Chapter 2 - Hannah Reed Wasn’t My Real Name
The handler asked if we could talk.
I said no.
That surprised him.
“Ma’am, this dog just responded to a nonstandard signal.”
“Dogs learn things.”
“This dog learned that from one person.”
I picked up a rag.
“Then maybe you should call that person.”
His eyes stayed on me.
“I would.”
I wiped an already clean section of counter.
“But she’s dead.”
The rag stopped in my hand.
There it was.
The official story.
Evelyn Hart died during an overseas extraction three years earlier.
At least that was what the people who needed closure had been told.
The handler introduced himself as Sergeant Caleb Morris.
He worked with a military K9 training program temporarily operating through a nearby National Guard facility.
Ranger had been reassigned after his original handler was killed.
Me.
Evelyn Hart.
I had spent six years working in specialized military support, first as a K9 handler and later in a classified recovery unit attached to joint operations.
Ranger was my last dog.
And the only living thing from that life I had ever truly missed.
Caleb studied me carefully.
“What’s your name?”
“Hannah Reed.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Almost three years.”
His expression changed slightly.
Not enough for anybody else to notice.
Enough for me.
Three years.
Same time Evelyn Hart supposedly died.
I turned away.
“Coffee?”
“No.”
Ranger stood.
Caleb gave a hand command.
The dog followed.
Good.
That meant the bond had transferred.
At least mostly.
Then Ranger stopped beside the doorway.
He looked back at me.
I didn’t move.
Caleb did.
He watched the dog.
Then me.
He lowered his voice.
“Evelyn Hart used that same finger tap.”
My throat tightened.
I kept my face neutral.
“Never heard of her.”
Caleb nodded once.
He didn’t believe me.
Then he left.
I thought the danger had gone with him.
It hadn’t.
Twenty minutes later, my manager, Donna, walked toward me holding the diner phone.
“Hannah?”
“What?”
“There’s a man asking for you.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
I took the receiver.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Then a male voice spoke.
Quiet.
Familiar.
“You should’ve let the dog walk past.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
I hadn’t heard that voice in three years.
But I knew exactly who it belonged to.
May you like
Colonel Adrian Vale.
The man who had helped arrange my death.
