"It Takes an Assassin To Protect an Assassin"
Reviewed by Kathyrn Little
Posted June 18, 2012
Suspense
Anya is proof that you can reinvent yourself. A former
assassin, Anya decided she was done with the business and
becomes Anna Smith. She literally pretends to die for her
new life, a devotion that she continues to show throughout
PLAY NICE. Nick Dade is an
assassin for hire. When he receives the latest assignment,
he follows Anna before deciding that it is time to complete
his task. Little does he know that there are more forces
involved than he could ever have realized. He must decide
whether to go through with his dirty deed or to try to
discover who is behind the plot to kill Anya...besides
himself. Nick is a good character. At first, you may not
like him; however, more likely than not, you will
warm up to him. It seems odd that anyone could consider
killing people just "taking care of a job," but
Halliday reinforces that idea in readers' heads. The
characters, especially Anya, become characters that readers
really care about. Though PLAY NICE does not focus
on romance, the reader does receive a healthy dose of
tension and the possibility of love. Anya and Nick are
certainly not looking for the love of their life when the
mission begins, but they might
just get that chance after all. If you're a fan of Gemma Halliday you should pick up PLAY
NICE. If you're looking for an action packed novel that
combines mystery with a hint of romance than PLAY NICE might
also be for you.
SUMMARY
She faked her death to escape life as an assassin. But now
her enemies have tracked her down, and this time they want
her to stay dead.
Anya Danielovich was an assassin in her former life. But
that was a long time ago. Today she’s just Anna Smith—a
single, thirtysomething woman living in San Francisco with
a simple desire to lead a better life. But she’s still
haunted by her past—the people she killed, the mentor she
betrayed, the woman she was. She’s taken care to cover her
tracks, but she’s beginning to feel like she’s being
watched...
Nick Dade is a hired gunman—the best of the best. He’s read
Anya’s file and, after weeks of surveillance, he’s ready to
pull the trigger…until someone else beats him to the punch.
With his agenda shattered, Nick suddenly finds himself
thrown together with the woman he’s been sent to eliminate.
Who is she really? Who hired the second hit? And who can he
trust? Together Nick and Anna find themselves embroiled in
a web of deceit and desire as an unknown enemy closes in.
To unravel the truth, Anna must face her past even if that
means risking both Nick’s life and her own.
ExcerptPrologue"Take it off."
Anya looked across the over–furnished room at the
man who'd issued the command. General Fedorov. Fifties,
salt and pepper hair, eyes as dark as two bottomless pits.
He took a deceptively casual position, leaning back in a
plush, velvet armchair, one leg crossed over the other.
But Anya wasn't fooled. She could see the tension still
present in his limbs, as if he were ready to pounce at the
slightest provocation. He held a lit cigar in one hand,
the cloyingly sweet scent tickling her nostrils as she
complied, slipping the strap of her dress down her right
shoulder, then the left. She shimmed her hips until it
fell to the floor, leaving her bare beneath his gaze but
for the red, patent leather heels on her feet.
"Like this?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Fedorov nodded, looked her up and down. A flicker of
appreciation crossed his sharp features. He took another
long drag from the cigar, as if dragging in the sight of
her, then slowly blew it up toward the ceiling.
"Come closer."
Her stomach clenched. But she did. Her long legs
crossing the distance between them until she was standing
directly in front of him, so close she could feel the heat
emanating from his body.
"And now?" she asked.
"Kneel down."
Again, Anya did as she was told, her bare knees hitting
the cool marble floor. She swallowed a shot of
apprehension, noticing the growing bulge beneath his
tailored slacks.
You've done this a thousand times before. You can do it
again.
One last time.
"And now?" she asked. Even though she knew full well
what "and now" would be. They'd been watching him for
weeks. They knew his habits, his mannerisms, what kind of
soap he washed with in the morning and what color socks he
wore at night. What kind of cigars he smoked and what kind
of recreation he indulged in. Blondes. Expensive ones.
If they were lucky, he let them leave in the morning.
Others became just another casualty of war.
Fedorov reached out, trailing a finger down Anya's
cheek. His hands were rough, calloused, like him. She
shivered but leaned into his touch all the same, doing a
kitten–like mew deep in her throat. He gave an
answering groan, telling her she'd done her research well.
He liked.
His hand left her face, and Anya could swear she felt
her skin sigh in relief. Fedorov moved to set his cigar
down, his free hand reaching for his zipper.
"No. Let me," Anya purred, sliding her hands up the
expensive wool fabric that covered his thighs. "Please,"
she begged.
A smirk crossed his features before he picked up his
cigar again.
He liked it when they begged.
She smiled up at him, holding his eyes as she slowly
lowered his zipper. She did another feminine coo, letting
her eyes flicker to him as she licked her lips.
He chuckled, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes
in anticipation.
Anya's heart pounded in her chest, her hands shook. No
matter how many times she did this, nerves always hit her.
She supposed some small part of her was glad. At least it
was a sign she was still human, still had some notion of
right and wrong. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath.
Then quickly thrust the zipper back upward, jamming
Fedorov's scrotum in the sharp teeth.
He howled, hands going to his crotch as he jumped to his
feet.
But not quickly enough. Anya's right hand shot out and
grabbed the double action revolver he always kept strapped
to his right ankle. She didn't hesitate, didn't think,
didn't feel.
Just aimed and pulled the trigger.
