Read Naughty for Free Online

some formidable enemies. But you still have friends in high places.”
    The Instructor, Hammett thought. He wouldn’t let Isaac take down his number one student. Assuming Isaac was the one who informed Guterez. On the other hand, this Heath fellow might be the one working for Guterez, running a game on her. If so, his next act would be to get her someplace private.
    “We should leave,” Heath said, his unshaven cheek nuzzling against hers. “Go somewhere private.”
    Hammett frowned. She’d been starting to like the guy. Not too many male hitters were fluent in seduction. Killing him would be a pity.
    “Where do you suggest?”
    “Out of Baja, for sure.” His eyes crinkled. “Preferably somewhere with a firm mattress and room service.”
    Then, in a blink, Heath had drawn his gun from his shoulder holster.
    He was blindingly fast. Faster than she would have guessed.
    Hammett was faster. But as she pulled a 1911, planning to gut shoot the Mexican with one hand and counter his aim with her other, she realized he wasn’t pointing at her.
    Heath’s gun boomed over her shoulder, in the direction of one of the bouncers. Hammett turned slightly, saw the bouncer drop his piece and fall to the ground, red blossoming on his shirt, and then she adjusted her aim and shot at one of the suits, who’d drawn a bead on her and Heath. Two pulls of the trigger and his last thought flew out the back of his head in a red puff of brain matter.
    Then Heath tugged Hammett against him, pressing his warm, hard body against hers.
    “Round robin?” he said.
    She knew the maneuver and nodded. Then they were back to back, each covering 180 degrees of the bar. Hammett took down two more targets as the crowd erupted in screams and panic. The smart ones hit the floor. The stupid ones—who accounted for the majority—stampeded the exits, the impromptu mayhem making Hammett lose sight of the other hostiles.
    Behind her, Heath fired three times, then shifted his weight to his left, making Hammett compensate by turning right.
    “Got my four,” Hammett yelled over the din.
    “Gas,” Heath replied.
    Hammett wondered if that was some sort of Spanish colloquialism for
great
or
nice work
, but Heath continued to turn, forcing her to see the front exit. Someone had lobbed a few canisters of an aerosol weapon into the bar. She assumed it was tear gas, as that was the most common. But then she saw several patrons double over and puke, and realized it was something worse.
    Chloropicrin. A vomiting agent.
    Used by the Nazis in WWII, it wasn’t lethal. But it was able to penetrate gas masks, which then forced soldiers to remove them or drown in their own spew, exposing them to more deadly gases.
    Hammett had heard about it regaining popularity for riot control in various cities around the world. During her Hydra training, she’d been intentionally exposed to chloropicrin.
    It hadn’t been pleasant.
    If it had been tear gas, she would have made a try for the exit. But this stuff had already turned half the bar into Mardi Gras on Bourbon Street at 4am, the sound of violent hurling replacing the panicked screams. Even if she held her breath and ran for it, the chances of staying upright weren’t good. It hadn’t been more than a few seconds, and the floor of Jack’s had already become a pukey Slip ’N Slide; people throwing up and falling and then throwing up some more. It looked like a pie fight from a Three Stooges two-reeler, only a lot more disgusting.
    Hammett pushed left against Heath’s back, spinning him like a gun turret, until she spotted the
No Admittance
door.
    “Upstairs,” she said, breaking into a jog before Heath answered.
    Hammett closed one eye, dropped a shoulder and knocked over a man in her way, hurdled two young girls who crouched on the floor holding hands and crying, and then kicked the door. As she’d guessed, it opened to a staircase, and Hammett took them two at a time, aware Heath was a few steps behind her.
    The