Shadow Kill (Nick Teffinger Thriller) Read Online Free Page B
Author: R.J. Jagger
two months old, would make sure of that—assuming she passed the bar in October, which she would as long as she got time to study.
She showered, dressed for work and took a look at herself in the mirror. A mildly but not wildly attractive face stared back. Above her left eye was jagged three-inch scar, not highly-contrasting or thick or deep, but perceptible and capable of causing confusion when the person looking at her for the first time tried to figure out what was wrong.
There was no great story to it.
She fell off her bike when she was ten.
No foreign spies or acts of courage were involved.
Her stomach churned.
The thing she wanted more than anything in the world was to not go to work this morning.
She had to, though.
She had to make sure that everything was normal and no one knew about what she did last night. She needed to know that her face hadn’t been captured on a security camera or that someone had seen her and made a phone call. She needed to know that the FBI didn’t have her in its crosshairs.
She made two extra copies of the flash drive.
One went into the bottom of her purse.
Another went into a box of frozen Lean Pockets in the freezer.
The third went into an envelope, stamped and addressed to herself.
She dropped it in a mailbox.
Then she got on an eastbound bus.
Thirty-five minutes later, at One First Street, she stepped off.
10
Day Two
July 9
Wednesday Morning
Teffinger woke late Wednesday morning with Portia on one side and Seven on the other. Both women were passed out. Portia was face up. Seven was face down. Both were on top of the covers. Both were naked. Teffinger’s head still spun to the trance of the liquor and the smoke and the pounding speakers and the gyrating bodies and the raw shameless sex of last night.
He twisted onto his back and stretched.
His watch said 10:32, five hours past what it should.
He shouldn’t have done what he did last night but he did it and that was all there was to it and now he needed to deal with it. To be fair, there had been too much beer and body contact and dark lighting for too many hours for the night to not have ended in some kind of grand culmination.
Having officially and irrevocably slept with Portia, his credibility as a witness against her was forever tainted.
If she ever came to trial and he had to testify against her, the defense would say he’d been jilted or rejected after the fact.
Now he was out for revenge.
Now he was lying.
Just look at him.
Still, the case wasn’t necessarily in the gutter. What he needed to do was be sure it got built on physical evidence.
He slipped out of bed without waking either woman, grabbed his clothes and made his way next door to his own room—the room of North Reynolds—for a shower and a change. Forty-five minutes later he walked into homicide, deflected a stern look from Sydney and headed for the coffee. He stayed there and drank half the cup slow enough that he didn’t burn his tongue, then topped off and headed for his desk.
Sydney plopped down in a chair, looked at her watch and then at him.
No one was overly close.
They had privacy if they kept their voices low.
He leaned forward and said, “I ended up spending some time with Portia last night.”
“I’ll bet you did. Did you sleep with her?”
Teffinger exhaled.
“Technically, yes.”
“Technically?”
“Right, technically.”
“As in, you didn’t enjoy it?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“So you did enjoy it?”
“Well, yes, technically speaking,” he said. “In my defense, though, someone else slept with her too.”
“Who?”
“Seven.”
“Seven men?”
“No, one person, a woman. Her name is Seven.”
Sydney rolled her eyes. “Who’s Seven?”
Teffinger shrugged.
“She’s an escort with something called Ladies en Secret. That’s probably not her real name.”
“Is she an accomplice?”
“I’m not sure there’s anyone to be an accomplice to,” Teffinger said. “If
She showered, dressed for work and took a look at herself in the mirror. A mildly but not wildly attractive face stared back. Above her left eye was jagged three-inch scar, not highly-contrasting or thick or deep, but perceptible and capable of causing confusion when the person looking at her for the first time tried to figure out what was wrong.
There was no great story to it.
She fell off her bike when she was ten.
No foreign spies or acts of courage were involved.
Her stomach churned.
The thing she wanted more than anything in the world was to not go to work this morning.
She had to, though.
She had to make sure that everything was normal and no one knew about what she did last night. She needed to know that her face hadn’t been captured on a security camera or that someone had seen her and made a phone call. She needed to know that the FBI didn’t have her in its crosshairs.
She made two extra copies of the flash drive.
One went into the bottom of her purse.
Another went into a box of frozen Lean Pockets in the freezer.
The third went into an envelope, stamped and addressed to herself.
She dropped it in a mailbox.
Then she got on an eastbound bus.
Thirty-five minutes later, at One First Street, she stepped off.
10
Day Two
July 9
Wednesday Morning
Teffinger woke late Wednesday morning with Portia on one side and Seven on the other. Both women were passed out. Portia was face up. Seven was face down. Both were on top of the covers. Both were naked. Teffinger’s head still spun to the trance of the liquor and the smoke and the pounding speakers and the gyrating bodies and the raw shameless sex of last night.
He twisted onto his back and stretched.
His watch said 10:32, five hours past what it should.
He shouldn’t have done what he did last night but he did it and that was all there was to it and now he needed to deal with it. To be fair, there had been too much beer and body contact and dark lighting for too many hours for the night to not have ended in some kind of grand culmination.
Having officially and irrevocably slept with Portia, his credibility as a witness against her was forever tainted.
If she ever came to trial and he had to testify against her, the defense would say he’d been jilted or rejected after the fact.
Now he was out for revenge.
Now he was lying.
Just look at him.
Still, the case wasn’t necessarily in the gutter. What he needed to do was be sure it got built on physical evidence.
He slipped out of bed without waking either woman, grabbed his clothes and made his way next door to his own room—the room of North Reynolds—for a shower and a change. Forty-five minutes later he walked into homicide, deflected a stern look from Sydney and headed for the coffee. He stayed there and drank half the cup slow enough that he didn’t burn his tongue, then topped off and headed for his desk.
Sydney plopped down in a chair, looked at her watch and then at him.
No one was overly close.
They had privacy if they kept their voices low.
He leaned forward and said, “I ended up spending some time with Portia last night.”
“I’ll bet you did. Did you sleep with her?”
Teffinger exhaled.
“Technically, yes.”
“Technically?”
“Right, technically.”
“As in, you didn’t enjoy it?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“So you did enjoy it?”
“Well, yes, technically speaking,” he said. “In my defense, though, someone else slept with her too.”
“Who?”
“Seven.”
“Seven men?”
“No, one person, a woman. Her name is Seven.”
Sydney rolled her eyes. “Who’s Seven?”
Teffinger shrugged.
“She’s an escort with something called Ladies en Secret. That’s probably not her real name.”
“Is she an accomplice?”
“I’m not sure there’s anyone to be an accomplice to,” Teffinger said. “If
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