The first shot took out his right knee, sending him to
the ground just long enough for Anya to put some distance
between them. She backed up, quickly firing off another to
his temple. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, and
the room was plunged into eerie silence.
Two deep breaths, in and out. Anya's heart pounded in
her ears, her hands steady now as they held the revolver
straight–armed in front of her. Mission
accomplished. It was done.
And done well.
She could almost hear the praise of her handler's voice
echoing in her head.
Perfect shot, my dragi, my darling. Now get out.
Three seconds. She knew in three seconds his bodyguards
would be at the door. A quiet syringe to the neck would
have made escape easier, but in the skimpy dress Fedorov
had wanted her to wear there'd been nowhere to hide it.
She'd had to work with what she had on hand. Noisy as it
was.
Two seconds.
Anya grabbed her dress, slipping it back over her head
as she dove for the pair of French doors leading onto the
balcony. She quickly pushed one open. But instead of
jumping toward freedom she slipped behind the heavy, velvet
curtain at its side, holding her breath.
She heard the doors to the general's bedroom burst open,
a cacophony of shouting voices drowning each other out as
bodyguards swarmed the room. Anya closed her eyes, trying
to make out how many. Three. Maybe four? Heavy footsteps
hit the polished floor, running to the body, down the hall,
toward the French doors. She was sure her heart was
pounding loudly enough to match the stomping rhythm of
their boots.
The scent of cheap cologne warned her one of the
Russians was approaching her hiding spot. She closed her
eyes, letting her knuckles go white as they tightened
around the revolver.
He shouted something to his pals, so close that his
voice made her jump. He'd noticed the open door. More
footsteps, leading out onto the balcony. More shouting. A
thin line of sweat trickled down Anya's back as she
clutched the gun to her thigh. If they found her, she was
done. She was good, but three to one were odds no one
could escape from. Especially when the three were trained
killers.
Then again, what am I?
She shoved that thought deep into the recesses of her
brain, focusing instead on the commands one Russian was
shouting to the others. She wasn't fluent, but she'd
picked up enough of the language to understand he was
telling them she'd escaped, over the balcony. Go find her.
Three pairs of feet pounded out of the room, receding
down the hallway.
She waited, counting off two beats before daring to move
a muscle. Slowly, she drew back the curtain, using
reflections in the windowpane to check the room. The
general's lifeless body lay slumped in the middle of the
floor.
Alone.
She sprang into action, adrenalin pumping through her
limbs as she crossed the room, out the door, running left,
opposite the exit, she knew. Deeper into the compound, but
farther away from the expanse of property outside the
general's bedroom window where the bodyguards would now be
searching for her. The sound of her heels pounding with
practiced speed was muffled by thick carpeting as she
counted the doors she passed. Three, four. She'd been
studying the blueprint of the house for weeks, but she
still held her breath as she passed the fifth door and
slowed, opening number six and slipping inside.
An empty office. Just as it was supposed to be.
She quickly shut the door with a soft click behind her,
hearing her own ragged breath fill the silence. The room
was dark, moonlight filtering through the window the only
light. Anya blinked, letting her eyes adjust. The windows
faced east, toward the woods, beyond which ran a little
used road where a car awaited her. Her handler had set up
surveillance on the road to monitor every person who'd gone
in or out of Fedorov's compound for weeks. All she had to
do was get to the car, and she knew they'd all be watching
her on their monitors from their big, safe room that, as
far as anyone knew, didn't really exist. Her handler, the
generals, the faceless men who controlled her fate.
And she'd finally be safe.
She paused, put her ear to the door, praying she didn't
hear the telltale pounding of feet behind her.
Nothing.
She crossed to the window, lifting it open. The bite of
night air stung her cheeks, giving her instant goosebumps
in the flimsy dress completely ill–suited for Kosovo
in the spring. But cold was an indulgence she didn't have
time for. Instead, she pried the screen from its frame
with her fingernails, dropping it to the floor as she threw
one leg, then the other over the sill.
It was a two–story drop. One she'd anticipated,
but it looked far higher now that she was straddling the
sill, all that empty air below her.
You can do this. You're almost there.
If she thought about it a second longer, she knew her
resolve would waiver. So she didn't, instead, kicking off
her shoes, she plunged into the darkness. She hit the
ground with a thud, sharp pain instantly shooting up her
left leg. Anya bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from
crying out, her hands sliding out from under her in the
dewy grass. She looked down. Her left ankle was twisted
under her. Probably sprained.
But pain was another thing she had no time for.
The taste of blood filled her mouth as her teeth ground
down on her lip. She struggled to her feet, favoring her
right side. She forced her legs to hold her up, then
glanced around in the dark, quickly getting her bearings.
Ahead of her lay an expanse of grass, a fence to the left
leading to the yard where the general carried out his own
private training exercises. She shuddered. She'd seen the
files on his victims and could only imagine the tortured
souls who still haunted those tainted grounds.
Still grasping the revolver in her hand, she turned
right. A wooded area lay at the edge of the grass, but it
was a good ten yards to the tree cover. Ten yards where
she'd be completely exposed. She could only pray that the
Russians were still searching the other side of the
compound for her.
Ten yards. Ten yards... and then you're free.
Anya dashed forward, running as fast as her injured
ankle would allow, half hopping, half dragging her leg
along as she kept her eyes on the tree line ahead. Her
arms pumped at her sides, her lungs burning, her eyes
watering at the sting of cold wind whipping past her. Six
yards. Five. She was almost there.
