Tom Clancy Duty and Honor Read Online Free

instantly on his screen.
    The knife was made by Eickhorn Solingen, a model called Secutor. Jack Googled the company. It was based in Solingen, Germany, with plenty of online retailers. Jack clicked on several of them and found a price: $175.
    What was a crackhead doing with an expensive knife? At the first sign of withdrawal a real junkie would have sold it for a couple rocks. Jack zoomed in on the knife. Along the blade’s swedge was the word Secutor ; beneath it a four-digit number. Near the thumb stud was Eickhorn Solingen’s logo, what looked like an upright squirrel holding a sword.
    “Same knife, different markings,” Jack said to himself.
    Jack picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found what he was looking for. He tapped dial.
    “Shiloh River Gun Club,” the voice on the other end said.
    “Is this Adam?”
    “Yep. Who’s this?”
    “Jack Ryan.”
    “Hey, Jack. Haven’t seen you around for a while. You need to come in, put some rounds downrange.”
    “I know. Listen, I need a favor. A buddy of mine is looking at buying a knife on eBay, an Eickhorn Solingen—”
    “Nice blade.”
    “—but the markings look odd. Can you take a look?”
    Adam Flores was the co-owner of Shiloh River Gun Club, a private shooting club John Clark and Ding Chavez introduced him to. Outside of a military base, Shiloh River had one of the most realistic combat ranges on the eastern seaboard. He and Adam, a militaria aficionado, had become passing friends. If it went boom or was sharp, Adam knew about it.
    This was normally a question Gavin Biery, The Campus’s director of information technology, would field, but that avenue wasn’t open to Jack. Gavin had stuck his neck out for Jack countless times when he was an employee, and he’d probably do it now, but Jack wasn’t going to put him in that position.
    “Sure,” said Adam. “E-mail the pics and I’ll have a look around.”
    “Thanks.”
    Jack disconnected. From the pocket of his anorak he pulled the hotel key card he’d found at the scene. Emblazoned on the card’s blue front was a large red 6. Motel 6, Jack realized. But which one? He turned the card over, looking for markings. He found several, all number sequences. In turn, he typed each one into Google alongside the search term “Motel 6.” The third sequence—1403, the franchise identifier, apparently—found a match belonging to a motel in Springfield, about eight miles west of Alexandria.
    This, too, made no sense. While Motel 6 wasn’t exactly a five-star hotel line, it was branded, mid-priced, with what Jack thought was a decent reputation. Assuming this card belonged to his attacker, it wasn’t the kind of dive motel a junkie would choose, or could afford. And why Springfield? Why not one of the half-dozen motels within walking distance of the Supermercado?
    Jack realized his scalp was tingling. Someone had tried very hard to kill him last night, and that someone was looking less and less like a crackhead mugger. Having someone hunting for his head was nothing new, but this felt different. He realized his separation from The Campus had lured him into a comfort zone.
    Ysabel.
    Jack snatched up his phone and dialed her number, a flat owned by her father in London. Jack checked his watch; it would be midafternoon there. Before the line started ringing, he changed his mind and disconnected. Until he knew more, he didn’t want to tell her what was happening. She would worry. She would be on the next plane out of Heathrow.
    He dialed Ysabel’s father’s direct line. He answered immediately.
    Arman Kashani was no fan of Jack’s. Rightly or wrongly, he held Jack responsible for an assault on his daughter. In an attempt to get to Jack, Yegor Morozov’s people had nearly beaten her to death. She’d spent three weeks in the hospitalbefore moving first to a private-care rehabilitation facility in London, then to her father’s flat. Jack didn’t begrudge Arman’s animosity. If and