12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Falling back into the rhythm of the House was effortless; the awareness of threats, weapons they possessed, their skill set, and whether they had any reason to kill him.
It wasn’t just paranoia. Finn had made a name for himself in Command, and some of the younger Agents saw it as a way to enhance their own reputations.
On more than one occasion, he had heard the whisper: Kill the Hound, become the Hound.
Finn had gutted the last man who tried and left his entrails in the corridor. That seemed to have dissuaded others from following suit, but it was too ingrained in him to stay alert and aware in case the lesson had been forgotten.
He ate in the mess, vigilant for any attention, but no one looked his way. Back in his room, he packed his gear. The Handler had little to say to him the evening before, debriefing him in a distracted way, and sent him to his room without a new mission.
Today, he planned to check on his safe houses and make sure his cover identities were intact. To his neighbors’ knowledge, he traveled a lot for work, so being away unexpectedly was the norm rather than the exception. It was still wise to reinforce that nothing unusual was going on.
Finn took the elevator to the ground floor and saw the Handler as he exited. The Handler wasn’t dressed in his usual expensive suit. The worn jeans and a gray jacket zipped at the front looked out of place, and Finn felt the prickling of alert at the back of his neck.
“Hound.” The Handler stared. Finn had no idea what the other man was thinking, but he was far more animated than usual. “Come,” he said.
Finn went.
Milford led them back to the elevator and down to his office. Finn took up his usual place in front of the desk as the Handler paced behind it.
Finn had never seen the man visibly agitated before. He had always striven to appear calm even when certain other telltales told Finn he wasn’t.
“I have an urgent mission for you,” the Handler said, pulling out his phone and fiddling with it. For a second, he frowned, debating with himself, before he handed Finn the phone.
It was a picture of her.
He recognized the tightness that clawed at his chest. He knew fear. But it had been a long time since he’d felt it himself, and its unexpected presence left his heart thudding loud enough that he was certain the Handler could hear it.
“Her name is Kathleen Harper. She’s a MPD Detective, homicide branch. She needs to be taken out, but it needs to look accidental.” The Handler paused. “And it needs to be quick.”
Finn looked up at the Handler to ensure he’d heard the mission correctly. Quick wasn’t what Agents did. Considered, measured, yes. Quick felt unprofessional. He didn’t voice it, but something showed on his face.
“I know, it’s not typical. But something urgent presented itself, and she’s a threat to national security.”
Finn gazed at the picture on the phone again. It looked like a screen grab from an official photograph. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and she was wearing the dress uniform of the DC Police. He let his thumb graze her face… and the picture jumped, shifting from a zoomed-in photo to the original message thread it had come from.
This is her, it said. Take care of it.
The name at the top of the message chain said Wilson. The same name she had asked him about: Did Wilson hire you? He had thought not, but now he wondered how she had known. The Handler vetted all his missions; the Hound was told only what he needed to know to complete the mission.
At least until now.
“You’re the best we have and the only Agent I trust to do the job, Hound.”
Finn had never turned down a job. They did not give him the option. He didn’t want to do it, yet how could he voice that? It was impossible.
“Hound.” The heat in the Handler’s voice was unmistakable, even to Finn. “Look at me.”
Finn hated this but had no choice. When his eyes lifted, he saw the tendons standing out on the Handler’s neck. There was fear beneath the Handler’s anger, and Finn couldn’t guess why.
“Do you understand the mission?”
Finn nodded and lowered his gaze to the image of her.
Milford took the phone back from Finn. “I will send you details. Home address, work address, the usual.”
It was the usual, but sending it to Finn—even if it was via a secure phone—was way outside the normal protocol, also.
It felt wrong.
Finn opened his mouth, and the moment the Handler looked at him, closed it without voicing the thought. It was a mission. He didn’t have to agree with it. He had no choice but to obey.
“Report back here, to me and only me, when you are done. Are you clear?” the Handler asked.
Finn nodded.
“I need you to tell me, Hound.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get to it.” The Handler waved Finn away.
Finn didn’t hesitate. He wanted to leave, which wasn’t unusual. He felt a greater urgency today.
What had she done? Why did Command deem her a threat? Did they know she had seen him? These were all questions he had never wondered before, and they left an uneasiness in his gut.
Finn didn’t need the extra information the Handler was to provide. He knew where she lived. He knew where she worked. In fact, thanks to the tracker he had planted on her Mustang, he knew where she was right at that moment.
He didn’t wait. He collected a clean vehicle from the parking garage and drove straight to her condo. She wasn’t there, but he could tell from her location that she was headed in that direction. He just had to beat her—which wouldn’t be easy.
She drove that Mustang like she was being chased.
Fortunately, he was an excellent driver.
Finn used a custom-made application on his burner phone to ping the local frequencies used by gate systems; three minutes later, he parked down beneath her building. Another minute, and he had looped the building’s internal cameras. And in another thirty seconds, he was settled in to wait.
He didn’t have to wait long. The rumble of the Mustang was loud and distinctive; she entered fast, pulling around and backing into her assigned parking space. She climbed out, paused, then leaned in to grab a small brown bag.
When she straightened, Finn was right behind her.
He grabbed her hair, yanking her backward while his other hand pressed the chloroform-drenched cloth over her mouth and nose. She fought back immediately; her right foot slammed down onto his instep at the same time as her elbow struck his side.
It would have been painful had he not been prepared. His boots were steel capped, and most of the blunt force of her elbow was absorbed by the thicker, bullet-proof material of his custom-made jacket. Still, it was a warning, and when she tried to smash the back of her head into his face, his lightning-fast, genetically enhanced reflexes spared him a broken nose.
Finn stepped forward, trapping her against the Mustang with his body, limiting her movements. He could hear that she was holding her breath, but she couldn’t hold it forever. Both her hands snapped up to his wrist, her fingers trying to dig into the tendons. It hurt; he felt her nails draw blood, but he held steady.
He felt the moment she was forced to take her first breath; it came with a guttural, angry noise. After one more shaky inhale, she went limp, but he could tell from the fast pulse of her heartbeat that she was faking, hoping he would loosen his grip and give her an opportunity.
Unfortunately for her, his enhanced senses allowed him the advantage. She gave one last, flailing—weak—jab of her elbow toward him before she sank into unconsciousness.
Finn tucked the cloth away and lifted her in his arms. To him, she was weightless.
The trunk of her Mustang was full of items he should have expected: a bulletproof vest, safety cones, a first-aid kit, and a safe. The latter no doubt held spare weapons. He eased her into the space, carefully preventing her head from hitting the sides. He patted her down and relieved her of two guns and a small knife, as well as her badge and phone.
Finn slid into the driver’s seat of the Mustang and pulled out into traffic. For once, he was without a specific plan. He didn’t much like it, but that was the mission.
He just had to figure out what to do with her next.