Naughty (7 page)

She could do the hundred meter dash in about thirteen seconds, the hundred and fifty in twenty. As she ran, Hammett put herself in the sniper’s mind.

The target is gone. Find her. What the hell, she’s running right at me? Lock on. Squeeze.

Hammett veered left, and sure enough a gunshot boomed from ahead, but it was a miss. She got back on track.

Eject the cartridge and reload. Locate the target again. Lead her. Squeeze.

A sharp turn right. Another shot. Another miss. Even better, Hammett had seen the muzzle flash, and knew where her attacker was. A van parked at the end of a street at a T intersection, back door halfway open. Less than sixty meters away, she headed toward the van.

Last shot, then I have to get out of here. Eject and reload. Locate target. Squeeze.

Another veer right. A shot and a miss. The side panel door slammed closed as Hammett got within twenty meters. The van was going to bolt.

And go where?

If Hammett had been the shooter, she would have plotted the escape route. Don’t drive east into the rising sun; glare could fuck up a quick getaway. That meant west toward the harbor.

So Hammett stopped chasing the van and cut west, anticipating where it would wind up. She pulled her other 1911 and beat the van up the street, skidding to a stop and firing into the windshield at the driver.

The van made a hard right, tires screeching, but it was too top-heavy and rolled. It hit its side, skidding across the pavement, and crashed into a parked car.

Sirens shrieked in the distance, and at least a dozen people, on the sidewalks and in traffic, watched, slack-jawed. Ignoring them, Hammett ran to the van, going in through the rear door, crouching and ready to fire, and coming face-to-face with…

Holy shit.
Except for the hair, which was shorter and dyed red, and the gun, a Mauser rifle instead of two .45s, Hammett could have been looking into a mirror.

Her double appeared shocked, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, which was probably how Hammett also looked. Then they both reacted, the woman bringing up her weapon, and Hammett slapping her upside the skull with one and a half kilos of 1911.

The double went down, and Hammett aimed, both fingers on both triggers.

“Are you okay?”

She swung one gun around, to the man behind her. Young, fit, yuppie in a suit on his way to some boring 9 to 5 job, stopping to help. He immediately raised his hands. Hammett saw his car parked a few meters back, a Lexus, still running.

Hammett cleared her head of all the confusion, all the questions, emptying her mind like dumping water from a glass, and immediately reverted to her training.

“She’s hurt,” Hammett said. “Get her into the car.”

The guy didn’t move. Hammett fired over his head.

“The car!”

She tucked away one gun and grabbed the rifle, The good Samaritan lifted the unconscious sniper and brought her to the Lexus. Hammett opened the rear door.

“Put her in the backseat, on her stomach.”

He complied.

“Do you have jumper cables?”

“In the trunk.”

She considered shooting him. It was a practical thing to do, because he’d seen her up close, and he’d no doubt report the car stolen the moment she took off. But the clerk at the convenience store had seen her as well, and so had the store’s surveillance cameras. Hammett was trained at keeping her head down when video was being recorded, but when the shooting started that hadn’t been her main priority, and her face could have been caught on tape. It would take the authorities a while to sort everything out, but killing him would make them a lot more eager to catch her, and there were at least a dozen witnesses watching. It would be impractical to kill them all.

“I need your wallet and your cell phone,” Hammett said. He handed them over, looking appropriately frightened. She put his things in her jacket and pouted, sticking out her lower lip. “Don’t fret, lover. Think about the story you’ll be able to tell the boys back at the office.”

Then, on impulse, she grabbed his tie, tugged him close, and kissed him, jamming her tongue into his mouth, then shoving him backward onto his ass. She climbed into the Lexus, floored it, and took off down the street.

Ten blocks later, confident she wasn’t being followed, she pulled into an alley and got out. Hammett took the battery out of the man’s cell phone, pocketed it again, and then got the jumper cables from the trunk. Her doppelganger was still unconscious. Hammett patted her down, finding nothing, then hogtied her with the cables, tight as she could.

