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“Large enough to be truly lethal without being immediately intimidating. That trait will serve you well.”
“What do you mean?”
“You and your shifted form share all your traits in common…”
“What do you mean ‘shifted form?’”
The Master shook his head. “My dear girl; you have so much to learn.”
He’d been so right. Finding out that human/beast hybrids existed had been fascinating; learning she was one of them had been joyous. The Master had taught her to shift, and Nora had begun a lifelong embracing of her shifted self, trying to find time frequently to shift and run as her clouded leopard. Living in Boston, she had to drive out to one of the parks that surrounded the city after dark, but often her assignments took her to places where shifting was easier.
There was something about being encased by a swirling mist full of color, lightning, and thunder that had the power to stimulate and soothe her senses at the same time. Feeling her body shift into what she believed was her most true self was where she found solace and peace. Bounding over the ground or leaping from branch to branch in a forest filled her with a kind of joy that she had never been able to duplicate.
Getting dressed in clothes designed to go unnoticed and shoes that would allow her to run if necessary, she shoved the small, thin scabbard for her stiletto up the sleeve of her loose-knit sweater. She sheathed the weapon and pulled the sweater’s sleeve back into place. Checking her look in the vintage, free-standing floor mirror, she was satisfied that the stiletto was undetectable and that no one would give her a second glance. Pulling her ski cap down on her head, she tucked up the long loose curls so they could not be seen. Smiling at her reflection, she left her row home.
One of the things she liked best about living in Beacon Hill was its proximity to good restaurants. She wandered into one of the more popular casual cafés. It wasn’t a place she normally went to and was usually crowded. The perfect place to get something to eat without being noticed. Sitting toward the back in a small, two-person booth, she ordered a lobster roll, fries—even though she preferred onion rings, fries were the common side—and a Diet Coke. She ate slowly, watching the other restaurant patrons, mostly to ensure they weren’t watching her.
As the crowd in the restaurant started to thin, she paid her bill and meandered outside, heading toward the commons, checking for tails as she did so. It wasn’t that she really believed she was being followed or that she had been discovered; it was force of habit, and as the Master had once told her, was a habit that could and would keep her alive and free.
She arrived at the Commons and insinuated herself into the milling throng. One of the things she liked about Boston in general and Beacon Hill in particular was that there was something always going on. There were museums, galleries, and events galore, not to mention the pubs, restaurants, and food trucks. It was truly a city that offered something for everyone.
Shortly before the appointed time, Nora began to scan the crowd, looking for the face of the man in the photo—the photo she had memorized, burned, and whose ashes she had then scattered along the street from a pocket in a large coat she’d had designed for that purpose. She could feel her clouded leopard prowling the dark corners of her mind. She, too, was on the hunt.
Nora was convinced it was her predatory instincts that had given her the edge in her profession. Often, it was her shifted self, spotting a target, a threat, a way out, that allowed her to succeed.
There he was wandering through the crowd, listening as the band struck up the music. Nora moved like a wraith through the crowd, releasing the stiletto from its sheath and allowing it to slip down to the edge of her sleeve. She watched as the man began to lose himself to the sound of the instruments being played.
The air around her seemed to crackle with excitement and sound—making everything feel as if it were coming alive. The ground beneath her feet seemed to reverberate every time the big bass drum was struck. The music seemed to be a fusion of rock and jazz. The man closed his eyes for just a moment to nod his head in time to the music, giving Nora the perfect time to strike.
She pushed the knife into his body precisely under his ribs and up into his heart. The man was dead before she’d even extracted the knife. He gave a small gasp, and his body shuddered as it fought to retain life, but it was too late. The body slumped to the ground and Nora was well away with the stiletto concealed once again in its sheath before anyone noticed the dead man on the ground.
People began to scream and to disperse, trying to get away from the body and from whatever threat might remain. Nora allowed herself to be swept up in the ensuing chaos until she could veer off into an alley and make her way home. Once inside her home, she washed her hands thoroughly, cleaned, bleached, and sterilized the stiletto before putting it back inside the display case, tossed her clothing into the laundry, and then took a shower.
Redressing in jeans, booties, and a heavy sweater, Nora left her home and headed to TD Garden to watch her beloved Bruins play. Nora loved hockey and had since the first time she’d seen a game. In fact, when choosing a place to live and base out of, one of her criteria was a good hockey team.
The Master thought it was the violence that attracted her, but he’d been wrong. It was the power, grace, and speed with which the players skated. She couldn’t make it around an ice rink in skates without hanging onto the rail the entire time. To see them fly across the ice, switch directions, send the puck flying, and yes, slam each other into the wall made the game fast paced and mesmerizing.
Before taking her seat, she stopped at the concession stand to grab a hot dog and a beer and then settled in to watch the game. She realized as she got to the bottom of the box in which her hot dog came, there was an envelope. Nora surreptitiously slipped it into her boot on the inside of her calf and cheered the team to an outstanding win of five to four. Both teams had played their hearts out and it was a last-minute score that had kept them from going into a sudden death overtime.
She finished her beer and policed her area before heading out of the stadium and making her way back home. Once inside her row house, she did a walk-through to ensure no one had made it past her security system. She turned on the gas fireplace and sank into the oversized leather chair, sitting so her back was against one arm and her knees were bent over the other, her legs dangling.
Nora opened the envelope and took out the picture of a handsome man with angular, symmetrical, and dark features. The picture showed him in desert fatigue pants with no shirt. She had to admire the broad shoulders, sculpted pecs, and washboard abs. He had strong, muscular arms and his face seemed to indicate he regarded the world with an open, but beleaguered view. Written on the back was‘Erik Hutchinson, Mystic River, Kodiak Island, Alaska’and a date approximately three weeks in the future.
She ignored the butterflies that suddenly took flight in her belly and made her clouded leopard purr. It didn’t matter. It was just a shame that such a good-looking and well-built guy had to die. Unlike all the times before, she didn’t destroy the picture. Instead, she folded it up, tucking it into her weapons bag—the one piece of luggage she never left home without.
CHAPTER3
HUTCH
Mystic River, Alaska
United States
God, it was cold. What had possessed him to come from the heat of the Middle East to the freezing temperatures of Alaska? True, he’d wanted a break from all he had seen, but if he wasn’t careful, some of his favorite body parts were going to freeze solid and then break off.
As Erik Hutchinson, ‘Hutch’ to those who knew him at all, trudged down the exterior stairs from over the bakery to the bakery below, he wondered yet again what had possessed Scott Hardaway to build an apartment over his bakery that couldn’t be accessed from inside the bakery itself. Dash Samuels, the owner of The Workshop, had shown far more foresight.
What he wouldn’t give to be back in the warmth of the sun that beat relentlessly down every day, ensuring you were never cold. The nightmares that haunted him always started the same way, the Humvee rattling along to their next destination. The rough roads through the devastated villages made for a bumpy ride. Members of his unit had been laughing or smoking or writing notes to their sweethearts back home, notes that if the mission went sideways would never be mailed.
