Wren and the Werebear Read Online Free PDF Page A

hips.
    “Wren.”
    “Olivier.”
    They stood, facing each other over the disarmed mugger. The man groaned again.
    "I wouldn't go if it wasn't important," Wren said. Olivier opened his mouth to speak, but she pressed one finger to his lips to silence him.
    "Please, honey. I'll explain later."
    "Fine," Olivier said. "But I'm not lying to the police."
    "They won't care. It'll be a great story—senate official taking down crime and all. And you don't care, do you?" Wren bent down next to the man, who cringed back in fright.
    "See, he doesn't care."
    "But I—"
    "Bye, sweetie." Wren stood up and pressed a quick kiss on Olivier's lips before he could protest again. As she walked away, she turned to see him dialing the police, and she knew he would tell them that he had taken down the mugger.
    Never waste a chance for good press. Not in Washington, D.C., and certainly not if Olivier had anything to do with it. Wren just hoped that she would be able to finish whatever assignment the CSE had given her before their weekend getaway.

Chapter Five
    On the main street, Wren found a taxi to take her back to her apartment.
    "Wait here," she said. "I'll just be a minute."
    The taxi driver eyed her elegant dress and leaned back in his seat. She took the stairs two at a time, barely managing not to fall over on her heels, and threw the door open. In her bedroom, on her half-empty suitcase, sat a large sealed manila envelope. She tucked it under her arm. At her desk, she scribbled out a note:
    Jessica - Gone for a couple days, be back soon. Love, W.
    The taxi honked outside.
    "I knew I shouldn't have unpacked," Wren muttered to herself. She threw an armful of shirts into the suitcase, as well as a clean pair of jeans. She zipped up her suitcase, grabbed a pair of sneakers, and ran back down the stairs to the taxi.
    "Airport," she said tersely, slamming the cab door behind her. The taxi driver hit the dash and pulled away from the curb.
    Wren kicked off her heels, tugged her dress off over her shoulders and pulled out a change of clothes from her suitcase. A T-shirt and jeans should do it. She unstrapped her leg holster and put it into the top pocket of her suitcase, leaving her gun on the other seat. She put on her socks and had just finished tugging up her jeans over her hips when she noticed the cab driver peering at her, eyes wide, through the rearview mirror.
    "Can I help you?" she asked.
    "Uh...yeah, uh. Just curious."
    "About my bra or my gun?" She held up the unloaded weapon and flashed it in the mirror.
    "Uh, no. Just...uh...which terminal?"
    Wren sighed and tossed her gun back down on the seat.
    "One second," she said, pushing her hair out of her face. "Let me see."
    The manila envelope opened with one swipe of her fingernail, and out fell a new passport, gun registration, and cell phone, along with an airline ticket.
    "American Airlines," Wren said. She glanced at the ticket – there was a five-hour stopover in Chicago on the way to California.
    "He didn't have to do that," she murmured.
    "Excuse me?" The cab driver looked again into the back seat, presumably to see if there was any more bare skin showing.
    "Nothing," Wren said. She opened the passport. The name inside read Isabel Carson. Birth date, place of birth, citizenship, address. She memorized the new information quickly and tucked the passport into her back pocket along with the gun registration.
    She was about to put away the cell phone when it rang. She picked it up and leaned back in the cab seat.
    "Who is this?" the voice on the other end asked. The voice was hoarse, throaty.
    "Isabel," she said. "I'm going on a long trip."
    "Are you going to the moon?"
    "On my way now," Wren said. That was it. The passcode was complete. "Marty."
    "Wren."
    "Marty, you fuck, it's been too long."
    Wren tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and began to braid her hair back. It was time to get back to work.
    "Hey, you're the one who decided to transfer to the sit-on-your-ass