And then she heard it.
The crack reverberated through the still night like
lightening, a tuft of grass at her side flying into the
air.
They'd found her.
While she'd hoped they wouldn't, she was really only
surprised it had taken them this long. The general had
been a sadist but a smart one. The men he'd hired were
nothing less.
Anya jagged to the right, then left, never decreasing
her speed as she made a zig–zag pattern across the
lawn. Tufts of grass flew at her sides, spattering her
legs with mud as bullets embedded themselves into the soft
ground.
Three yards left. She was almost there.
Another shot rang out, and fire instantly erupted in her
right arm. Anya cried out, falling to the ground, her left
hand immediately going to the sharp sting slicing through
her bicep. She rolled onto her right side in the grass,
shot off two wild rounds toward the house. Pain blinded
her. She had no idea if she'd hit anything, but the bullet
hail stopped for a second. Warm liquid seeped through her
fingers, and she bit back a scream. She would not give
them the satisfaction.
The gunfire ceased for only a moment, then the Russians
began again. Relentless. The air filled with deafening
shots, chunks of grass beside her jumping, spraying cool
mud onto her cheeks.
She rolled left, then right, pulling herself up onto her
knees as she twisted away from the hail. She looked up.
The tree cover was only a few feet way. So close. She
could make it.
She would make it.
Anya turned, firing two more rounds back toward the
house before the revolver made an empty clicking sound.
She threw it, making a mad dash for the trees, her bare
feet slipping on the wet earth, her teeth chattering
against the cold. Five more feet. Four.
She heard shouting behind her, the Russians scrambling
for their vehicles, their dogs, their spotlights,
organizing an all out search as she reached the cover of
the woods. She wasn't home free yet, but the tall pines
bought her time.
She tripped over the uneven ground, roots rising up from
the earth to slow her pace. Dried pine needles bit into
the soles of her bare feet, low branches scratching at her
exposed arms and legs. She heard the sound of wings
flapping overhead, birds rising angrily from the highest
branches at the sudden intrusion into their territory.
But she kept running.
The woods sloped downward, toward the road, but she
didn't slow her pace all the way down the hill, tripping
the last few feet as she reached the dirty pavement. On
the far side, a shiny silver sedan sat up against the bank.
Anya let out a cry of relief. It was almost over.
Freedom.
She stumbled across the road, listening to the sound of
Fedorov's loyals in the distance, Jeep motors humming as
they closed in on her.
She threw the driver's side door of the sedan open,
fingers fumbling in the dark beneath the console for the
switch to start the car. She found it.
She paused, the pain in her arm spreading into a dull
ache as her index finger hovered just above the switch.
She knew they were watching her, waiting with anticipation
almost as great as hers. Would she make it out before
Fedorov's men caught up with her? Or would they be
training someone new to take her place? All eyes would be
on the screen now, the room hushed, men with grave faces
all leaning forward, holding their collective breath as she
disappeared inside the car.
Anya slid her bare thighs onto the leather seat,
listened to the roar of motors drawing closer, breathed in
deeply the frigid night air scented with pine, leather, and
her own cloyingly sweet blood dripping down her arm. She
stared out the window at the sight of moonlight shimmering
off the frostbitten street, creating a deceptively serene
scene.
And then she flipped the switch.
An explosion rocked the air, an orange fireball
engulfing the shiny, silver car in one giant fist as smoke
billowed up toward the top of the pine trees.
Chapter One
"Jesus, would you just do it already?"
Anna shivered, shifting her umbrella to the other hand,
her teeth rattling together. Rain fell in fat droplets
around her, splashing back on the cuffs of her jeans as she
stood on the small square of lawn, shifting from foot to
foot. She could feel mud squishing into the grooves of her
running shoes and cringed. She'd have to carry them up the
stairs unless she wanted her landlord bitching about muddy
footprints again. In one hand she held the umbrella, in
the other a leash connected to a stubborn as hell boxer who
was currently being very particular about where he did his
business. Anna thought for a moment he might have chosen
his sweet spot when he paused to sniff at the azalea bushes
flanking her apartment building. But no. He turned up his
black nose and continued pacing in the rain. Anna had a
sneaking suspicion he was enjoying this.
"Come on, Lenny," she pleaded.
Lenny looked up, trained his black eyes on her, cocked
his head to the side. Then went back to his pacing.
Anna narrowed her eyes at the jerk.
Originally he'd come to the shelter from a family who'd
been moving to Chicago and couldn't take a dog with them.
They'd promised he was an excellent watchdog and very
companionable. The companion part he'd proven right away.
She could hardly walk two steps in her tiny apartment
without running into him. The watchdog part had turned out
to be the biggest joke she'd ever heard. Lenny's deep
baritone bark was impressive, but he was more likely to
lick an intruder to death than attack. Still, half the
idea of a watchdog was for show, so she hadn't had the
heart to unload him on someone else.
She just wished he'd show a little more cooperation.
"Please, Lenny. I'm cold, I'm wet. I'll give you three
bacon treats if you just pick a spot and take the shit.
What do you say?"
He ignored her completely, sniffing the flowerbeds along
the walkway.
Anna wiped a raindrop from her cheek, wrapping one arm
around herself to stave off the chill. Normally she didn't
mind the rain so much. She loved the smell of water
hitting the oil stained streets, the crisp color of the San
Francisco sky that it left behind when the clouds parted.
