Project Pandora (An Assassin Fall Novel, 1, Band 1) - Softcover

Polydoros, Aden

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1633756858 ISBN 13: 9781633756854

Verlag: ENTANGLED PUB, 2017

Inhaltsangabe

Tyler Bennett trusts no one. Just another foster kid bounced from home to home, he’s learned that lesson the hard way. Cue world’s tiniest violin. But when strange things start happening—waking up with bloody knuckles and no memory of the night before or the burner phone he can’t let out of his sight—Tyler starts to wonder if he can even trust himself.

Even stranger, the girl he’s falling for has a burner phone just like his. Finding out what’s really happening only leads to more questions…questions that could get them both killed. It’s not like someone’s kidnapping teens lost in the system and brainwashing them to be assassins or anything, right? And what happens to rogue assets who defy control?

In a race against the clock, they’ll have to uncover the truth behind Project Pandora and take it down—before they’re reactivated. Good thing the program spent millions training them to kick ass...

The Assassin Fall series is best enjoyed in order.
Reading Order:
Hades Rising (prequel novella)
Book #1 Project Pandora
Book #2 Project Prometheus

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Aden Polydoros grew up in Long Grove, Illinois, and now lives in Arizona. He is a writer of young adult fiction. When he isn’t writing, he enjoys reading and going on hikes in the mountains. Aden Polydoros is a 2015 Gold Medalist in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and has published two short stories in Best Arizona Teen Writing of 2015.

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Project Pandora

By Aden Polydoros, Jennifer Mishler

Entangled Publishing, LLC

Copyright © 2017 Aden Polydoros
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-63375-685-4

CHAPTER 1

CASE NOTES 1: APOLLO

Tyler Bennett stood in front of the white marble vanity, staring at the mirror — or rather, what was left of it.

A few large shards bristled like teeth from the frame. The rest of the broken glass was scattered across the counter among lipstick tubes, broken eye shadow palettes, and other cosmetics. A woman's arsenal.

The bathroom lamp gilded the objects with a soft golden light, while also seeming to bring them into sharp focus. A handgun lay in the center of the mess, drawing his gaze and trapping it.

Before he realized what he was doing, he picked up the pistol.

He couldn't recall having handled a gun before, but somehow he knew how to check the magazine. At full capacity, it held ten rounds. Seven were left. More than enough to finish the job.

What job? Like a stone dropped into a very deep well, the thought lasted only long enough to cause a ripple of unease. Then it was gone.

He clicked the magazine back into place. A distant horror seeped through him, a whispering knowledge that what he was about to do — and what he had done — wasn't just wrong. It was unforgivable. It was damning.

It was a feeling that had no place in his programming.

Kill.

Looking down, he realized he was wearing clothes that weren't his. Black nylon gloves and a wrinkled outfit a size too big. The gloves were torn in places and beaded with blood. His jeans and shirt had also been splattered. Some of the blood was his own, oozing from tiny scratches on his knuckles. Most of it was not.

A black backpack was propped up against the toilet, the front pocket unzipped. Jewelry, camera gear, and crumpled cash bristled from the pouch. He recognized neither the backpack nor its contents, but he zipped it up and slung it over his shoulder.

He stepped into the master bedroom. Clothes had been ripped from drawers and thrown to the floor in wrinkled piles. An oil painting lay on the carpet, canvas split and frame broken. Holes were torn in the mattress and pillows, and upholstery fluff spewed from the seat of the armchair.

Rosy sunlight slanted through the plantation shutters and spilled across the floor. Feeling violently disoriented, victim to a nightmare, he swiveled around.

He noticed the alarm clock on the dresser: 9:45 a.m. He should have been at school.

He had been at school.

Kill.

Tyler went into the hall. Even from the doorway, he could smell a nauseating stew of blood and gunpowder. His resolution wavered.

A woman lay on the floor, facedown. Her hair was red and her shirt, too, the fabric so saturated with blood that it appeared black. Without looking at her directly, he knew she had been shot twice in the back as she'd tried to flee. The third bullet had shattered her skull at point-blank range.

