Terminal Vendetta (A Diana Weick Thriller Book 3), Cate Clarke [best books to read .TXT] 📗

were rounding a rented Jeep in front of the motel. The windows on the Jeep were tinted, but David opened the trunk, lifting something long and heavy into the car. There was a large bruise across the top of his forehead. Diana was sure that she had concussed him pretty well after slamming his head into that garbage can and that brick wall in Seoul.

“I think we know where they’re headed,” Diana said.

The three of them watched as the Readers piled into the front of the Jeep, seemingly with no words exchanged between them. They were working on their own takeout container from the restaurant, shoveling french fries into their mouths as Zabójca started the car.

The panic and the anger had subsided slightly. It hadn’t been the release she wanted or needed but at least, it was a direction to head in—something to distract her from the grief that Taras loved to dredge up. Something to push down the feelings, deep beneath the surface, that Taras was right.

Chapter 9

Amita Voss

London, England

“Three of these, please.”

Through the rows of golden pastries, Amita picked out the best, using her fingernail to tap on the glass. There were chocolate and sweets that she managed to resist from the other side of the rounded glass, but when she got up to the counter to pay, the impulse buys managed to sink their claws in. She had always had a sweet tooth; from a very young age, she’d preferred sugar over spice. Much to her mother’s annoyance, because Amita’s favorite hobby as a child had been to eat every confectionery in the house before her mother cooked her best curry for dinner that Amita would be too full for.

With the white box in her hands, Amita nodded at the gentleman who opened the door for her.

She was lonely. It had been months since her last date, years since her last husband. Amber had been a sufficient distraction because he was so nice to look at, but now with him running off with Diana Weick, that desolation had set in again.

At least, Amber was making progress. Diana was coming out of her shell again, making moves to become the soldier she was meant to be—the one that Amita had seen in her for a long time. It would be a lie to say that Amita was not a fan of Weick’s. In her early SEAL days, Amita had admired her on the Tonight Show, in her few interviews and the footage that paparazzi and news outlets caught of her. It was an odd feeling to be inspired by someone that was so much younger than her—to want to invest herself in every aspect of Diana Weick’s life.

Amita got into an Uber Black, going back to the office to deliver the pastries despite it being outside her work hours. Again, Chief Harlow was away so it was up to Amita to handle the entirety of the UK’s Secret Intelligence Service until he managed to peel himself off of his hookers in Malé.

After her expansive career, Amita had no patience for incompetence anymore. Perhaps that was why she admired and had so much faith in Diana Weick, because she seemed to be one of the only American soldiers left with a semblance of competence—who didn’t want to destroy the very system she had enlisted into.

She picked at the plastic bag of chocolate as the driver weaved through the streets of London, honking at the occasional misplaced tourist. The chocolates were nearly gone by the time they arrived back at Vauxhall Court.

Yes, Amita had overstepped her boundaries. But she had done a good thing. A great thing for Ms. Weick. She would see that soon.

The elevator went up, the numbers counting with her ascension, reminding her of how important she was and how little respect she truly got. All the administrative staff had already gone home, only agents remaining and walking the halls, joining the elevator and avoiding eye contact as they stepped off on the floors before hers.

She placed the pastries down on the desk as she threw off her light jacket and hung it on the metal coat rack. As always, she did a quick sweep around her office to see if anything was askew, but all was in order aside from the light knocking on the other side of the bathroom door.

On the inside of her arm, there was still a scrape from the last time she had tried to show kindness. The pastries would act as a buffer. They had to be hungry, near starving by now.

With the keycard on her hip, she swiped it along the gray panel and it flashed green.

There was the squeaking of skin along ceramic as she stepped inside.

The two of them finally tired out, not attacking her on sight even if they could only do so with their bare feet. The boy’s wrists were zip-tied around the back of the toilet, and he was sitting on the seat in order to minimize the pain on his shoulders. The father likely didn’t even need to be tied up anymore considering his status. He was spread out in the corner affixed to a metal towel ring above his head. His face was painted with a shiny film of sweat, his lips were gray and chapped, and his wrists were covered in red scrapes from pulling on the zip ties. The worst part of it all was his back. His shirt had been raised up so she could analyze and try to disinfect the burns, without which he surely would have died much sooner.

Amita had cared for him, brought him back to life after that explosion.

But he didn’t look well.

“I brought you some pastries,” she said, dropping the white box onto the counter of the sink and opening it. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her short brown hair tucked behind her ears, the new wrinkles popping out between Botox sessions, her mother’s lips and eyes tainting her face,