Last Strike Read Online Free PDF Page B

didn’t behave like a traitor, other than her lies about friends at the juice bar. He couldn’t find the first shred of an actual intel leak from the doc. It had to be something digital beyond his grasp. Her honesty troubled him.
    Once he’d proven his body could take her formulas and adjust to the enhancements, he’d been trained to think with the precision of a computer, always analyzing and adjusting. Always protecting the program.
    Nothing added up as he’d expected from finding her trapped in Gerardi’s car, to seeing his old data on her computer. His every assessment told him she’d been marked as a scapegoat. With a shake of his head, he reminded himself it didn’t matter. He had his orders and he’d leave nothing to chance this time.
    “Why do they want me to kill you?” Damn it. He couldn’t believe he’d voiced the question.
    One tear spilled over her lashes, down her cheek. “I - I swear I don’t know. But I understand why you’d want to. Personally.” She sank her teeth into her full lower lip. Defeat blanketed her, dragged her shoulders down. “I have no right to ask, but could you… would you make it quick? Please?”
    Damned if he didn’t want to accommodate her.
    “He’s not going to kill you.” It sounded as if the wall itself had spoken.
    Last Strike whipped toward the voice. He saw nothing, but he knew. “ Chameleon .” Here was the leak, Last Strike thought, not the doctor. The ‘invisible’ agent could do practically anything he pleased. “Get out!”
    Chameleon sighed loudly and Last Strike locked onto the sound, though he couldn’t see so much as a ripple of movement. “There had to be a better code name.”
    Last Strike jumped. The voice was at his shoulder now. He threw an elbow, only brushing against the invisible agent’s body.
    “Testy, much? Oh, maybe that’s a bad choice of words.”
    “You’re the leak,” Last Strike accused Chameleon as the doctor’s bindings split and she was hauled by the unseen force out of the chair, her arm slung over an invisible pair of shoulders.
    “End Game, for all they juiced you with smarts, you’re pretty slow. The doc and I will be going now. Have a nice day.”
    He ignored the taunting nickname, focused on the phantom bastard heading for the back door with his target. His prisoner. He pulled out his gun, guessing at where the man’s back would be. “Don’t move!”
    The door opened and Last Strike winced, flinging up an arm against a bright spotlight flooding the room. “What the hell?”
    “Whoops, bet that hurts,” Chameleon jeered. “Good luck in the next round, End Game.”
    “That is not my name,” he roared. He covered his eyes with his dark glasses and surged after them despite the pain in his eyes.
    “Hey, you’re right.” The doctor’s steps slowed, her arm shifting. “You haven’t been the Last Strike or much of an End Game lately. Losing your touch, ma-”
    His words were cut off with a sharp puff and a fine spray of blood. Last Strike twisted sideways, making himself a smaller target. The invisible Chameleon pushed the doctor behind the marginal shelter of the door as more bullets sought targets inside the house with professional three-round bursts.
    The doctor kicked the door shut and huddled under the window, staring at him as if she expected him to do something helpful.
    “Why send so many people to kill one lousy doctor?” Last Strike demanded.
    “I’m not lousy!”
    “Can’t speak for the sniper out there,” Chameleon choked out between short, tight breaths. “I’m here to save her.”
    That made zero sense, but he wasn’t going to let some wispy voice figure out this problem first and further erode Messenger’s faith in him. He thought he’d understood the game, right up until the point when he found too many players on the board behaving erratically.
    Time to get back to basics. He moved for the doctor as the sniper, clearly working off infrared heat signatures, blew out the