Tom Clancy Duty and Honor Read Online Free PDF Page A

like an outsider. What they all lived and breathed was Hendley’s off-the-books missions. This was prevalent in the business, on both the civilian and military side—a natural by-product of being good at a job that frequently tries to killyou. That was a fair, if generalized, definition of addiction, wasn’t it? Maybe. If so, months of withdrawal and he still felt the lure of it. There were worse vices, right?
    He drew his Glock, eased back the slide until he saw the glint of brass in the chamber, then reholstered. He got out of the car and headed for the entrance.
    —
    W ith the swipe of the key card, the door gave a satisfying click. Jack used the back of his thumb to pull open the door, then stepped into the vestibule. Through the inner door he followed signs to room 142. The hallway was empty, but as he passed doors he caught strains of muffled conversation, a game show playing on a television.
    He stopped before 142. A PRIVACY PLEASE placard was hanging from the lever handle. Jack pressed his ear to the door. Listened. All was quiet. He glanced down the hall again, saw it was clear, then drew the Glock, stepped closer to the door’s hinge-side jamb, and swiped the key card. He used his fist to push down the lever handle, then nudged the door open with his foot.
    He paused. Listened again. Nothing stirred inside the room. He counted to ten, then took a breath, let it out.
    With the Glock in the compressed-ready position, Jack shouldered through the door and into the short hallway. Bathroom on his right. To his left was a closet with dualsliding mirrored doors. Both were open, and on the floor was a black hard-sided roller suitcase. Ahead he could see a chest of drawers and the foot of a queen bed, and the window. The sheer curtains were drawn, casting the interior in pale light.
    As the door swung shut behind him, Jack backed up, putting more distance between himself and the bathroom door. He paced forward, checked the bathroom. Empty, door fully open, shower curtain back. He took another step down the hall and peeked around the corner into the main room. Clear. He holstered the Glock.
    The room was like any other you’d find in a branded motel: low-pile carpet, white walls, a bed with two nightstands, and a small round table and two chairs beside the window. The air smelled faintly of pine-scented disinfectant.
    Jack took a moment and stood still in the center of the room, taking it in. The space was tidy but lived in. Here and there things were out of place, the kinds of checklist details maids attend to, but the PRIVACY PLEASE placard outside suggested housekeeping hadn’t been here.
    There was nothing personal on the nightstands, chest of drawers, or table. No change, no receipts, no pocket detritus of any kind. The bedcovers were pulled up, but the bed wasn’t made.
    And no sign of drug paraphernalia.
    This wasn’t the room of a homeless crackhead.
    Jack walked to the bathroom. Beside the sink, lined upbeside each other, were a toothbrush and a miniature tube of toothpaste. In the shower he found a half-empty bottle of complimentary shampoo and a used bar of soap in the holder. Hanging neatly from the curtain were a towel and washcloth, the latter folded once lengthwise, the former stiff from being air-dried. The trash can beside the toilet was empty.
    He returned to the main room, put on a pair of leather golf gloves, and started his search. The nightstands were empty, as were two of the chest’s drawers; the uppermost one contained rows and stacks of staple clothing: socks, underwear, jeans, plain cotton T-shirts in blue, black, and red. He carefully sorted through each item and found nothing—not even labels, all of which had been cut out.
    He retrieved the suitcase from the closet and laid it on the bed. There were no luggage tags, either personal or airline-issued. He unzipped the suitcase. It was empty. Jack ran his fingertips around the nylon fabric inner lining. Again, no luck. Jack returned the