Code Name Echo Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  About the Author

  CODE NAME ECHO

  AUTUMN CLARKE

  Copyright © 2017 by Autumn Clarke

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  About the Author

  one

  “Ready when you are, Echo.”

  I glance up to see Alpha watching me in the rearview mirror of the limousine. His dark eyes are emotionless, his ash brown hair concealed by a chauffeur’s cap for the mission at Jamison Hart’s estate. My partner’s real name is August, just like mine is Eliza, but we only use the code names assigned to us by the Executive, even when we’re alone. This is the only context in which we’ve ever known each other, after all. The orphaned girl with poisoned lips and the scarred boy with X-ray vision, brought together by a secret government agency dedicated to taking out the nation’s most dangerous enemies.

  You are aberrants, Agent Novenine said to us when we were children. Do you know what that means? You were born with a genetic anomaly. You aren’t normal. You can never be normal.

  It’s taken me almost my entire life to understand just how true that is.

  “Can you give me a minute?” I ask, feeling around inside my purse for a compact mirror. “I want to make sure I didn’t forget anything.”

  That’s totally a lie, even if he won’t call me on it. The truth is I’m feeling on edge tonight, almost nervous. What I really want is reassurance, but I can’t even get a smile from August, the one person I’ve ever been able to rely on. I trust my partner more than anything, but he’s not the type to offer emotional support. I used to hate him for it, back when we were teenagers. I’d scream at him as he waited, impassive and unflinching, for me to finish breaking down.

  How can you just stand there?

  How could you be such a heartless bastard?

  What kind of monster doesn’t even cry after killing someone?

  Now I know it’s the only reason the Executive paired us together at all. I still don’t know what happened to August when he was a small boy, before we both ended up at the Executive, but I eventually grew up enough to understand that the deep scars on his back meant something bad, really bad, that they weren’t just surface wounds. He was scarred on the inside as well, which meant he wasn’t ever going to be capable of crying, or smiling, or touching someone else without flinching. And so it wouldn’t matter if Echo wore her heart on her sleeve, because Alpha would always remain silent and steady, an anchor for her emotions. He’d be the perfect counterbalance for her weakness.

  Over the years, I’ve become more focused and less prone to outbursts. Stopped crying before and after every mission. Learned to hide what I feel for as long as I can, as long as it takes, until I’m finally alone and no one can hear me scream.

  In other words, I’ve become a better killer.

  I check my appearance in the compact mirror, which also serves as a video communication device if I press my index finger in just the right place. My green eyes have remained their natural color for the mission, though my short blond hair has been highlighted with pink streaks, and my strapless black dress is accompanied by a pair of sneakers.

  Normally I would have forced myself into a pair of ridiculously high heels so I could lose my balance and fall, literally, into Jamison Hart’s arms. But the billionaire tends to go for women who don’t follow the rules, and I need to catch his attention as soon as possible. I can’t afford to make any mistakes. In a typical mission, Alpha sets up his sniper rifle on a nearby rooftop so he can watch over me with his X-ray vision. Take out any threats if I’m compromised. But the mansion known as the Woodland Castle is well-guarded and isolated in a forest clearing, and there aren’t any vantage points at all.

  If anyone realizes I don’t belong at Jamison Hart’s twenty-eighth birthday party, I’ll have to get out on my own.

  Alpha clears his throat, glancing at the digital clock next to the steering wheel. I can’t stall for much longer. Even if I’d rather be anywhere but here, I have to get out of the limousine at some point. The Executive has made it extremely clear what the consequences are for failing to close a mission. The last time I didn’t kill a target, I was sentenced to solitary confinement for a month. There’s nothing like being locked in a cell plastered with pictures of your target’s innocent victims, forced to listen to a recording of the explosion that claimed their lives, one night and day for every soul lost.

  And all because you couldn’t manage one little kiss.

  The penalty for failing to kill Jamison Hart will be one year of solitary confinement. Not because of my prior offenses, but because that’s how many people will die if I don’t succeed. So it’s completely vital that I stick to the script and cover story without losing my nerve before the mission even begins. But just this once, I wish I could ask August to soothe my fears. It’ll be okay, Eliza, he might say. I believe in you, Eliza.

  But every second of that is a fantasy. By now I’ve learned to shove my desire for comfort and reassurance somewhere deep down inside, the same way I bury the names and faces of the targets I’ve killed. Because I already know what I’ll get if I ask for anything. No choice, Echo, Alpha will say. Remember the victims, Echo.