No, he thought, closing his eyes. No, I didn't do this. It wasn't me.

Sudden nausea overwhelmed him. His right hand jerked up, but, remembering the gun, he cupped his left hand over his mouth.

This was just a dream. Just a nightmare. Soon he would wake up, but first, he had to complete the job. Once he did, he would open his eyes and this would end.

He swallowed back the acidic bile.

"Pandora's box is opening," he whispered to himself, and that calmed him somewhat. He stepped over the body and continued down the corridor.

Framed news articles lined the walls. Vaguely, he wondered if his target might be a reporter or newsman. Then he pushed the questions from his head and thought about nothing at all.

In the kitchen, the air was sharp with the stench of burnt bread. Inky plumes poured from the toaster slots. Before the machine could set off the smoke alarm, he pulled the plug.

Tyler sat down at the wooden table and set the backpack next to him. He looked at the spread of food laid out on white china. Lox, onion and tomato slices, capers, a small dish of whipped cream cheese. Brunch for two, one bagel already split and assembled, two glasses of orange juice waiting to be sipped.

She had sat here and prepared her meal, and then she stood to answer the doorbell. Or perhaps she had already been standing. He didn't know. But he knew that when she had answered the door, he — no, not him. It wasn't him! He hadn't lifted the gun. Not him. He hadn't pointed it at her. He hadn't pulled the trigger.

His gaze fell to the gun. Like in a vision, he saw himself cock the hammer and put the pistol between his lips. He imagined the way the tip of the silencer would feel propped against his teeth and how the oily metal might taste. He thought about the sound it would make when he squeezed the trigger — then realized he wouldn't live long enough to hear the muted gunshot.

There were seven bullets left, but he would only need one. Just one bullet, one twitch of the trigger, and then it would be all over. No more. No more. No more.

Stinging tears blurred his vision as he set the gun on the place mat. He raised his palms to his face and watched them shudder. Even when he curled his fingers into fists, his hands continued to tremble, although more subtly.

"Pandora's box is opening," he repeated, finding comfort in those four words.

From somewhere at the front of the house, Tyler heard a door creak open. He thought about trapdoors dropping open beneath condemned men, the jerk of the noose. This would be an execution, too.

"Honey, I'm back," a man called out.

Please, don't do this.

Kill.

Please, please ...

Kill them.

Tyler picked up the gun and cocked its hammer. He swiveled in his chair so that he faced the hall he knew the man would enter through. With his other hand, he wiped his eyes. His vision kept fogging up. A sob pressed against the roof of his mouth, but he swallowed it back. He must stay silent.

"Honey? Mary?" The man's voice was closer now, accompanied by hollow footsteps and the groan of floorboards, as though ascending the stairs of a hangman's scaffold. "Is that smoke I smell? Oh, please tell me you didn't forget about the toaster again ..." Go away, he thought. Please just go away.

The man who entered the kitchen was dressed in a tight fitness T-shirt, tennis shorts, and running shoes. A knit headband held back his graying hair. When he saw Tyler, his teasing smile vanished first into a confused gape and then the dazed-eyed shock of a deer caught in headlights.

"Where's Mary?" the man asked. "Who are you? What's going on? What — where is she?" His gaze swept from Tyler's face to his bloodied button-up to the gun that rested in his lap. "Oh my God."

"I'm sorry," Tyler said, lifting the pistol.

The man raised both hands, fingers spread in a placating gesture. His voice wavered as he spoke. "Kid, whatever you've just done, let's talk this over. There's no need to resort to violence. Just put down the gun, okay? Okay? Just put the gun down and —" "I'm so sorry," Tyler said, pulling the trigger.

There was a small popping sound like a wine bottle being uncorked. It seemed almost deafening, at least compared to the dull thud the man made as he hit the floor.

Tyler stood. He retrieved the shell casing from the floor and slipped it into his pocket, then walked over to the body. Stood there. Regarded it.

It was a clean headshot, but there could be no mistakes.

He pressed a finger to the man's throat...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: ENTANGLED PUB
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2017
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1633756858
• ISBN 13: 9781633756854
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 384
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar