Page 10 of Double Take

In her pottery studio, she had appeared happy doing what she loved. He eyed the bowl on the dresser. His most prized possession reminded him of her—unique. In different light and turned at different angles, the colors changed, reminding him to look beyond the first glance to see what was really there. Faith was as colorful as her pottery. He’d only spent that one evening with her at the gala, but he’d soaked up every second, storing away the flashes of humor, her wry observations, her quick wit.He’d developed a crush through the vids, but once he’d met the real, live woman, he’d fallen in love.

However, he’d failed to peer behind the façade of her marriage. She’d become suspicious near Hammond’s untimely end, but he’d assumed she’d loved him. So, the animosity had come as a surprise, although, in retrospect, it shouldn’t have. She was a sharp, smart lady. It stood to reason she’d see through her late husband’s pretense.

If only she could seehimand not Hammond. He’d anticipated her love for her husband to be the roadblock—that he wouldn’t measure up to her one true love. Now he realized he faced the opposite problem. He would always remind her of the man she despised.

The notion he could have any relationship with her was pie in the sky. He might as well wish for a magic genie to appear and send them flying into the sunset on a winged unicorn. She would never love him, nor would Dark Ops permit contact, let alone a relationship. Normally, clones inherited the rights and privileges of the citizen they replaced. However, in his case, he’d replaced a man physically and legally dead. Dark Ops intended for him to stay that way; ergo, Bragg was stuck in no man’s land.

As if his thoughts had shot straight to HQ, his multipurpose device jangled, two short pings followed by a longer ping, the signal he’d assigned to his CO. He did a quick visual sweep to ensure his hotel room was unidentifiable before opening a channel.

“Where the hell are you?” Scowling, Marshall appeared on the screen.

“Patagonia.”

“No, you’re not. You checked out of your hotel a week ago.”

“I wasn’t aware I had to stay at that particular location for the duration of my vacation.”

“You’re supposed to adhere to your approved itinerary.”

“You were checking up on me?”

“You’re lucky it was me and not someone else.”

“I decided to visit a sheep ranch.”

“What the fuck are you doing at a sheep ranch?”

“Shearing sheep. When in Patagonia, do as the Patagonians.”

Marshall swore. “I had a hunch you would do something stupid.”

“I’m shearing sheep!”

“I figured you were up to something when you put in for a furlough.”

“I’m entitled to leave.”

“You’ve never taken any.”

“I am now.”

“I pinged you a half dozen times.”

He hadn’t answered to avoidthisconversation because he was, in fact, doing something very stupid. “I’ve been shearing sheep.”

A roar drowned out Marshall’s reply.

Bragg waited until the noise dissipated. “Where the hell areyou?” He noticed that Marshall appeared to be in a parking lot.

“Jetport.”

“Why?”

“The usual reason.”

There were two reasons to go to a jetport—to catch a flight or to speak confidentially.

You couldn’t go anywhere on Earth without being captured on vid—not even Patagonia. Government monitored movement and conversations, but the deafening racket of jetports and spaceports drowned out any audio they could record.

---