Almost as if the entire city were being washed clean, given
a fresh start.
But tonight she wasn't a fan. The rain cut down on her
visibility, left her feeling too exposed standing out in
the open.
Her gaze swept the street. The dim glow of streetlamps
bathed the neighborhood in pale yellow hues, rows of old
Victorians lining the block of narrow, three story
buildings painted every color of the rainbow over the
years. They banked right up against each other, one after
another, trailing down the hill toward the bay. Across the
street were a used bookstore, an Asian market, and an all
night laundromat. Only the laundromat's lights were on at
this time of night, a sole occupant visible inside, reading
a book as he waited for his clothes to finish. It wasn't a
particularly busy street for San Francisco, one of the
things Anna had liked about it when she'd first moved in,
but it was close to the park and Muni, and the rent was
relatively cheap.
And her landlord hadn't asked any questions when she'd
installed a state of the art security system.
Anna tore her gaze away from the street, focusing again
on her stubborn partner.
"I swear to God if you don't do it now, you're holding
it until morning," she threatened.
Lenny walked over to the azaleas and, miracle of
miracles, this time squatted down. Anna said a silent
thank you, pulling a plastic baggie out of her pocket. She
waited until he'd finished, then transferred the leash and
umbrella into one hand as she crouched down to pick up
Lenny's offering with the other.
But the rain must have made her grip on the leash
slippery. Because as she bent over, Lenny gave a tug on
the end, and the leather slid out of her hand, the umbrella
falling to the ground, rain immediately pelting her as she
lost her balance in the muddy grass.
"Goddammit, Lenny," she shouted, throwing one hand out
to break her fall. She slid forward, mud streaking down
the side of her jeans as she lunged for the dog. He'd
taken off like a shot into the dark evening, bounding down
the rain soaked sidewalk.
"Lenny!" she called, her cries immediately swallowed up
by the storm.
Abandoning the baggie, she grabbed her umbrella, useless
now that she was soaked to the bone, and picked her way
back over the square of lawn, hitting the sidewalk just in
time to see him shoot across the street into the
laundromat.
"That's it," she muttered to herself. "No bacon treats
for you, asshole."
Reluctantly she set off after him, crossing the street.
As she pushed through the glass doors of the laundromat,
warm, humid air immediately hit her like a blanket. She
scrubbed her wet hair out of her face, scanning the room
for the dog.
He had the sole occupant of the room backed up into a
corner, his book held up like a shield as Lenny tattooed
his clothes with muddy paw prints.
"Lenny," she yelled, "get down."
Which, of course, he ignored, completely enamored with
new–person scents.
Anna crossed the room, her wet shoes squishing with
every step, and grabbed the end of his leash from the
floor. She gave a sharp tug. "Down. Now," she commanded
again.
This time he complied, letting his captive go as he took
a step back to sniff a box of detergent on the floor
instead.
"Sorry," she said to the man.
He was tall, at least six feet, lean with broad
shoulders beneath a cotton shirt, unbuttoned at the top.
His jeans were worn at the knees, his shoes dry, indicating
he'd been inside for a while. His hair was a warm chestnut
color, curling a little at his neck, just slightly longer
than current fashion would dictate. His eyes were a deep
brown so dark, she noticed, that they were almost black.
He had a square jaw, a day past needing a good shave, and
his build was tight, all angles, like an athlete's.
He lowered his book as Lenny stepped away, the corners
of his mouth tilting upward.
"No problem. I only peed myself a little," he joked.
Anna felt an answering smile. "I swear he looks more
vicious than he is."
"I'll take your word for that." He slowly sidestepped
the dog. "I've always been more of a cat person, myself."
"Well, on a night like tonight, I don't blame you." She
looked down at her jeans. It would take an act of God to
get those grass stains out.
The man reached into a plastic laundry basket and pulled
out a towel, tossing it to Anna.
"Here. You look like you've been swimming."
"Nearly," she said, gratefully drying her
face. "Thanks, but you know I'm just going back out in it."
"Nick." The man stuck his hand out at her. "Nick Dade.
Anna looked at it for a minute. Then gingerly took
it. "Anna."
His grip was firm, strong, his skin a little rough as if
he worked with his hands regularly. Definitely confident,
but careful not to hold on too long.
"Just Anna?"
"Smith. Anna Smith."
"Hmmm." He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning
back on his heels. "Smith. Very mysterious."
Anna laughed. "No, very plain."
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Anna Smith. You live
around here?" he asked, gesturing to the windows.
Anna paused, bit the inside of her cheek.
Don't talk to strangers.
She nodded slowly. "Yes."
"It's a nice place. Quiet at night."
"It is. I like it."
"The architecture's amazing. I love all the old
buildings. It's incredible to me that so many have
survived not one, but two major earthquakes."
Anna nodded, running the towel over her hair, trying to
squeeze out the bulk of the rainwater. "That's one of the
reasons I moved here," she agreed.
"Where from?"
Anna looked up. "What?"
"Where did you move from?"
Don't talk to strangers. Don't get personal.
Anna looked away, turning her eyes to Lenny, still
circling the detergent box.
"Oh, I've lived all over. I'm a bit of a nomad. What
about you? Local?"
He shook his head. "No, I'm just visiting a friend in
town. Thinking of relocating, though. It's a fun city.
You lived here long?"
Anna shrugged. "Long enough, I guess."
"Long enough to know a place for good Chinese?" He took
a step toward her.
Without meaning to, she took one backward.
