Terminal Vendetta (A Diana Weick Thriller Book 3) by Cate Clarke (book suggestions .txt) 📕

face, leaning back in the chair. He asked, “Do you, ma’am?”

“Nobody knows,” she replied, circling back to the desk to lean against it. Her feet were sore from her run this morning, her calves were sore from hiking last weekend—she truly hated the act of ageing. The Botox helped with the self-esteem at least, but her body was filled with constant reminders of her senility.

“Does nobody include you?” Amber raised an eyebrow.

Amita smiled.

Zabójca had many enemies. The lieutenant had lied about killing him, and she’d known that for years because she’d been tracking Zabójca for years. It was a bold assumption, but one she was quite confident in.

“She’s followed Zabójca,” Amita said. “To Seoul.”

“How do you know that? She completely dropped off the grid after the DC drone bomber,” Amber said skeptically.

“It’s an…” She thought. “Educated guess.”

“Right, ma’am.”

“So you’ll go then?”

“To Korea?”

“On my orders.”

“For what exactly?” Amber asked. “With all due respect, ma’am, Weick isn’t MI6. You want to bring her on as an independent contractor?”

“That’s what I want to do, yes,” Amita said. “Let’s not forget that the Readers approached her. They wanted to recruit her. She’s valuable. You know that already, Amber.”

“Oh yeah,” Amber said. “Firsthand.”

“I see much of myself in her,” Amita muttered, her eyes glancing down to her crossed ankles and then out the window to the black water that flowed through the midst of London’s gloomy compass.

“Really?” Amber half-laughed. She moved her eyes to him, narrowing them. “Well… sorry, I’m not taking the piss, but you two are nothing alike. She plays on her own team. Highly focused which I guess you have too, but that’s about it for similarities. You’re posh, executive and.... gray. She’s black and white—hot-tempered, sometimes completely mad.”

“You didn’t know me when I was young, Amber,” she replied, sighing and pushing herself off the desk. Amita circled it twice before sitting down at her chair. There was a slight rustle from beyond the bathroom door behind her like something falling off the counter. It had never been her dream to have a bathroom in her office—in fact, she borderline hated the room. It had been hard for her to find a use for it. She didn’t want to isolate herself further from her employees by defecating on a private golden throne.

“Flight’s booked,” Amita said, looking back at the laptop, more unanswered emails adding to the slush pile. “Confirm with Reina.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Amber nodded and swung his feet, kicking himself up from the armchair. He gave her half of a cheeky salute and made his way to the door.

“Stick with her, Amber,” Amita stated, not taking her eyes away from the screen. “I want her.”

“Heard.”

Chapter 3

Cameron Snowman

Washington DC

There were some days that he missed the simplicity of being a government agent. Once upon a time, he stopped at Starbucks in the morning, picked up wraps and coffees, sat at a desk for eight hours and then clocked out—smoked weed and played video games all evening long. Definitely simpler times. But less fulfilling. There was something nostalgic about waiting around by the J. Edgar Hoover Building though. He’d spent long lunches with his partners and colleagues at this corner café, except in the past—most of the time—he hadn’t needed to be in disguise. But he didn’t have to wait very long in the button-up Aloha shirt and straw sunhat that was too small.

Agent Park sat down at the exact table that he always sat at for his after-work beer. They had shared many in their years as partners together, and Cameron knew he would order a Blue Moon, spin the cap and depending if it landed shiny side up or down, he would get a sandwich.

Park had always been superstitious. Not a great quality for an FBI agent to have, but an amusing one.

Cameron slid from his table to Park’s.

“Uh, this is taken,” Park said. The Blue Moon cap landed shiny side up—no sandwich, only booze.

“So are you,” Cameron stated and peered at him from under his hat. “But that’s not going to stop me from making a move.”

“Wh—” Park looked up. “Cameron?”

His hand went to his belt, but Cameron already had his pistol out, pushing it into his stomach underneath the table.

“Nope,” Cameron snapped and lifted his brow so Park could look him in the eyes. “I mean, yeah it’s me but no, don’t go for your gun unless you want to die here.”

Putting his hand back on the table and reaching for his beer, Park asked, “Can I do this at least?”

He took a sip of his beer.

“Sure,” Cameron said.

“Risky move being here,” Park stated. “You’re kinda an idiot.”

“You’re kinda an asshole,” Cameron replied. “But you were always that way.”

“Yeah.” Park laughed. “Because you weren’t always an idiot.”

The gun pushed harder into Park’s torso as Cameron shook his head at the attitude. He had no qualms in shooting his ex-partner if he needed to. Park had already forgotten how much power he had over him, and that wasn’t even including the gun pointed at his stomach.

“How’s Helena?” Cameron asked.

Park’s black eyes sucked back like he was looking into a spotlight. His mouth twitched.

“Just before I left,” Cameron sighed. “She was expecting, right?”

The sound of Park’s wedding ring ringing against the beer bottle caused a grin to form across the bottom of Cameron’s face. He was a bit self-conscious of it now—his smile. He couldn’t do it in a mirror because it reminded him too much of the father that had been stolen from him. Especially as he got older, every reflection was a reaffirming nudge that working with the Readers had been the correct choice.

The only thing he wished was that he would have been the one to put that bullet into Ratanake’s head. Carson had gotten that privilege—that satisfaction. Lucky dead bastard.

It was a balance. Cameron would have taken a bullet from Weick if it meant killing Dominic Ratanake.

After a moment, Park shook his head, sighed and asked, “What do you want, Snowman?”

“It’s not much of anything really,”