  As if he’s ever kissed anyone and had to watch them convulse to death because of it. As if he’s ever been told that the only thing he’ll ever be good for is killing with his lips. A kiss will only ever be just a kiss for him, and pretty much everyone else in the world.

  But never for me.

  The Executive sent me on my first mission when I was thirteen and August was seventeen. Our target was Javier Angelo, the teenag
e son of a foreign diplomat. At a wedding reception, Javier and I sat beside a moonlit pool while the other guests celebrated and danced elsewhere. We flirted and held hands and talked about what Javier believed was a mutual love of French rap music. I didn’t know why he had to die. I wasn’t allowed to ask. But I knew enough to understand that innocent civilians would lose their lives if I didn’t close the mission. This was what I’d been training for my entire life, after all.

  So when there was a pause in the conversation, one in which Javier didn’t look away, I leaned over and pressed my lips against his. It felt so intoxicating when he kissed back that I just kept on going, not pulling away like I’d been instructed to do. His hand swept aside my dyed green hair as my arms encircled his neck, and I really thought there had been some kind of mistake. My lips couldn’t actually be poisoned, could they? Not when we were doing this. Not when it felt so freaking good.

  But after approximately fifteen minutes of making out, Javier jerked away from me. He started to choke and convulse as his face slowly turned purple, and his expression was absolutely terrified. Even as I reached out for him, he fell into the pool, making a splash loud enough to be heard by his security detail. An autopsy wouldn’t reveal the poison that was killing him, but I panicked. I’d never seen anyone die before. I turned to run, only to find myself surrounded by men with their guns drawn.

  That was when a series of pops sounded. One by one, the members of Javier’s security detail fell to the ground, their blood spilling across the concrete and into the pool. Alpha was shooting them with his sniper rifle. He didn’t have to take them out for me, and he wasn’t supposed to do it at all, but he still did it anyway.

  It was my first kiss.

  It was his first kill.

  “I’m ready,” I say, tucking the compact mirror back into my purse, where it nestles against a cell phone that corroborates my fake identity. “See you later, Alpha-gator.”

  The silly nickname is the only thing that’s ever made August smile. Once, twenty years ago, when we first met as children. Ever since then, he’s only looked at me with guarded eyes, as if the slightest hint of emotion might send one of us into a tailspin. But I still keep trying to make him smile when we’re alone, even if I’ve stopped expecting anything to come of it. I would say I’ve made it my mission, but I’ve already had enough of those to last a lifetime.

  Now, outside the Woodland Castle, August merely nods before getting out of the limousine and walking around to my door. I draw my fingers back from the handle just in time. I’m not supposed to open it on my own. Alpha is my chauffeur for tonight, Mr. Alexander Jones, a temporary hire and nothing more. Treating each other as anything else risks alerting the bodyguards to the fact that we might be something other than what we seem.

  But as I step out onto the cobblestone path and into the shadow of the castle-like mansion, August’s gloved hand reaches out and catches my bare arm for the briefest moment. A warm breeze rushes over me, and I find myself inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne.

  “Be careful,” he says, his voice low.

  I almost can’t react for a moment. It’s an offer of comfort from the last person I expected, not only startling but also illicit now that the mission has begun. I should be worried that my partner has chosen this moment to say something he’s never said before. The mission must be way more dangerous than I thought.

  But years and years of training and missions have drilled the Executive’s words into me: You are not the killer. The operative is the killer. You become the operative whenever it is necessary to keep our nation safe. I’m already disappearing into the mission, shoving everything else from my mind, clinging only to my cover story and target objective and forever poisoned lips.

  Eliza needs comfort, but Echo does not.

  “Thank you, Jones,” I say, turning to face the bodyguards standing outside the Woodland Castle: my destination, his departure. “That will be all.”

  two

  Distant strains of classical music float through the air as I enter the grand foyer of Jamison Hart’s mansion. It looks like the billionaire never redecorated the Woodland Castle after inheriting it from his deceased mother. The outdated décor in the open space is brilliantly lit by a chandelier: a clawed-foot table holding champagne flutes, a velvet armchair and a matching bench, an oversized floral vase containing wilting sunflowers, a baby grand piano with an empty tip jar, and a small tree bearing pale yellow lemons so perfectly shaped that I’m not sure if they’re real or fake.

  A butler moves forward to greet me, a small envelope clutched in his hands. His eyes are a startling shade of pale green. “Ms. Lily Bass?”

  I self-consciously tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yes?”

  “You’re the last to arrive,” he says, handing the envelope to me. “There’s been a change in this evening’s activities—we sent out the wrong invitations. You’ll have to hurry if you don’t want to lose the game.”