"In San Francisco? You'd have a hard time finding bad
Chinese."
He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Come
on, you must have a favorite?"
"Okay, if I had to pick one, I'd say the Shaolin
Palace. Down the street a couple blocks. They deliver
twenty–four hours."
"Oh, definitely my kind of place."
A dryer dinged behind him, signaling the end of the
cycle.
"Well, I guess I'll let you get back to your laundry,"
Anna said. She dropped the towel on the counter and tugged
Lenny toward the door. Having ascertained the detergent
box didn't contain anything edible, he complied.
"Wait," Nick said, taking a step forward. "Are you busy
tomorrow night? Maybe you could walk me through the
Shaolin Palace's menu, huh?"
Anna chewed on her cheek again.
Don't get personal.
"Sorry, I have plans tomorrow. With my boyfriend."
"Oh." His smile faded. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yeah, well, goodnight," she said quickly, pulling Lenny
toward the door.
"I guess I'll see you around, Anna Smith."
She raised a hand in a wave, then pushed out into the
sheeting rain again. It hit her like ice after the warm,
sticky air of the laundromat. Giving up altogether on the
umbrella, Anna crossed the street, ducking her head against
the torrent as she ran up the walkway.
He's watching you.
She stole a quick glance over her shoulder. He had his
back turned to the windows, pulling clothes from the dryer
and dropping them into his plastic basket.
She shook her head. He was just a nice guy trying to
get a date. The foul weather was making her paranoid.
"Come on, Lenny. Let's go dry off." She slipped her
key in the lock and let herself into the lobby, Lenny
barking gleefully beside her. She tugged off her wet shoes
before leading him up the two flights of stairs. For all
the good it did. Her feet still made a trail of wet
footprints on the worn, wooden steps. Not to mention
Lenny's muddy contribution. She'd be catching hell in the
morning.
Two apartments shared the third floor. Mrs. Olivia, a
seventy–three year old widow and sudoku addict, lived
in the one on the right. Anna was on the left.
She shoved her key into the lock and let Lenny bound
into the room ahead of her, skidding to a stop at his food
bowl and lapping up the crumbs. Anna shook her head as she
keyed her PIN into the security system. That dog had a
one–track mind. We should all have such a simple
life.
She shut the door behind her and locked it, then secured
the chain, deadbolt, and armed the alarm system again
before stripping off her wet clothes and leaving them in a
pile by the door. A long, hot shower sounded like heaven.
She padded into the kitchen, throwing a cupful of dog
chow into Lenny's bowl, then crossed the small studio
apartment, pausing briefly at the front window. She pulled
the edge of the curtain back and peeked out.
He was still there, folding towels at one of the
counters, his head bent over his work, his hands moving in
quick, practiced movements. She had a fleeting vision of
laughing over a plate of chicken chow mein with him. His
eyes crinkling at the corners, mouth twisting up in a warm
smile.
But before it could go any further, she quickly shut the
curtain.
She'd been in San Francisco too long. She was getting
too comfortable here. It was time to move on. Maybe
somewhere in the Southwest. It had been awhile since she'd
been to the desert.
She stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower,
letting the hot water fill the tiny room with steam.
##
Liar.
Dade watched her disappear from the window, her
silhouette crossing the apartment. He knew for a fact she
didn't have a boyfriend. As far as he could tell, she
didn't have any friends. Which didn't surprise him. From
everything he'd read, she wasn't exactly the social type.
He grabbed the last of his clean towels from the dryer,
folding them end over end as he kept one eye on the window
of the third floor. She wouldn't go out again tonight.
She'd feed the dog, take a shower, then sit on her sofa
watching TV. At midnight, she'd turn out the lights, throw
on an old T–shirt, set her alarm, and go to bed.
He'd watch until then, until he was sure she was down,
then catch a few hours himself before setting up camp
outside her work in the morning. An animal shelter near
the park. He found it ironic that she spent her days
saving cats and dogs from the needle considering her former
life.
He tucked a pile of towels into his laundry basket. The
same pile he'd been washing every night this week. Though,
tomorrow he'd have to find something new to occupy his
time, thanks to her damn dog.
He shook his head. Dade hadn't intended any contact.
He didn't like contact. He liked things clean and simple.
He did his surveillance thoroughly, chose his weapons
carefully, and did his job quickly, unseen, without any
complications. Contact with the target made things
complicated.
Not that he'd really anticipated this one being simple.
For one thing, she was a woman. Dade didn't normally take
on women. Women and children were civilians as far as he
was concerned. But once he'd read the file on Anya
Danielovich, he'd decided to make an exception.
She'd been one of the go–to agents of the KOS, the
former Yugoslavian intelligence agency, in the years
leading up to the Kosovo conflict. Years that were
particularly bloody in the country's history. Factions
breaking off from one another, allies becoming enemies.
One day you worked for the good guys, the next they were
the bad guys. Politics and race relations thrown together
in a stew that resulted in military units without leaders,
guerilla factions acting under whomever had the funds to
feed them, and power being wielded by those who had no
one's best interest at heart but their own. When all the
dust had settled, the country had splintered and the KOS
was no more.
Officially, that is.
From the file Dade's client had provided, Anya had never
served in the military, and there was no record of her
formal training. In fact, there was no record of her at
all up until her first job where she'd taken out a wealthy
Serbian businessman whose funds were being funneled to the
wrong people. During the next four years she'd neutralized
a total of twenty–four men. Most clean hits, none
ever officially investigated. All before her
twenty–first birthday.
