Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9), Allan Leverone [books to read for 13 year olds txt] 📗

the long, flowing red locks tumbling over her left shoulder and the barest hints of stubble just starting to poke out of her scalp on the right side of her skull, she was more than strikingly noticeable. She was damned near unforgettable, not to mention probably terrifying to young children.

“Definitely not ideal for a covert operative,” she mumbled as she glanced into the mirror on probably her thirty-fifth trek past.

On the thirty-sixth trip she came to the conclusion that something had to change.

At the end of the circuit she strode to her phone, leaving the familiar pathway behind and cutting straight across her living room. Three hours later she found herself seated in a hairstylist’s chair.

***

 

June 20, 1988

6:30 p.m.

Washington, D.C.

 

She’d hoped a new hairstyle would make her at least marginally less freakish-looking, and to that end, as she examined her new look in her bathroom mirror, she supposed her strategy had been successful.

Her red hair was shorter than it had been for as long as she could remember, barely reaching her neck and curled in a stylish bob.

On the left side.

The right side of her skull remained shaven and uncovered, still inviting the stares of adults and the screams of toddlers.

She shook her head and sighed. Rather than easing her frustration and depression, the visit to the stylist had had the opposite effect. The woman who’d cut her hair was older, mid-fifties probably, and her reaction upon seeing Tracie’s injury would have been humorous had Tracie not been so down.

Her eyes widened and she frowned. “What happened to you, honey?” she asked, her voice hushed and her tone funereal.

“Car accident,” Tracie replied. Given the classified nature of virtually all her work, it felt oddly unsettling to be able to answer the woman’s question truthfully.

“Well, we’re going to fix you up so pretty no one will notice those stitches,” she said, rallying at least somewhat after her initial shock upon seeing Tracie’s injury.

To Tracie, the whole thing had felt forced and insincere. She’d never been one to worry about feeling or looking “pretty,” except as necessary for an assignment, and receiving what felt like obvious pity from the stylist went against the grain. Badly.

So although she had to admit the woman had done a nice job with her new hairstyle—given what she had to work with—Tracie felt worse now than she had when she’d made the appointment. The prospect of pacing her apartment endlessly for weeks, ruminating on her many failings, left her feeling rudderless and adrift.

She wandered out of the bathroom, unconsciously following the pathway she’d established over the course of several hours earlier in the day. She was thinking about nothing in particular other than feeling hungry but not wanting to eat.

The doorbell rang.

For most people, a ringing doorbell wouldn’t represent a particularly noteworthy occurrence, but Tracie Tanner was hardly most people. She was rarely home, spending most of her time abroad on assignments, and almost never received visitors.

Friends her own age were virtually nonexistent.

Her mother had only been to Tracie’s apartment a handful of times in nearly ten years.

In fact, now that her father was dead, Tracie couldn’t think of a single person who might plausibly be standing at her front door. She almost ignored the buzzer, assuming the visitor must be a bible-thumper or political operative working for either George Bush or Michael Dukakis, looking to secure her vote for their candidate of choice in this November’s presidential election. Neither party’s national convention would occur until later in the summer, but everyone already knew who the nominees for both parties were going to be.

In any event, she had no desire to answer the door.

But the visitor was persistent, pressing the bell multiple times, refusing to believe Tracie wasn’t home and refusing to respect her obvious desire to be left alone if she was home.

Finally she could take it no more. She stomped to the door and flung it open, prepared to offer the bothersome intruder a profanity-laden piece of her mind.

Then she stepped back, stunned.

Marshall Fulton grinned broadly at her reaction.

“Well?” he said. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

7

 

June 20, 1988

6:30 p.m.

Washington, D.C

 

“What…what are you doing here?” Tracie shook her head to clear the cobwebs. “How did you even know I was back in town?”

Marshall’s grin widened. His teeth looked impossibly white against his rich chocolate skin, and Tracie’s heart skipped a beat. She and her sometimes/occasional/on-and-off boyfriend were polar opposites in so many ways: he was a massive black Louisiana ex-college football player, outgoing and friendly, whereas she was petite and typically reserved, with flame-red hair and porcelain skin. Their looks and personalities were so wildly divergent they were perfect for each other, and his mere presence made Tracie’s darkest moments more bearable.

Instead of waiting for him to answer, she launched herself at him, pressing into his barrel chest and wrapping her arms as much as possible around his muscled back, feeling his strong arms envelop her and lift her easily into the air. The stitches in her skull burned where they were being pressed tightly against his shirt but she didn’t care. He smelled of lemon and cinnamon and Tracie thought she’d never received a Christmas or birthday present in her life that meant more to her than Marshall Fulton’s unexpected arrival on her doorstep this evening.

They stood at the entrance to Tracie’s apartment, door flung wide open, locked in an embrace Tracie was only now beginning to realize she’d desperately needed. For most of her adult life, her emotional support had come from her father, and with him gone she’d felt unbearably alone.

“So,” Marshall said, his voice partially muffled as he spoke into her hair, his lips pressed to the top of her head. “Are we going to stand here