She needed someplace private to think, and get some answers. Luckily it was still early morning, and the place she had in mind wouldn’t be open for a few hours. Hammett did a search on her GPS, set her coordinates, and was there in six minutes.

The parking lot was empty; a good sign. Hammett pulled up to the front door, noting the open and closing times. Assuming an employee got here an hour before opening, she still had plenty of time to get some questions answered. Driving around back, Hammett let herself into the building using the tire iron in the trunk of the Lexus. Once she opened the door, she was greeted by an explosion of welcome noise.

Barking.

Hi, puppies.

Hammett went back to the car, heaved up the sniper in a fireman’s carry, and took her into the shelter. She found the shower area where the animals were given their flea baths, and set the woman down on the concrete floor, near the drain. Part of her wanted to go exploring, pet some dogs and cats, maybe feed a few. Perhaps she would, when she finished the interrogation. Right now, she had to figure out what her twin knew.

Hammett used several leashes to better bind her intended victim then searched the office cabinets for pet meds, finding a cache. She did a quick cleaning of her shoulder wound, judged it didn’t require stitches, and taped on a bandage. Then Hammett kept searching meds until she found the supply of epinephrine. Dogs and cats, like people, sometimes suffered from anaphylaxis and needed cardiac resuscitation, and the EpiPen worked similarly for all mammals. It took three shots to wake the woman up, and when she roused, she threw up all over the floor.

Hammett used the hose attached to the wall to wash the vomit away, giving her enemy a cold soaking at the same time. Then she shut off the water, sat on her haunches, and stared at the woman.

The resemblance was startling.

“You know how this works,” Hammett said. “I ask you questions and hurt you if I don’t get the answers.”

The woman cleared her throat and spat, then said, “Who are you?”

Hammett shook her head. “You’re confused. I’m the one who asks the questions.”

Hammett reached over to the sniper’s bound hands, stretched out one of her fingers, and bent it until it snapped.

The woman screamed. Dogs howled.

“Did you get plastic surgery to look like me?”

The sniper looked at her, defiant. “No. I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“The only work I’ve had done are these,” Hammett patted her breasts.

“ They look good.”

“Thanks.”

“I always wondered what I’d look like with bigger tits. I guess now I know.”

This had to be one of the more surreal interrogations Hammett had ever conducted. Like asking questions of herself in the mirror. “Why do you look like me?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got as many questions as you do.”

“But I’m asking the questions.”

“Fine. You’ve established that. So will you let me tell you something rather than asking?”

“Technically that was a question, but go ahead.”

“I was adopted.”

Hammett had also been adopted. Could the sniper really be her sister?

Now it made more sense why Heath thought they knew each other. He’d banged this woman in Vegas, and had confused Hammett for her.

“Who sent you?” Hammett asked.

The woman hesitated, then said, “We’re obviously related. And by the way you came at me, I’m guessing we had similar training. If so, you know I’ve been trained to resist interrogation for as long as possible, because I know when it’s over I’ll be killed. But something isn’t right here. You’re obviously my sister, or a clone. And I don’t know why I was sent to kill you.”

“Who sent you?”

“I’m Clancy. I work for a government organization called Hydra. I was sent by my handler, who I never met. He’s just a voice on the phone. Codename: Isaac.”

It was a lot for Hammett to absorb. This woman—probably related—had the same training and worked for the same group.

“Who trained you?” Hammett asked.

“He didn’t have a name. I knew him as The Instructor.”

Curiouser and curiouser. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I arrived in San Diego yesterday. Isaac called, gave me your location at the rental car place. I followed you to the shop.”

“What were your orders?”

“Sanction, with extreme prejudice. But I was told to stay at least a hundred meters away at all times. Now I know why.”

Because up close, you’d realize you were killing your sister.

Targets didn’t have faces or features through a scope. They were just walking bullseyes. But Isaac was apparently worried about a face-to-face meet.