Dade glanced across the street. She was out of the
shower. He watched her bare silhouette slip a shirt over
her head and pad across to the next bank of windows where
she pulled a glass from a cupboard, filling it at the
sink.
He had to admit, he had a hard time reconciling the
woman he'd just met with information in the file. She'd
seemed too... normal. Human. If he'd met her under
different circumstances, he wouldn't have thought she was
anything but your average girl. A little on the skinny
side, maybe, but friendly enough not to raise suspicions.
But there'd been no mistaking her. Even with her blonde
curls dyed black and fifteen years between her and the
baby–faced assassin in his file, there was no doubt
in his mind. It was the same pair of huge blue eyes, the
same full, pouty, lips. The same high cheekbones, round
hips and long legs she'd worked to her advantage across
Eastern Europe. She'd done a good job eradicating any hint
of an accent from her voice, but he figured she'd had time
to work on it. And if she were half as good as the file
said, she would have. She wasn't stupid. She'd known what
was at stake when she left Kosovo.
He wondered if she knew what was at stake now?
Officially, Anya Danielovich had died in a car accident
fifteen years ago. She'd been a twenty–year old
student out partying too late, drinking too much, and
wrapped her car around a tree along a deserted stretch of
the highway. A maintenance worker had found her the next
morning, her car burned out, her remains charred to a
crisp.
Unofficially, the file said she had died in a car
bombing outside the compound of General Federov, a man
later intelligence reports proved was working all sides of
the conflict to his own profit. What she was doing outside
his compound was a question no one asked. Though Federov
hadn't survived the night either.
But in reality...
Dade looked up at the window, watching her form cross
the room, sink down on the sofa and flip on the television,
casting a blue glow throughout the apartment.
In reality, Anya was his latest contract. And he'd
never been fooled by a pair of sexy legs and pouty lips
before. Dade knew that evil came in all sorts of
packages.
This time, Anya Danielovich would stay dead.
Chapter Two
It was too early for the Beatles. Anna groaned, rolling
over to face the red glowing numbers of her alarm clock.
6:15. She threw an arm over her eyes and fumbled in the
semi–darkness until her fingers connected with the
snooze bar, ceasing John Lennon's thoughts on world peace.
She rubbed at her eyes, making the slow transition from
sleep to reality as she threw her legs over the edge of the
bed and into a pair of fuzzy, red slippers.
Lenny perked up immediately from his makeshift bed by
the door and barked out a greeting, loping across the room,
stopping just short of knocking her over.
"Hey, buddy" she said, rubbing the stubby, soft fur on
his head. "Hungry?"
He barked in response. Then again, Dogzilla barked in
response to just about anything.
"All right, breakfast is coming right up," Anna said
around a yawn, padding to the kitchen. She filled his bowl
again, then flipped the switch on her coffee pot, glancing
out the window as she waited for it to brew.
The streetlights were still on, dim spots of light
dotting the fog as the sunrise struggled to break through.
Though the rain had stopped, the streets below still
glistened with the evening's downpour. A jogger made his
way down the block, his warm breath making visible puffs in
front of him as he hurried past her building. The market
across the street was opening, the owner pulling back the
heavy iron gates to reveal glass windows full of
half–priced noodles and canned soup three for a
dollar. And the laundromat's ‘open' sign still hung on the
door, though Anna could see it was empty inside now.
Forget him.
The coffee pot hissed, signaling the end of the cycle,
and Anna grabbed a mug from the overhead cupboard. She
poured the dark, aromatic liquid into her cup, sipping as
steam rose to warm her cheeks.
No doubt about it, it was time to move on.
"What do think of Tucson, Lenny? Or maybe Sedona. Lots
of wide open space to run in Arizona."
He answered with a loud slurp, finishing the last of his
breakfast, and lumbered to the front door, his nails
clacking along the hardwood floor. He sat by the door and
made a pathetic whine in the back of his throat.
"Oh no, pal. After what you put me through last night,
you can wait until I've had a shower first." Anna set her
cup down on the counter and headed toward the bathroom.
She wasn't sure, but she could swear Lenny gave her a
dirty look as she closed the door.
##
The Golden Gate Animal Shelter was located two blocks
south of the park, in the Sunset district. It was a
nondescript, square building squatting between a hardware
store and a dry cleaners near the end of the block. Glass
windows spanned the front while a hand painted yellow sign
sporting a cartoon dog in lederhosen informed passersby
that they were open.
Originally the shelter had been created to handle
overflow from the county facilities when they'd instituted
their ‘no kill' policy, putting down only the sickest of
animals or ones deemed too dangerous to be adopted out.
With just fifteen kennels in the back, they were a small
shelter by city standards, but it was clean and close to
public transportation, so it had suited Anna perfectly when
she'd first moved to the city.
A small pang of regret hit her stomach as she pushed
through the front door that she'd soon be leaving it
behind. An overhead bell jangled in the small lobby to
signal her presence.
"It's just me," she called out.
A slim redhead in jeans and a Giants sweatshirt poked
her head out from the back room.
"Hey, you're late," she commented, wiping her hands on
the seat of her pants.
