Spy Girl (Spy Girl #1)

Spy Girl (Spy Girl #1)

Jillian Dodd




PRO:LOGUE





A man is being hung by his feet from the top of a sixteen-story building.

He tried to evade his pursuer but could not. The pursuer was like a ghost who would magically appear no matter where the man tried to hide.

And it is in moments like these that men experience clarity in their life.

The dangling man knows he will die soon. And, still, he refuses to admit to the ghost that he had anything to do with the crime. After all, he was ordered to do so by a man no one dares to cross, for fear you will end up in a situation like the one he is now.

Fearing for his life.

He did not cross his employer, though. He simply made a mistake. Last night when he was three sheets to the wind, he may have been bragging about a job he did recently in Britain.

It was an easy job, kill a man who was hunting and make it look like a suicide. No one in the pub was surprised. The types that gathered at this establishment were all criminals of one form or another, but he’d gotten a big payday and it made him feel a few notches above the rest.

“Tell me who hired you,” the ghost yells at him, threatening to let go.

The man shakes his head. If he tells, he will die—either by this man’s hand or his employer’s, and he’d much rather get dropped off this building than face what his employer would do to him. He should know. He’s fulfilled numerous contracts with explicit instructions for a slow, painful death. Or worse, making them watch their families die first.

“If you tell me, I’ll keep you safe,” the ghost offers.

“Nowhere is safe from him!”

“Just give me his name. Atone for what you’ve done.”

The man considers this. Would telling the ghost allow him to end up better in eternity?

He shakes his head again. “It’s already been set in motion. No one can stop it now.”

The man feels himself fall as the ghost lets go of one of his legs. Although he quickly discovers he only dropped slightly, it felt like many feet. He has a wife at home and an elderly mother. Even in death, his employer would punish him—by killing his family—if he thought he had been betrayed. But the ghost is good. He’s clearly a highly trained spy, who may be the only one able to stop his employer.

“We can protect you! Tell me!”

He feels the man’s grip slip and in a flash of panic yells out, “Please, don’t let go! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!”

The ghost pulls him to the safety of the roof then levels a gun at his chest. “Who hired you?”

“A man who is not in charge, but I overheard some things.”

“Like what?”

“It starts with Montrovia,” he tells the ghost. It’s not all he knows, but hopefully it will be enough.

A relative peace overcomes him, and he now knows what he must do to protect his family.

It’s the only way.

He leans backward and pitches himself over the ledge.

“Shit,” the ghost mutters, putting his gun away and reaching for his phone.

“We were right. It’s starting,” he says to the man who answers.

“Do you have him in custody?”

“Sort of,” he replies, looking down at the body lying broken in the street.

“Is he alive?”

“Uh, not so much.”

“Did you find out who hired him?” The voice sounds angry.

“As we suspected, it was a man who is not in charge. But he confessed to overhearing something.”

“Dammit, you should have kept him alive. We need more information.”

“He said enough. It starts with Montrovia.”

The man on the other end goes silent. “I was hoping to give her more time.”

“We can’t wait any longer.”

“I’ll make the call,” he says reluctantly.





MISSION:DAY ONE





My mother is on her knees in our living room.

She’s pleading at me with her eyes. Although the man standing in front of her thinks she’s begging not to be shot with the suppressed handgun he’s pointing at her, I know she’s really begging for me not to do what I’m about to do—shoot the man myself.

She closes her eyes as I pull the trigger.

But I’m too late.

A tiny hole forms in the center of her forehead as blood sprays onto the couch behind her.

I watch in stunned horror, a scream rising in my throat even though I know I should keep quiet.

The man turns to face me. He’s clutching his shoulder, which I must have hit.

His eyes bore into mine. Eyes I will never forget.

Then he turns his gun on me.

“X, wake up,” my study hall professor says, pushing on my shoulder. Even on Sundays, we have mandatory study periods.

“I’m sorry. I was up late studying for our upcoming finals,” I say smoothly.

“The Dean would like you to report to his office immediately.”