  As a bodyguard glances into my purse and waves a metal detector around my dress, I open the envelope to find an invitation inside: “Lily Eileen Bass, you are cordially invited to celebrate the 28th birthday of Jamison Hart. Please join us for a game of Sardines at the Woodland Castle. Cake & booze to follow.”

  “Sardines?” I repeat, confused. This is the same invitation passed along to me by the Executive, except the other one said “for a cocktail party” and “espresso to follow.” It didn’t say anything at all about a game, and I don’t understand how there could have been a mistake. Childhood games aren’t exactly the favorite pastime of billionaires.

  The butler inclines his head. “The guests are currently searching, individually and in small groups, for Mr. Hart. Once successful, each guest must join Mr. Hart’s hiding place until only one remains. At that time, a birthday cake and specially crafted cocktails will be served in the ballroom. The losing guest will be required to drink a cocktail entitled—” His expression darkens. “Sardines colada.”

  I bite my tongue, fighting a sudden urge to laugh. Is he serious? This is way too easy. Alpha must have noticed with his X-ray vision that the guests were scattered all over the mansion. He would have assumed it meant danger. But after all the preparation I’ve gone through in the past month, memorizing the Executive’s files on every guest attending this party, I’m going to play a game instead. I might not even run into anyone else, depending on how quickly and stealthily I can get to Jamison Hart. And once I join my target in his hiding place, we’ll be in an enclosed space, maybe even one that’s dark enough for me to brush my lips against his before excusing myself to use the ladies’ room.

  By the time he’s convulsing on the floor, Alpha and I will be gone.

  “At your leisure.” The butler makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating that I’m free to search the rest of the mansion.

  I smile politely and return the invitation, then walk as casually as I can out of the grand foyer. As much as I want to run, there are bodyguards with handguns and earpieces stationed in every hallway, so I have to keep acting like a typical guest. At least my sneakers are way better for playing this game than heels would have been, and I’ve memorized the entire layout of the mansion well enough to draw it in my sleep. There are three floors with multiple wings, servants’ quarters, secret corridors, and even a seven-car garage.

  I don’t have time to search the entire mansion before the game of Sardines ends. But it’s hard to imagine the billionaire hiding in a darkened closet somewhere, waiting for his wealthy relatives and business associates to find him. So what do I know about Jamison Hart and his hobbies? He plays the violin, he reads classic literature, he owns way too many antique cars, he drinks pretty much all the time, he makes a mean shrimp scampi, and he loves sailing. If anything, he’s probably relaxing in the library on the third floor by himself, reading a leather-bound book while sipping a glass of aged whiskey.

  But first I have to eliminate the possibility that he’s already in the ballroom, ea
ting a piece of cake and drinking one of those specially crafted cocktails.

  Following the strains of classical music, I make my way into the empty but expansive ballroom, which has been decorated with a nautical theme. A string quartet is playing on a small stage underneath navy blue banners, and a sailboat is sitting in a corner with a massive gift bow tied around its hull. At the center of the dance floor, there’s an elaborate birthday cake surrounded by a variety of cocktail glasses. One, set off to the side by itself, is garnished with a sardine speared by a toothpick.

  I scan the faces of the musicians in the string quartet, but none of them are Jamison Hart. Feeling slightly ridiculous, I walk over to the sailboat and peer into the cockpit. It’s empty, obviously. Even though my hopes weren’t high anyway, I can’t help but feel disappointed. If I don’t locate my target soon, I’ll have to go off-script and ask Alpha to use his X-ray vision to find Jamison Hart.

  The next place I should check is the kitchen, which is just down the hallway. I push through a swiveling door to find a round breakfast table, an oversized island, a wooden fruit bowl containing fake pears, and a ceiling rack with dangling copper pots. No sign of Jamison Hart.

  But when I glance through the open door of the pantry, I realize I’m not alone in here. A man is locked in an intimate embrace with a blue-haired woman in between the shelves of canned goods. They’re laughing and murmuring, unaware of my presence, clearly ignoring the party in favor of each other.

  “Don’t you just adore Sardines?” the man asks teasingly. He has a British accent and a shaved head, and I have no idea who he is. His picture wasn’t in the stack of files given to me by the Executive.

  “Please, Lawrence. No one likes Sardines, not even children.” At least I can identify the woman based on her identical accent and blue hair: Zoe Evano, an heiress from London with business ties to the Hart family. “This is simply a way for Jamison to corner Ophidian’s board of directors and win our votes.”