Shelli Cooper had been hired on as office manager at the
shelter a couple months after Anna had started there and
ran the place like clockwork. At just over five feet she
was a petite little firecracker with enough perk to single
handedly solve the nation's energy crisis. She had a
tendency to talk with her hands and was perpetually
bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her red hair was worn
long and loose around her face, hippie style, with a pair
of green eyes set in skin so pale she reminded Anna of a
china doll. A dusting of freckles along Shelli's upturned
nose gave her a perpetually youthful look, though Anna put
her age somewhere in her early thirties, close to Anna's
own.
"Sorry," Anna said, setting her shoulder bag down on the
counter. "Long night."
"Oh yeah?" Shelli asked, leaning in. "You get some?"
"Ha. No, stubborn boxer. Rain. Mud. Not fun." She
picked up a pile of mail and thumbed through it. Mostly
bills and bulk mailers from other local businesses.
"Yeah, it really came down last night, didn't it? My
power flickered a couple times during the debates. I was
sure it was going to cut out. Did you watch?"
Anna shook her head. "No. I never get into politics."
"You didn't miss much. Republicans crying bleeding
heart, Democrats crying big oil. Same old tune. They say
Jonathan Braxton's ahead in the polls, though. Not sure
how I feel about having a governor younger than I am, but
there you have it. Oh, hey," she said, switching
gears, "we got a newcomer last night after you left."
Shelli navigated around the front counter to grab a
clipboard from the desk behind.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Terrier mix. Tiny little thing, freaked half out of
his mind. No ID or tags. A homeless guy brought him in
just as I was closing up. He was afraid the church
wouldn't let him in for the night if he had a dog with him."
"Is he in the back?"
"Number fifteen." Shelli handed her a clipboard with
the terrier's paperwork, before taking a seat behind the
counter and jiggling her computer screen to life. "He's
all yours, Annie."
"I'm on it."
The shelter's kennels consisted of one large room with
concrete floors where fifteen smaller cages were set up.
Three quarters were full, which was less than most shelters
in the area, often overflowing, sometimes even illegally
housing animals in the offices and storage rooms. It was
hard enough finding cute little puppies homes, never mind
older animals that had been abused, neglected, or, worse,
grown up feral, fending for themselves. While Anna did her
best to clean them up and make them look attractive for
potential new homes, it was often a race against time to
get the adoptable ones out to make room for the never
ceasing influx of new animals.
She stopped at the last cage and squatted down next to
their newest boarder. He was small, even for a terrier,
his fur a shaggy gray color, matted with something dark and
sticky along the back. He yipped warily at the cage door,
bouncing up and down on all fours.
"Hey there, fella," Anna said, trying to make her voice
as low and soothing as she could. "Don't you worry, we'll
clean you up."
He yipped again, clearly not convinced.
She slowly opened the cage door, talking in soft tones
to the animal as she reached out a hand and let his wet
little nose run along her palm. Once his nostrils had
gotten their fill, she scooped him up from the floor,
running her hand gently along his back as she carried him
to the sink. He shivered in her hands, and she could feel
his ribs jutting beneath his skin. Sadly, he looked like
he'd been on the streets for a while.
"It's okay. No one's going to hurt you. Trust me,
you'll feel so much better after a nice, hot bath."
She turned on the water, letting it warm up a bit before
setting the dog down in the deep, metal basin. He circled
a few times, sniffing at the drain as she turned on the
handheld showerhead and ran it along his fur. Immediately
the water turned brown, rinsing away God knows what. She
lathered him in shampoo as he tried to bite the bubbles
rising from his coat, then rinsed him again until the water
ran clear and his fur was at least two shades lighter.
The next step was to scan for ID. Even though he'd come
in tagless, more and more pet owners were being urged to
have ID chips implanted in their animals. Anna looked for
the tell tale bulge along his neckline. Nothing. But just
for good measure, she scanned the hand held machine over
his fur. As suspected, nothing showed up.
"I guess you're Fido Doe, now," Anna informed him.
He looked up at her and licked her chin.
"Oh, you like that name, do you?" she laughed.
She scratched behind his ears as she carried him out
into the front room where Shelli would take his picture to
broadcast via internet for a potential new home.
"Ready for his close up," Anna said.
Shelli's head popped up from her email. "Oh, isn't he
cute! He looks so much better. He's gonna go right away."
"Let's hope."
"Okay, hold him up." Shelli pulled a digital camera
from the top desk drawer and aimed it at the
terrier. "Hmm... wait. He needs something."
She leaned down and rummaged in her desk again.
Fido wiggled in Anna's arms, his little nose twitching,
just dying to explore the new room.
"I'm not sure how much longer I can hold him."
"Here, perfect." Shelli stood up, a length of red
ribbon in one hand. "Just hold him a second," she said,
navigating the ribbon around his neck. The little dog
twisted his head to the side, trying to nip at the ends as
Anna held him down. Finally Shelli won out, creating a
somewhat lopsided bow around his neck.
"There, much better."
Anna rolled her eyes and laughed. "Just take the damn
picture already. He's going to bolt any second."
Shelli held up the camera. "Okay, big guy, smile." She
snapped the shot, then checked the digital window. "Aw,
he's adorable."
Anna peeked over Shelli's shoulder. "Perfect."
"Oh, here," Shelli reached behind the desk, pulling out
the morning's copy of the Chronicle. "I'm sure he needs
fresh paper in his stall."
"Hey, save me the classifieds," Anna asked, juggling the
terrier in one arm while she tried to pull the section out
from the rest.
"Oh no, not again."
"What?"
"Don't tell me you're moving again?"
