Naughty Read online

  About NAUGHTY

  She’s an elite spy, working for an agency so secret only three people know it exists. Trained by the best of the best, she has honed her body, her instincts, and her intellect to become the perfect weapon.

  CODENAME: HAMMETT

  Before special operative Hammett became a mercenary, she executed the most difficult missions—and most dangerous people—for the government. When one sanction turns into half a dozen dead, the agency Hammett works for realizes she’s gone rogue. And there’s only one way to deal with rogues; eliminate them with extreme prejudice.

  But this target has other ideas…

  NAUGHTY

  NAUGHTY

  J.A. Konrath

  Ann Voss Peterson

  CONTENTS

  Epigraph

  Begin reading NAUGHTY

  The CODENAME: CHANDLER saga continues in FLEE

  About J.A. Konrath

  About Ann Voss Peterson

  Ebooks by J.A. Konrath

  Ebooks by Ann Voss Peterson

  Other Recommended Titles

  Copyright

  There’s nothing to fear but fear itself. And her.

  LOS ANGELES, 2007

  Hammett

  “No one can argue that some people simply need to be killed,” The Instructor said. “Our job is to figure out how to do it.”

  His new name was Roddy “Whiteboy” Simmons. Hammett had broken into his home seven minutes earlier, having picked the deadbolt on his back door and disarmed his burglar alarm with the use of a drill bit, a dental mirror, wire cutters, and a 9-volt battery. Child’s play. But what came next was anything but.

  She stood in his living room, letting her senses report. The house was dark and quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator coming from the kitchen down the hallway. The scent of lemon wood polish was strong, and there was a lingering odor from the microwave lasagna he’d eaten for dinner several hours ago. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she scanned the room, first for his computer, which was nowhere to be seen, then for the cat. Last Thursday she had gone through the garbage he’d left on his curb and found several empty cans of Friskies.

  Hammett liked cats, and was curious what kind this one was.

  After ten minutes of standing in place, no cat showed up to greet her. So she began to explore the rest of the house.

  Roddy Simmons was especially careful on the web, probably due to his previous bust. She’d tried all of her Internet tricks in an attempt to track him, but he’d spoofed his MAC address and was getting online through a virtual private network.

  So Hammett set up a MySpace social networking page, pretending she was a twelve-year-old girl, complete with a cute pic of a fresh-faced kid with braces and pigtails. Then she spent two days friending real tweens and answering endless, banal surveys about favorite movies and music and ice cream flavors and Twilight, which she’d never read but now considered herself an expert on.

  After that she wasted a solid week of ten-hour days, finding every MySpace user under the age of sixteen named after some variety of “Rod.” She chanced upon Roddy Simmons after more than two hundred misfires. He was masquerading as a thirteen-year-old boy, and his predator camouflage was good enough that his account looked exactly like a teen’s should, including several dozen photos.

  Hammett didn’t want to think about where he got those photos.

  Roddy “Whiteboy” Simmons, under the previous aliases Rod “Wigger” Thompson and “Hot Rod” Klein, had killed two children before coming to the attention of the agency she worked for. He’d done things to those kids that sickened even her lead-lined stomach, and had been clever enough to leave no physical evidence at the crime scenes.

  She had to begrudgingly admire Rod for that. Law enforcement had grown increasingly sophisticated over the past decade. Vacuuming for hairs and fibers. Using alternate light sources to illuminate bodily fluids. Sexual assault and murder usually left trace evidence, even if the perp was careful.

  Roddy was very careful.

  So was Hammett.

  She wore a black unitard, latex gloves, and a hairnet. Though she fancied Mark Fisher heels for playtime and Doc Martens for work, today she’d opted for stealth and gone with soft-soled ballet shoes. They were silent on hard floors, and didn’t leave distinct footprints on plush carpeting. Plus, Hammett liked the feel of the ground underneath her feet when she was in stalking mode. It kept her in touch with her inner predator.

