a stop next to Follett’s limp body. “She dead?”

  “Unconscious. Help me carry her. We don’t have much time.”

  Ludlum taking Follett’s shoulders and Hammett her feet, they carried her to the gate and slipped through. Forsyth was waiting on the other side with the cab. Two seconds to throw Follett in the trunk and pile in, and they were on their way.

  Sitting in the passenger seat, Hammett checked the laptop. Now there was only one feed left to watch, Clancy’s. The remaining sister followed the paramedics as they wheeled Burling out the door and loaded him into the ambulance. She climbed into the passenger seat and the Secret Service agent rode in the back with the senator.

  Behind the wheel, Forsyth took an alternate route to the hospital and parked on a side street about three blocks away. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

  While Ludlum and Forsyth reviewed each step of the op, then chatted about the booth guard’s anatomy and their favorite sexual positions, Hammett watched the laptop. She was the only one not surprised when Clancy rapped on the car window ahead of schedule. Ludlum let her in th
e back seat.

  “He’s deader than hell,” Clancy said.

  Hammett smiled. Shouldn’t have fucked with me, you bastard.

  They drove to a safe house in Milwaukee that The Instructor had arranged. And when they arrived, the four circled to the back of the cab and opened the trunk.

  Follett blinked at the light of morning, streaming clear and fresh over Lake Michigan.

  “Welcome to the club, Sis,” Clancy said.

  Epilogue

  Vice President Ratzenberger sat at the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. The President was off doing some international bullshit, giving Ratzenberger much-needed private time. He came in here often when the Commander in Chief was away.

  Imagining the future.

  He put his feet up on the desk, ankles crossed, and dialed the secure number.

  “This is The Instructor,” came the monotone pick-up.

  Ratzenberger frowned. He didn’t like this man, or his methods. But he appreciated his results.

  “How’s our little project going?”

  “Hammett and her sisters have been briefed and are on board.”

  Ratzenberger was surprised. “No problems?”

  “I didn’t train them to cause problems. I trained them to solve problems.”

  The Vice President was surprised by their level of commitment in the line of duty, considering what was being asked of them. But then again, what was the point of patriotism other than to make sacrifices for your country?

  “And that asshole, Burling?” Ratzenberger asked.

  “You mean Isaac?” The Instructor chuckled, then used his electronic gizmo to change his voice. “Our people are performing the autopsy. It will be called a cocaine overdose. You not only got rid of a powerful rival, but you’ve discredited him as well.”

  It had been a masterstroke to use Hydra to eliminate Burling by telling them he was their handler, when The Instructor had been Isaac all along. Like being a double-agent for the same side. But even if they never found out, and even though their commitment seemed assured, Ratzenberger still had some doubts.

  “You aren’t concerned this is getting out of control? I saw the things Hammett has done, on the news. She’s seems like a wild card.”