Anna turned away, hoping her thoughts weren't visible on
her face. "Thinking about it."
"This is the second time you've moved since I've known
you."
It was true. She was getting antsy faster and faster
the longer she stayed in the city.
"My lease is up," she lied.
"Can't you renew? I thought you liked that place."
"I do."
"So?"
"So, it's time for a change."
"Last time it was the plumbing. The time before, the
super who refused to fix the AC. God, I hope you find a
keeper this time."
Anna cringed. She hated lying to Shelli. Both
apartments had been fine. But more than a few months and
she started to get that antsy feeling. Like she was too
settled, too comfortable. That's when her guard would
fall.
"Well, let me know if you want me to go check out some
places out with you. Oh, hey, my neighbor's sister just
rented this condo near the Haight. I think she's looking
for a roommate. I could ask?"
Anna bit the inside of her cheek. Then nodded
slowly. "Yeah, sure. That would be great."
Liar.
She had no intention of staying in San Francisco. As
much as she'd miss the shelter, even Shelli, it was time to
move on. Unfortunately, not something she could share.
There would be too many questions, promises to keep in
touch that would just be another round of lies. She knew
from experience that the best way to go was silently and
swiftly. One day she was there, the next it would be like
she'd never existed.
Like a ghost.
Because, after all, isn't that what she was?
##
Dade squinted his left eye closed, his right trained on
the image of Anya magnified through his scope.
"Come on, girl. Just put down the damned rat," he
muttered under his breath.
He'd been glued to her since she'd arrived. His scope
tracking her as she parked her car up the block and walked
to the shelter. He'd followed her inside, his entire body
focused on the framed image of her dark hair in the lens.
But he hadn't been able to get a clear angle. First, she'd
had that redhead dancing around her, then she'd disappeared
into the back room, and now she was holding some mangy dog
that wouldn't sit still.
Dade shifted his weight, keeping his index finger loose
on the trigger.
He was patient. He knew his moment would come. It
would be done today.
The roof of the hotel was the highest point in a three
block radius. It was an area wide enough to make him
confident no nosey office worker looking out her window
would see him, but close enough to his target that he knew
he wouldn't miss. He'd been lucky. It was perfect for a
long–range shot. Which was exactly how Dade wanted
it. He had no intention of getting that close to her
again.
He would do it through the window. A bigger mess, no
doubt, with the glass. But the noise would confuse
people. Make them focus on the point of impact, not the
point of origin. They'd be ducking, avoiding debris. Not
scanning the street for a guy with a gun.
He'd hauled his rig up to the roof in a guitar case,
blending in as one of dozens of the city's street musicians
roaming the sidewalks just after dawn. He knew from his
mornings parked in front of Anya's building that she woke
at 6:15 on the dot every day. She would have been getting
her first cup of coffee – cream and sugar – when he'd set
up the scope, the long range rifle, aligned the site
perfectly to the right front window of the shelter.
At 7:30 the redhead had come in, army bag slung over one
shoulder, walking from the bus station up the street, and
unlocked the doors, swinging around the yellow sign
from ‘closed' to ‘welcome'. He'd lain on his stomach,
sprawled flat against the roof as he'd watched her flip on
her computer monitor, paw through a pile of mail, then slip
into the back room until Anya arrived, half an hour later.
Usually he'd swing in thirty seconds behind her, parking
his SUV down the block.
But today he was waiting.
He blinked his left eye shut again, feeling the morning
sun begin to melt the layers of fog away. A thin bead of
sweat trailed down his temple, but he barely noticed.
He watched Anya pull out a newspaper, the redhead wave
her arms in the air in response. Not a surprise. From
what he'd seen, she seemed the high strung type. Anya was
harder to read, though the line of her back seemed
straighter, more tense. Whatever they were discussing
upset her. Finally the redhead raised both hands in a
gesture of surrender. Anya responded with her back to
him. Then she leaned forward and passed the dog to the
redhead.
Bingo.
Dade felt his muscles relax, his heart speed up, his
body focusing, narrowing in on his target. His finger
closed around the trigger, his eyes riveted to a spot at
the back of Anya's head.
Then she whipped around, her enormous blue eyes turning
his way. For a second, he could swear she was looking
right at him. Which was impossible, of course – he'd
checked and double checked to make sure nothing on the roof
was visible from the ground.
He blinked hard, shook off the feeling, refocused on his
site. His finger hovered over the trigger.
He counted off one, two...
But he never got to three.
Instead, as his finger lay loose on the trigger, the
plate glass window in his scope exploded into a million
pieces.
Dade jerked his head up. Bits of broken glass spewed
onto the sidewalk, passersby scattered, screaming, covering
their heads as if being attacked from all sides. A man
came running out of the hardware store next door, yelling
in some foreign language, waving his arms. It was exactly
the scene he'd envisioned.
Only a second too early.
Dade grabbed a pair of binoculars from his bag, training
them on the broken storefront. Neither the redhead nor
Anya were visible, though he spotted the tail of that rat
dog peeking out from behind the front counter.
Another shot rang out and Dade watched the telephone on
the counter explode, chunks flying every which way. He
dropped the binoculars, left the scope, reached into his
bag and grabbed his M9, shoving the handgun into the
waistband of his pants as he hurtled himself over the fire
escape. His legs pumped down the rusted flights, one
thought racing through his mind.
He hadn't pulled the trigger.
So who the hell was shooting at Anya?
What do you think about this review?
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