  Strapped around her waist was a canvas tool belt, with four leather pouches containing everything she needed for this job. The lock picks. The silk rope. The pliers. The ball gag. The duct tape. The vials of cyanoacrylate. The cup of jacks. The scalpels, wrapped in microfiber cloth so they didn’t clang together.

  Creeping into the kitchen, Hammett found the cat’s food and water dishes on the floor in front of the sink. Remnants of liver pâté clung to the bowl, still emitting a pungent odor.

  The kitchen, like the living room, was fastidiously clean. Roddy was as meticulous in his housekeeping as he was with his Internet activities.

  She allowed herself a small smile at the observation.

  Sometimes, no matter how careful you are, there are still things outside of your control. Like the woman in your house about to murder you.

  She wasn’t sure how Rod came to the attention of the agency she worked for. Hydra assassinations were usually international and political, and Rod was a local boy, uninvolved in world affairs. But now that Hydra, and Hammett, knew about him, his minutes were numbered.

  On the countertop was an old fashioned phone; a model that still had a cord attached to the receiver. It was expected. Unless you understood how to encrypt the radio waves that cordless phones transmitted, it was safer to stick with corded models. Hammett slowly unwound two feet of duct tape, picked up the receiver, and wrapped it around the earpiece, setting it on the counter. When that annoying beep began indicating the phone was off the hook, it was barely audible.

  From the kitchen she prowled into the carpeted hallway, passing a bathroom, coming to a door. From the layout of the house, Hammett knew it was the bedroom. A quick check of the knob found it locked. But unlike most suburban households, this wasn’t a cheap, hollow-veneer door, or a press-button privacy lock. This door was metal, the lock serious. Whoever slept behind it was careful about security.

  Of course he was. He had secrets to hide.

  Hammett reached into the first pouch on her belt, removing a black box half the size of a cigarette pack. After switching it on, she placed the ear bud in her right ear, and the contact microphone against the door, and was rewarded with the sound of steady, rhythmic breathing. Satisfied he was asleep, she traded the listening device for her lock picks, selecting a Z-shaped tension wrench and a tool with a small hook on the end. Knocking back the tumblers was child’s play, and she had the door open in under ten seconds.

  The strategies for entering a room varied, depending on the situation. Going slow made less noise, but the chances of being noticed increased as time passed. Going quick drew more immediate visual and audible attention, but could catch the target unaware. Hammett took it slow, easing the door over the shag carpeting an inch at a time, holding her breath while listening for his, opening it just wide enough to slip her slender frame through, then closing it again behind her.

  Hammett paused, standing in his bedroom, watching him sleep. The only light came from the blue LED of his bedside digital clock, which bathed his chubby, shaven face. With his balding head, he looked almost cherubic.

  She slowed her breathing until it matched his, and then traded her lock picks for the two vials of cyanoacrylate. Then she approached the bed, taking a step with each breath. Ther
e wasn’t any professional reason for this. She simply liked to prolong the moment. The lovely calm before the lovely storm.

  Rod made it easier for her by sleeping on his back. She uncapped the vials, brought them to his face, and squeezed them over his eyes simultaneously.

  One of several things would happen next. Perhaps he would remain sleeping and not react at all. Perhaps he would try to open his eyes. Perhaps he would touch his eyes, either in sleep or while waking up. Or perhaps he would wake up instantly and attempt to flee or fight. Though she’d never actually had the last one occur in the many times she’d done this, Hammett kept her hands defensively in front of her and her feet in a solid, centered stance.

  Rod stirred when the superglue hit his eyes, and after a few seconds he lifted his hand to rub them, bonding his fingers to his lids.

  When he jerked into a sitting position, Hammett pulled the cup from her belt, popped off the top, and dumped the contents onto the bed behind him. The contents were several dozen metal jacks, like those used in the child’s game with the red rubber ball. Except these were made of stainless steel, and each prong ended in a barb, like a fish hook.

  After pouring out the jacks, she clipped Rod under the chin with the heel of her hand, knocking him back onto the bed. The barbs embedded themselves into his back, and into the sheets and mattress, pinning him there better than any rope.

