The Clone Assassin Read Free Page A

screened for wolves in sheep’s clothing, it screened for sheep that sided with the wolves.
    “Mr. Herman, thanks for coming on short notice,” said Major Day. He shook hands with the provocateur.
    “Call me Lenny,” said the provocateur, he of the innocuous persona. He shook Day’s hand, looking slightly befuddled. Nothing strange there, natural-borns generally became disoriented when they entered the Pentagon. All of the officers were clones; they all stood five-foot-ten; they all had brown hair cut in a military regulation flattop. To natural-born eyes, the lobby of the Pentagon looked like a hall of mirrors.
    “I’m glad for this chance, Major . . .”
    “Call me Walter.”
    He clapped the provocateur on the back, and they headed for an elevator. As they rode to the third floor, Day asked, “Have you looked at the floor plan?”
    The provocateur nodded. He said, “Big place. You have a lot of floors to polish.”
    “It’s a big contract,” said Day. “Pull this off, Lenny, and you’ll be a wealthy man.”
    The provocateur nodded, and said, “I bet you guys go through a lot of wax and cleanser,” as the elevator opened to the third floor.
    Day smiled, and said, “Seven hundred drinking fountains, five thousand toilets, seven million square feet of floor space.”
    “Aren’t pentagons supposed to be five-sided figures?” asked the provocateur.
    “The original building was pentagonal. The U.A. Department of Defense went with a cube during the rebuild. It’s a more economical use of space.”
    As they started down the hall, the provocateur’s voice took on a less friendly tone. “Did you get the cases I sent ahead?” he asked.
    “Sure. I shepherded them through security personally,” said Day.
    “Any problems?” asked the provocateur.
    “Smooth as silk.”
    Major Day didn’t notice the way his guest played with the ring on the middle finger of his right hand as they chatted. Day led the way, walking slightly ahead, not bothering to look back as he spoke. In another minute, his trusting nature would cost him his life.
    “Your package is in the third-floor facilities locker. That’s where we’re headed.”
    They walked down the hall. Most of the people they passed were clones, males, soldiers, sailors, and Marines. Day, an Army man, led the provocateur along the Army face of the building. Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines—each branch had a side.
    They reached a service hall, an empty, dead-ended corridor. Day said, “I know it doesn’t look like much, but you’d be surprised what goes into keeping this place clean. This is only a locker; our main warehouse is on a subfloor.”
    The provocateur said nothing.
    Day pressed his hand against a security plate, and the door slid open. The lights inside the locker powered on when the door opened. So did the security system. The Pentagon was on the verge of a security lockdown. The entire Enlisted Man’s Empire was on the verge of a security lockdown. What happened next pushed it over the edge.
    Major Walter Day stepped into the storage area. He asked, “Do you have a family, Lenny?”
    Rows of shelves lined the floor. There was a clock on the wall. The time was 10:52. Having been afraid he might have missed his deadline, the provocateur saw the time and felt a sense of relief. Hoping he sounded relaxed, he said, “Three kids. The oldest is my girl.”
    Day said, “You’re a lucky man. Me, I got the Army, but I don’t have a wife or children. You civilians get things too good.”
    10:53.
    Bright lights shone from the ceilings. The glare caused the provocateur to blink. He asked, “Where’s the package I sent.”
    Day turned, pointed to the package, and staggered forward. He didn’t call for help. He barely grunted as he dropped to a knee and turned to face his killer, his arms already paralyzed.
    The provocateur had hit Day in the back of the neck, stabbing the poisoned spike in his ring into the spot where the dying major’s spine and