The Medusa Protocol (Assassins Anonymous, 2) - Hardcover

Buch 2 von 3: Assassins Anonymous

Hart, Rob

 
9780593717424: The Medusa Protocol (Assassins Anonymous, 2)
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0593717422 ISBN 13: 9780593717424
Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

Welcome back to Assassins Anonymous, the only twelve-step group where joining can be deadly.

When Astrid, known in her assassin days as Azrael, stopped showing up to Assassins Anonymous, the group assumed her past had caught up with her. Only her sponsor Mark, formerly the deadliest killer in the world, holds out hope that she’s okay. Then, during a meeting, the group gets a sign, or rather, a pizza delivery. Is there another psychopath out there who actually likes olives on their pizza, or is Astrid trying to send Mark a message?

Meanwhile, Astrid wakes up in the cell of a black site prison, on a remote island. A doctor subjects her to mysterious experiments, plumbing the depths of her memory and looking for a vital clue from her past. She’ll do anything to escape, except…killing anyone. Hmm. Turns out it’s not easy to blow this joint without blowing anything, or anyone up.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Rob Hart is the author of Assassins Anonymous, The Paradox Hotel, The Warehouse, and the Ash McKenna crime series, and the co-author of Scott Free with James Patterson. He’s worked as a book publisher, a reporter, a political communications director, and a commissioner for the city of New York. Hart lives in Jersey City.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Mark

Chinatown

One Month Later

We take our places around the statue of Dr. Sun Yat-sen in Columbus Park, everyone spreading out so we have room to move. As usual, I am the only white face, and the only person who doesn't qualify for an AARP card.

"Your form has been improving, but you're too much in your own head," Ms. Nguyen says, stretching her arms in the spot next to me. "Drop into it this time. Let everything else go."

"Just doing my best to keep up with you, sweetheart," I tell her.

Ms. Nguyen is wearing athletic pants and an oversize T-shirt, her gray hair tied back in a ponytail. Despite being in her seventies, the outfit makes her look like a kid. I'm in running shorts and a tank, the least modest outfit here. I tend to run hot, and by the time the class ends, the sun will have peaked the line of buildings and roared into the park.

"Remember," she says, "if you get overheated, you're welcome to take your shirt off."

"You're not worried about the other ladies getting jealous?"

She leans over and smacks the exposed flesh of my thigh. "I bring you here to show you off," she says.

Master Feng takes his place at the front of the group. He stands for a moment, in his cream-colored cotton uniform, his hands clasped behind his back. The man must be pushing ninety, but his eyes exude a penetrating sense of inner calm and presence, like he could count the droplets in a rainstorm.

He offers us a slight bow, and we all bow deeper as a sign of respect. Then he leads us through the opening movements, placing his arms out in front of him, before bringing them around to the right and toward his hip as he steps, delicately and deliberately, forward.

When Ms. Nguyen first suggested I do tai chi with her, I brushed it off. I know a dozen fighting styles, all of them designed to injure and kill as quickly and efficiently as possible. Tai chi looked to me like a bunch of old folks waving their arms around in a park.

And it's exactly that.

But it's more, too.

I've come to appreciate the gentleness of it. The focus of being in my body. Thinking of it less as a tool designed to inflict pain-which is something I spend every day actively working to forget-and seeing it more for what it is.

A tool in service of myself.

My own little temple, in which I can find peace.

I don't know the name for the movements we do, but I watch Master Feng, and the men and women around me, as I try to emulate them and get lost in the flow.

The ache in my shoulder whistles in my ear, reminding me of the chunk of deltoid muscle that got torn out by a bullet. The practice has brought back some range of motion, more than physical therapy did. I'm able to move into the pain and then through it-like I'm manipulating something inside me, a little ball of energy I can toss from side to side.

Observing it and experiencing it without fighting it.

The getting out of my head part, that I'm still struggling with.

I called Astrid this morning, like I have every morning since she disappeared. I used to leave voicemails, then I stopped doing that. Today the robotic voice on the other end told me the line had been disconnected.

It was only a matter of time, I suppose.

