Project Pandora by Aden Polydoros - Case Notes 1-6

CASE NOTES 1: APOLLO

Project Pandora (Assassin Fall, #1) by Aden Polydoros

Copyright © 2017  by Aden Polydoros

Edited by Jennifer Michler

To Mom and Dad,

Without your love and support,

I would not be the person I am today.

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.