  He struggled, screamed, none of it mattering a damn.

  She tied his free hand to the bedpost with a length of strong, silk rope. Then she tied his legs, and yanked his glued hand from his face (taking the eyelids with it) and bound that as well. When she was sure he was properly restrained and escape was impossible, she went to work with the scalpels and the pliers.

  Roddy “Whiteboy” Simmons had done terrible things to children.

  HammettammHamm made sure the things done to him were even worse.

  She never said a word about why she was doing this. He knew his crimes. Hammett saw no need to remind him. But she did ask for some intel. Information above and beyond what was required of her. Passwords. Names. URLs.

  Hammett got all she asked for. Then she gagged him, because the screaming and begging was giving her a headache.

  He died sometime before dawn, probably hypovolemic shock, though she’d done what she could to staunch the blood loss. When she was finished she placed her bloody gloves into a plastic bag, snapped on a fresh pair, picked up the laptop he had on his nightstand next to the bed, and locked the bedroom door behind her.

  Leaving via the back door, she was met by a black cat with gorgeous blue eyes. Hammett crouched, held out her hand. The cat rubbed its face against her knuckles and purred.

  “We need to find a new home for you, baby.”

  She scooped the cat up and held it to her chest, the laptop in her other hand. This was a risky proposition. The cat hair clinging to her could be connected back to the crime scene. The cat might also be chipped, which could lead back to Hammett in all sorts of ways.

  But even though this was an outdoor cat, it still needed a home. And what kind of human being would Hammett be if she let some poor kitty starve?

  “You should do what is asked of you on a mission, no more and no less,” The Instructor said. “Doing less makes you worthless to the organization. But doing more could make you a liability.”

  After calling in a successful mission to her handler, Isaac, Hammett stopped by a no-kill animal shelter, the cat’s collar tied via rope to the sign outside that said ABSOLUTELY NO AFTER HOURS ANIMAL DROP-OFFS. She’d done this before, knew they’d take the kitty anyway. That was one of the reasons she’d donated many thousands of dollars to the place. And if the cat did have a tracking chip implanted, it wasn’t as if calling the owner would do any good.

  She showered in her hotel suite, and then watched the sun rise, exhausted but wired. Part of her wanted to get onto Hot Rod’s laptop. A bigger part of her wanted to get laid. As usual after an op, she was horny as hell. Though she wouldn’t call torturing a man to death—even a pedophile who’d deserved it—a turn-on, the fact that she’d gotten away with it left Hammett buzzing. Too early to pick up a guy at a bar, she sat naked on the bed and leafed through the Los Angeles phone book, discovering a whole section of escort services offering straight men. She called the one with the biggest ad, asked who was available at a short notice, and made a date.

  Hammett played with herself until her rent-a-stud arrived, and when he did she answered the door in her bathrobe.

  She wasn’t disappointed. He had the L.A. metrosexual look down to a science. Trendy facial hair with a close cropped anchor mustache and a pointy Van Dyke. Hair short, black, and gelled. Heavy aftershave. A tailored silk jacket and pants, light blue, and a dark blue shirt unbuttoned to the navel, showing a chest that looked like a two hour per day gym addiction.

  He smiled at her with his mouth, and when he took notice of her body in the open bathrobe, he smiled with his eyes. No doubt he’d popped a few Viagra or Cialis before the date, in case she was a heifer. But while Hammett had more scars than most Hollywood types, her body was toned and curved in all the right places.

  She grabbed him between the legs, pulled him inside, and then kissed him when the door was closed and locked. He tasted like mint floss, and his teeth were as perfect as his face and body. After a very hot meeting of tongues he bent down to pick her up, and became confused when she braced her legs and placed a hand on his chest, throwing off his balance and leverage just enough to make it impossible. While Hammett knew his only intention was to carry her to the bed, she wanted to stay in control, especially with someone almost twice her weight. So instead she led him to the bed, lay back with her knees apart, and let him dive in.