It sounded like a period on the end of a sentence.

Confirmation she was back in the game, or dead.

For people like us, for me and Ms. Nguyen and the other members of our homegroup, I'm not sure if there are any other options. There's a reason working as a high-level assassin doesn't come with a 401(k) match.

Eventually, you cash out.

As we flow through a downward movement, Ms. Nguyen clears her throat. I glance over and she's tossing me a sharp eyebrow.

She doesn't need to say it. She can hear the gears grinding in my head.

Okay. Stay in the movement.

I follow Master Feng, try to match his energy, and let the surroundings fall away. For a little bit, it works. The ambulance screaming around the corner turns to a dull buzz. The kids playing in the adjoining park muffle into raindrops on a window.

I breathe deep and follow the peace of that breath.

Breathe in for four, hold for four, exhale for four, empty lungs for four.

Then I think about Astrid and it all goes to shit.

There's really not much to do at this point. I sit within the acceptance of it and continue the movements, enjoying the feel of my body brushing the dust off my muscles.

Another half hour, and we're done.

Master Feng bows to us, and we bow in return. The practitioners break into cliques, most of them rounding up expeditions for tea or dumplings.

A hand appears on my shoulder and I turn to find Master Feng. He offers me a serene smile. "Next time, less effort."

I bow to him again. "Thank you."

I'm not even sure if he heard it-he's off mingling with the other students, offering them words of affirmation. Ms. Nguyen appears in front of me, a sheen of sweat on her brow, but before she can say anything, an older woman grasps her arm, leans in to her ear, and says, "Ta hen shuài."

He's handsome.

"Ta shì wo? de," Ms. Nguyen responds.

He's all mine.

The woman scrunches up her face, looks at us both like she's discovered a conspiracy, and leaves.

"You know," I tell Ms. Nguyen, "I never said we were exclusive."

"I'm protecting you," she says. "That one would eat you for lunch."

"My hero." I offer her my arm. "May I escort you home, darling?"

She loops her arm into mine. "Of course."

The sun is out full blast now, June coming in hard. We wend our way through the streets of Manhattan, toward the West Village, navigating the morning crowds of commuters and tourists.

"I'm assuming Astrid didn't pick up the phone this morning," she says.

"Disconnected."

Ms. Nguyen gives a little shake of her head. "People go out."

"She was my sponsee. Which means she was my responsibility."

"The only person responsible for Astrid is Astrid. You can't take that on."

We stop at Canal Street, waiting for the light to change, letting the conversation drop as people crowd around us, knowing better than to say something that could be overheard by the wrong person.

Once we've crossed and we're clear of prying ears she says, "The point of sponsoring someone isn't to save them. It's to save yourself."

I respond by being obstinate and not saying anything.

Two blocks later she asks, "How's the new apartment?"

"It's fine. I like the East Village a little better than the West. It's quieter. Fewer drunken college kids."

"You sure it's safe to be here?" She nods up toward the glasses on my face. "Those things really work?"

I tilt them down at her. They look so stupid. Which is sort of the point. Thick black frames, wide lenses, the shape of them designed to screw with facial recognition software, by making it hard to take accurate measurements of my features. As an added layer, they project a low level of infrared light onto my face, so on CCTV, I'll appear slightly washed out and less identifiable.

"Been fully back three months and no one's killed me yet," I tell her. "Had a friend set up a new identity to overshadow my lack of an old one. But look, I live in acceptance of the fact that this is a risk. I was bored living up in the mountains. P. Kitty's not a good conversationalist."

"I'm glad you're back," she says. "I missed that cat."

"And you missed shamelessly hitting on me."

Ms. Nguyen smiles. "Sooner or later, you'll come around. Older women know what they want."

We make it to her building-my old building, too, before my apartment was firebombed in an attempt to draw me out of recovery-and she stops. She looks up at me and smiles. It's the way...

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Verlag
G.P. Putnam's Sons
Erscheinungsdatum
2025
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593717422
ISBN 13 
9780593717424
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
306
Kontakt zum Hersteller
G.P. Putnam's Sons
https://www.penguin.com/putnam/

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