by Jillian Dodd
Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Books by Jillian
PROLOGUE
MISSION: DAY ONE
MISSION: DAY TWO
MISSION: DAY THREE
MISSION: DAY FOUR
MISSION: DAY FIVE
MISSION: DAY SIX
MISSION: DAY SEVEN
MISSION: DAY EIGHT
MISSION: COMPLETE
EPILOGUE
Books by Jillian
About the Author
Copyright 2016 by Jillian Dodd
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Jillian Dodd Inc.
N. Redington Beach, FL
ISBN: 978-1-940652-71-9
DEDICATION:
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO ALL THE WRITERS WHO SPARKED MY IMAGINATION AS A CHILD AND MADE ME DREAM OF BEING A SPY SOMEDAY.
AND TO THE PEOPLE WHO HUMORED ME.
BOOKS BY:JILLIAN DODD
The USA TODAY bestselling series,
The Keatyn Chronicles®
Stalk Me
Kiss Me
Date Me
Love Me
Adore Me
Hate Me
Get Me
Fame
Power
Money
Sex
Love
That Boy Series
That Boy
That Wedding
That Baby
The Spy Girl Series
Spy Girl
The Assassin
The Love Series
Vegas Love
Broken Love
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.”
I stand up and smooth out my uniform—which, not surprisingly, is all black—grab my backpack, and head down the hall, my dream still at the forefront of my mind.
X has been my name since I came to Blackwood eight years ago after my parents were killed. I slide my hand down the thick chair rail and take in the polished beauty that is Blackwood Academy, the stately mansion that has been my home since then. Although to the outside world it appears to be an elite college for only the wealthiest of students, it’s not really. If Hogwarts was for young wizards who show talent with magic, Blackwood is for students who show exceptional skills in espionage. Disciplines like martial arts, languages, computer hacking, and rule breaking. Talents tha
t our government can harness and train.
As I descend the grand iron staircase, I start to worry.
Last night, I may not have actually been studying. I may have been hooking up with S, who told me his real name is Josh Bentley after we first slept together. He wasn’t my first, by any means. At Blackwood, dating isn’t allowed, but we aren’t expected to deny our sexual desires. As long as we are not in violation of other rules like curfew, sex is fine, even considered a great way to release tension—which means the standard pickup line here is, Wanna blow off some steam? And that works for me.
I know I’m going to have to end things with Josh because last night when he held me in his arms, he dared to whisper those three little words—sweet words most girls long to hear but are the death of a relationship at Blackwood. Here, we’re taught to thrive on our own. To not crave emotional entanglements.
But last night, I failed in that respect. I liked hearing it.
But I’m chalking up my emotion to the events that preceded his words. All the students had been woken up yesterday at 0500 for a mission enactment. Twelve hours later—muddy, hungry, and exhausted—I used a sniper rifle to kill the target and retrieve the stolen data. Josh and I had worked together all day using our tracking abilities while being hunted. Just staying alive—as in not getting hit with a rubber bullet—is a feat. Completing the mission is a rare thing. Our enemies were Special Forces instructors who had never been beat.
After we’d scarfed down food in the mess hall, Josh and I celebrated by sneaking out with a 1974 bottle of Bordeaux I nicked from the school’s wine cellar.
And I have a feeling someone is missing that bottle.
I’m only a few weeks from graduation, and although it’s not that unusual for me to get sent to the Dean’s office for various misdemeanors, I’ve been particularly careful lately because after graduation I want to be a field operative for a covert agency. Because it’s my best chance of finding the man from my dream—and killing him.
When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I turn right then lift the brass knocker which contains a retinal scanner. My eye gets scanned and then the door responds with a click, letting me know I can open it.
“Hello, Xanthamum,” the Dean’s perpetually cheerful assistant says to me. She dresses like a grandmother and makes up a new name every time she sees you, but we all know it’s just a ruse. The woman retired from the CIA over ten years ago and is still a crack shot. “Go on in. He’s waiting for you.”
I give her a smile, hoping she will say more. She likes to gossip about the goings on at school. But in this case, she gives me a wave toward the door.
“Hello, sir,” I say to the Dean, by way of announcing my arrival.
He looks up from his book. “Have a seat.”
I sit down in a well-worn leather chair across from his desk. If I’m being honest, I love the Dean’s office. It’s a former library and is loaded with shelf after shelf of books. And the Dean has been a sort of father figure to me these last eight years, like if your dad was the type of guy to push you to do better at holding your breath under water, hitting a target the size of a peanut from one hundred feet, hacking into the Pentagon, and kicking the shit out of your jiu jitsu instructor.
“It’s my understanding that you are a good dancer,” he says.
Shit, he definitely knows I was dancing with Josh in his room after curfew. And by dancing, I mean having sex. But spies are trained not to follow the rules. To complete the mission whatever it takes. We are trained liars. So I reply coolly, “Of course, all of Blackwood’s students take finishing class.”
“I’m referring to the fact that you can actually dance well, like at a club.”
Crap. He knows my friend M and I sneak out to hear DJ Magic whenever he’s in town, which would be a worse offense than the wine.
I’m so dead.
“Uh, sure. I can dance.”
“You’ve been called out.”
Called out? Who ratted me out? Probably M’s roommate. She hates that M and I sneak out. It’s not our fault we don’t require much sleep and like to have some fun once in a while.
“And you’re popular with the young men of Blackwood,” he continues.
So I’ve maybe had short-term relationships with a few of them.
“Uh . . .”
“What I’m saying is that you’re pretty, you look good in a bikini, and know how to dance—so you’re being called out.”
“I’m in trouble for that?”
“No. You are being called to duty for those reasons.”
I sit up straighter. Wait?! He has an assignment for me? “But what about graduation?” I ask. Graduation consists of a senior skip day where we track real criminals, and I’ve been really looking forward to it.
“This is more important.” He hands me a black envelope. The back has a monogrammed seal with a red letter X on it.
“Is this from where I think it’s from?”
“Yes, they’ve been watching your progress.”
Oh. My. Gosh. My first assignment. I wonder what I’m going to be tasked to do. Sneak in the Kremlin, assassinate a terrorist, find a nuclear device, save the world?
He nods expectantly at me. I stop wondering about my mission and look at the envelope again.
I know the drill. Open my orders, commit them to memory, destroy them.
X X X
Your mission, should you choose to accept it:
Protect the heir to the throne of Montrovia, uncover the person or persons behind the plot to assassinate him in order to take control of this geographically important sovereign nation, and eliminate the threat.
Get close to the hottest Prince on the planet and work for Black X, the double-black covert group so secret even the President of the United States is on a need-to-know basis?
I accept.
I think about what he said about me looking good in a bikini. Do they want me to hookup with this Prince in order to protect him? Are you kidding me? I’m valedictorian. I have the school’s highest scores in everything from parkour to the number of ways I can kill a man.
I frown as I’m burning my orders in the fireplace. “Sir, may I speak freely about my assignment?”
“I’m afraid I’m not privy to your orders. My job was to help choose the student best fitted for the task based on the parameters given to me.”
“And one of those parameters was that I look good in a bathing suit?”
He chuckles. “In this situation, my dear, they need an operative who is not only the best and brightest but one who can also demand male attention. Your handler is waiting for you outside. You leave immediately.”
“But I need to go pack. Tell people goodbye.”
“I’m afraid there’s no time.” He stands up and, in an uncustomary show of emotion, hugs me briefly. “Godspeed, X.”
X X X
After she leaves his office, he opens a drawer, takes out a bottle of bourbon, and sets it on his desk.
He’s never questioned his orders but, in this case, he can’t help it. He’s been dreading this day for the last eight years when he was called out of retirement to become the Dean of Blackwood Academy.
His hands shake as he pours the amber-colored liquid into a glass.
Blackwood Academy sounded good on paper. They sold it to him well. He’d get to train young spies. Continue to serve his country.
The Russians have had programs like this for years, taking orphans, delinquents, or high IQ students and training them. Stripping them of their names and families. Teaching them to be killing machines. To have no conscience. To only do what they are told is best for their country.
Blackwood would be different. They’d be training a new elite spy. Young men and women ages eighteen to twenty-two. A spy college, so to speak. Spies who could move in social circles of the rich and powerful. Who could hack a computer with their eyes closed. Who understood technologies he’s too old to learn. He made sure that they were trained in the old school w
ays though, too. That they could function equally as well without GPS, fancy gadgets, and the Internet.
What he never expected was for them to send her.
At only fourteen.
Her beautiful mother had been shot, execution style, in front of her by the most deadly assassin in the world, a man known only as The Priest. And somehow, she managed to shoot and wound the assassin, fight him off, and then escape. A feat not even the most seasoned agent had ever accomplished.
Two days later, she defied death again, when a bomb blew up her father’s car.
She wasn’t allowed to attend their funerals. Spies don’t have funerals. They get a star on a wall in an office deep underground and a few moments of silence.
This he knows. He’s attended too many of those moments over the years.
He brings the glass to his lips and takes a small sip, enjoying the way the liquid burns, reminding him he’s still alive.
Even though most of the world believes him to be dead.
During her time at Blackwood, he’s grown to care deeply for X and feels more proud of her than he knew possible. He was hard on her, but she has amazed him with her abilities at every turn.
He wanted to tell her the truth today. The truth about her. The truth about him. The truth about her parents.
The phone on his desk rings, startling him.
He hears a series of clicks, knowing he’s being put through to a secure connection.
“Well?” the voice asks.
He takes another drink, greedily gulping it so he can bring himself to say the words he’s been dreading since that day. “Spy Girl is a go.”
“Do you think she’s ready?”
“With her genes and my training, what do you think?”
“You sound defiant, old man. I take it this mission is difficult for you.”