  He was better with his mouth than she’d been with her fingers, obviously happy in his work. He read the subtle movements of her hips and her moans to know when to apply more pressure, and when to back off. A real pro, he used his mustache to highly pleasurable effect.

  After several orgasms she beckoned for him to undress, and he followed her silent commands for how fast and hard he should fuck so she could come again. When she did, she let him take the lead for a bit, turning her this way and that, varying depth and speed, maintaining exceptional control until she found herself growing less interested in him and more interested in what was on the laptop.

  She allowed him to come—something she sometimes refused to allow escorts to do because she liked to see them break character and pout or beg—but he’d been good enough that he earned that. Then, when he was half-hard with his condom still on, she ordered him to immediately dress and leave.

  He did, without having said a word the whole time. Which worked for Hammett, because when a man that good looking said something, it was usually vapid and ruined the whole fantasy.

  Maybe the guy had a PhD in philosophy and would have been thrilled to discuss Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, but Hammett guessed he’d rather talk about how the Lakers are doing, why Adam Sandler was hilarious, and how he wanted to see her again. Yawn.

  Content and wonderfully sore, she locked the door behind him, booted up Roddy’s laptop using the passwords he had so generously provided, and delved into his private email account.

  It was a good thing Hammett had gotten laid before tackling the computer, because it took less than ten seconds for her to dry up and go cold. After viewing some of the images of violated, crying children, she might have killed her handsome escort had he still been in the same room with her, just for the crime of having testicles.

  Jaw set, she surfed through the jpg attachments, and went to work on tracing where they’d originated. Not an easy task when senders spoofed their IP address and used VPNs. But Hammett kept her hacking software online in a file locker, so once she downloaded it to Rod’s computer and did a quick installation, a’hunting she did go.

  It took thirty minutes to trace the first of Rod’s pedo buddies to an address in Beverly Hills. A man named Stuart Lupowitz. He liked lit
tle boys.

  Protocol dictated Hammett get on an afternoon flight to her apartment in Columbus and wait for her next directive. Protocol also insisted that after an op, staying out of sight and lying low was mandatory. Drawing undue attention, or engaging in risky behavior, was forbidden. Hydra, like the many other shadow organizations the U.S. government no doubt funded, survived because of secrecy.

  So when Hammett dressed and headed toward Beverly Hills instead of LAX, she knew it was a severe breach in procedure. One that could have major consequences.

  As expected, L.A. traffic was almost as horrible as what she’d done to Rod only a few hours ago, and an eight-mile drive took forty minutes. The weather was hot and smoggy, and Hammett was wearing a red unitard, having tossed the black one in the hotel’s lobby garbage. Over it she had a white mesh swimsuit cover-up which would have looked out of place anywhere but Hollywoodland. A floppy white hat, oversized Prada sunglasses, and her ballet shoes rounded out her ensemble.

  After spending ten more minutes looking for a spot on Rodeo Drive, she parked five blocks away from Lupowitz’s house and fed the meter to the maximum limit. Then Hammett began to walk, tuning into her surroundings. Traffic sounds, a dozen people on the sidewalks, most shopping, one roller blader, a jogger across the street. Fresh coffee smells from a bistro. The stench of smog and exhaust mixed with the dry heat. She passed one designer store after another—stores that normally drew her in like a kid to candy. But Hammett hardly paid them any mind.

  She was in stalking mode.

  Taking a circuitous route, backtracking twice to check for tails, she made her way out of the shopping district and into the residential areas. Hammett knew to be careful here. Celebrities and the uber rich got extra police protection, and sure enough she spotted a patrol car in her peripheral coming up when she crossed Santa Monica Boulevard. She ducked behind a pine tree, letting the cop pass, and then continued on to Carmalita Avenue. Every house was a mansion, every mansion a burglar-proof fortress. Lupowitz was some sort of hotshot producer when he was not jerking off to kiddie porn, and no doubt breaking into his domicile would be a lot harder than getting into Rod’s.