Weaponized Read Online Free PDF

painful to the touch. The man doesn’t yet have the obligatory tan. Even if you’re not trying for one, you get it. It’s part of the price of being here.
    The guy is also way overdressed for Armand’s.
    His suit is exceptional, white linen offset by a perfectly folded pink handkerchief. The suit looks custom-made but not by a tailor in the West, not someone used to dealing with a bulky body and this man’s height. The cut is a little too tight in the chest, and it’s a little too short in the legs. With his pouty, pillowed lips and swept-back hair, this newcomer would have looked at home during French rule sipping gin at a bamboo table with a rotating fan overhead.
    Kyle squints. Another Westerner? Too many in one day.
    The man holds a Tumi briefcase in his left hand and casually loosens and tightens his grip on the handle.
    He approaches the bar, takes in the tableau of Armand, Violet, and the kicking, squirming baby, and says: “Vodka. No ice.”
    Armand puts his hand atop Violet’s, excuses himself, and approaches the stranger. “No ice?”
    “What’s the point? This heat’s epic,” the man says as Armand goes for the bottle.
    Violet parts her lips but doesn’t give him a smile, just a welcoming flick of the tongue. The man smiles at her. His teeth are magnificent alabaster squares ready to do his bidding.
    “I’m Violet,” she says, unconsciously rearranging her long legs for maximum effect.
    The man nods, another flash of teeth.
    Armand places the drink on the bar.
    The man lights a cigarette, clenches it between his teeth, tilts his head slightly so the smoke stays out of his eyes, and drops a bill on the bar. “Keep the change.”
    As the man wanders away, both Violet and Armand look over to Kyle’s table. Each wears the same expression, the same dazed stare Kyle suspects he’s sporting as well.
    Because this man, this stranger, looks uncomfortably like Kyle.
    Similar height, give or take an inch or two. The same pronounced jaw. The same aquiline nose, dangerously close to becoming a beak but pulling back in time. The same eyes, green orbs with a coat of frost. The only big difference between them is their hair, both color and length. Kyle’s is lighter, and his current look could be called unintentional bohemian; the new arrival has a close shave and a triple-digit haircut.
    The man approaches Kyle’s table, pulls out a seat, and settles in. “You look like you could use a friend.”
    Kyle shakes his head, subtle but forceful. “Not really.”
    “All right.” The man throws up his hands, called out. “ I could use one. And I nominate you for the job.”
    Kyle motions toward Violet with his head. “Looks like you already made one.”
    “That’s not a friend. That’s someone looking for death.”
    “Yours or hers?”
    “I don’t think it matters. She just wants to set up a meeting.” The man crosses his legs, leans back in the chair. “I picked you because…well, you’re American. We search out our own kind, right?”
    “That was the only requirement? You might want to think about shooting higher.”
    The man laughs. “Also, you don’t look like you’re here working for an NGO. I don’t want to talk third-world politics, the evils of Western Imperialism, et cetera…”
    “I see…”
    The man raises his drink to his lips. Kyle sees a Patek Philippe watch, a chunk of gold for a bracelet, and what could be a wedding band. “Why are you here?” He takes a drag off the cigarette, then exhales, sending smoke through his nose like his adenoids are on fire.
    “Vacation,” Kyle says.
    There’s an uncomfortable subtext beneath the conversation, an almost hazy flirtation, as they both try to avoid bringing up the obvious.
    You look like me.
    The man brings his briefcase onto the table and quickly enters a combination; the top pops open. Kyle jumps back, his instincts hardwired to react to any unexpected sounds that could presage violence.
    The man laughs and removes a ham and