Hammett asked more questions, and Clancy answered. When there was nothing left to say, Hammett took the scalpel from her pocket and did what she needed to do.

The flight to Atlanta had cost six hundred bucks. But Clancy, like Hammett, sewed money into the seams of her clothing, and Hammett had enough for the plane ticket, a mediocre airport Denver omelet, and taxi fare to her safe house in Buckhead, with a bit left over.

Knowing her former employer was gunning for her made Hammett edgy, and returning to one of her safe houses was a risky move. But there was only one way to call off the hit—kill Isaac. Even if he wanted a truce, she’d never trust the bastard again. But Hammett didn’t know where Isaac was, or even who Isaac was. Only one person in the world, other than Isaac, had that information.

The Instructor.

Of course, like Isaac, The Instructor was also an enigma. Or so he thought. Because Hammett had figured out how to find The Instructor.

The problem was that the key to finding him was at her Atlanta safe house. And there was a high likelihood Isaac had a reception planned for her when she arrived.

Hammett had the cab drop her off two blocks from her address, in front of a drug store. Inside she bought a Braves baseball cap, a windbreaker, a box cutter, and some cheap mirror sunglasses, and a Chipwich, since she’d been gypped out of the last one back in San Diego.

She put on the hat and glasses, and while eating the ice cream she took a circuitous path to her apartment, spiraling in one block at a time, taking everything in. She pretended to be talking into her stolen cell phone while she walked, stopping often to yell nonsense into it while she was actually checking out parked cars, open windows, and people on the street. When Clancy failed to check in, that would raise red flags with Isaac. If he was smart—and all indications pointed to him being just that—he’d send a team this time instead of a lone hitter. So besides paying attention to singles, Hammett also focused on pairs.

Was that really two guys arguing sports, or were they killers waiting for her to show up?

Was  that couple holding hands really married, or were they on the lookout?

This type of recon was slow and arduous, but in the cat and mouse game the odds were better if you played the cat. Hammett wanted to spot them before they spotted her, and that meant taking her time and being careful. But even as careful as she was being, she almost missed it.

Just fifty meters in front of her house, standing at the bus stop across the street; a woman, wearing jeans and a white poncho wrap which made her upper body shapeless, a floppy sunhat, and sunglasses.

Reflective sunglasses, just like Hammett wore.

The woman spotted Hammett a moment after Hammett spotted her. They stared at each other for a moment as cars passed between them. Hammett knew this woman was after her, knew she was armed, and wished she’d had a more substantial weapon than a drugstore box cutter, having ditched her guns before boarding the flight. She had a weapon cache in another part of town, in a safe deposit box in a bank in Five Points, but her ID for that box was in her safe house. Bringing a box cutter to a gunfight was just plain stupid, and Hammett was considering sprinting away when the woman did something unusual. She shrugged, held out her palms, and mouthed, “What are you doing?”

Almost as if she recognizes me. Does she think I’m Clancy?

Clancy had spilled her guts about many things during their time together, but she hadn’t mentioned working with another female assassin.

The woman in the poncho began to cross the street, but Hammett didn’t detect any threat in her gait or posture. Hammett matched her nonchalant stance, and was grateful she had the sunglasses on because as the women neared, Hammett got even more confused.

This woman looks exactly like me.

She immediately wondered if it was Clancy, but that was impossible.

Which meant this had to be yet another twin.

Make that triplets.

Hydra.

Hammett considered the name of her secret government organization. A hydra was a mythical Greek dragon with seven heads. Why seven? Could Hydra have actually trained seven identical women to be operatives?

Hammett bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood, and let some dribble down her lips. When the twin approached, Hammett dropped to one knee, feigning an injury. A moment later she was being helped up and led to a car parked on the corner, a Chevy rental. The woman helped Hammett into the passenger seat, then got behind the wheel and buckled up.

“Hit me from behind,” Hammett said.

“Isaac said she was good. Did you finish her?”

Hammett nodded and then coughed, spattering the windshield with blood.