Striking Distance

This—she glared at the skirt and low-heeled pumps she wore—was not. She looked just like her mother for heaven’s sake.

Tasha took a breath. Okay, okay. She knew the deal. Paying her dues wasn’t the end of the world. Impatience had always been her most glaring flaw. She was almost twenty-three. It was past time she’d learned how to take the waiting in stride.

“Grow up, Tasha,” she grumbled. “You have to earn your way in the real world.” How many times had her father told her that theatrics didn’t pay off? “Patience is a virtue,” he’d say at least once a day while she was growing up. Be that as it may, in high school she’d gotten noticed by proving she could do what no one else could—like cracking the Pentagon’s cyber security.

Another sigh heaved from her chest. This wasn’t high school. Being slick and cagey and, as bad as she hated to admit it, irreverently arrogant wasn’t going to put her at the top of the food chain when her superiors, those rating her ability, were all replicas of her dear old dad. She had to be patient. Had to prove her worth behind a desk before she graduated to field operations. Hadn’t she learned a good deal about the human psyche in college? A degree in psychology taught her one thing if nothing else—meet the expectations of the humans in charge and life was much easier.

She could do it. Five days a week, eight hours a day, for a while longer. Her time would come...eventually. All she had to do was play it cool and bide her time. She reached to turn up the volume on the CD player just as the sound of her cell phone ringing drew her hand in another direction. Groping around in her bag she fished out the phone and flipped it open.

“North.”

“Tasha, this is Martin.”

Her respiration came to a screeching halt before accelerating into double duty. Her recruiter. A major player amid the powers-that-be at the Agency. Could this be the call she’d hoped for? “Martin, how’s it going?” she asked when she had reclaimed her voice, then moistened her lips in nervous anticipation. Why would he be calling now? She hadn’t heard from him for nearly three months...not since surviving training...and being shackled to that damned desk. She’d all but given up.

“We have to talk. Can you meet me right now?”

A frown worried her brow as she considered the urgency in his tone. What was up with that? “Sure. Where?”

“Take the next exit. There’s a gas station on the right once you’ve cleared the overpass. I’ll be waiting.”

Her frown deepening, she closed her phone and tossed it in the general vicinity of her bag.

What the hell was going on?

She slowed for the upcoming exit ramp and took it as instructed.

But...she glanced at the discarded phone, then back at the expressway she’d veered from...how did he know where she was?

Tracking device. She’d heard rumors that all new agents were injected with the latest technology. A device so small that it could be installed with nothing more than a subcutaneous pin prick. With all the immunizations required in training, she could have been injected with anything and not known the difference.

She shrugged it off. Just part of the business. If they wanted to keep tabs on her comings and goings she didn’t mind. Anything for the job.

She stopped at the end of the exit ramp, then made a sharp left.

The highway that cut beneath the overpass was one of those takes-you-nowhere kind that sprawled off into the woods in either direction. To her surprise there was a gas station up ahead. It looked deserted. As she eased into the parking lot her assumption was confirmed. Not simply closed but out of business.

On the far side of the lot Martin waited, leaning against his shiny black Jaguar. Smiling in spite of the buzz of warning going off in her head, Tasha pulled up next to him and climbed out. This was Martin. The man who’d held the door to the CIA open for her. He’d assured her that he had his eye on her and would see that her future turned out the right way.

Maybe he had news along those lines for her now. A jolt of irritation shot through her. He’d better have good news. She was sick of all talk and no action.

“I’m glad you came,” he said as he removed his dark glasses. “We need to talk.”

She nodded, slipped off her eyewear and tossed the designer sunglasses onto the dash of her car. He was right. They did need to talk. If he didn’t have an offer for her now, he’d better get things in motion. She’d had about all the nine-to-five grind she could tolerate. Moving closer, she propped a hip on the rear quarter panel of his sleek automobile. “I hope you’ve got good news for me.”

He studied her for a moment, then asked the last question she’d expected to hear, “You have the codes, don’t you?”

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. “Codes?” Her posture stiffened before she could stop it. He noticed. Dammit. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“They’re watching you.” He surveyed the wooded area around them. “They know.”

“Who knows?” She straightened, adopted a fight-or-flight stance and did a little surveying of her own.

He reached into an interior pocket of his high-priced suit jacket and pulled out a 9 mm handgun. “Take this. You may need it.”

She stared at the nickel-plated weapon before accepting it. “How do you know?” She’d reported the breach the moment she stumbled upon it while reviewing endless boring text. Someone, inside the agency, had hidden the codes in the documents. She had no idea how or why, she’d simply done her job. But, as Martin said, she had, in fact, uncovered some sort of code. Her supervisor had appeared agitated that she’d made such a discovery. And it wasn’t like she could forget what she’d seen. Once she viewed data—any data, written, visual, whatever—it was in her brain for all time.

“I always know what’s going on with my special students.”

He’d been an excellent mentor. She’d counted on him. Trusted him...but somehow this felt off. The psych evaluators who’d assessed her prior to advancing into the CIA’s training program had called the little sixth sense she possessed elevated precognitive reception. Well, whatever the hell it was, her little precog receptors were humming like mad.

“Is there something else I should know?” Was he only here to warn her to be careful? She resisted the urge to shake her head. It just didn’t make sense.

“You’ll need—” The rest of his words were cut off by screaming tires and a roaring engine.

Tasha dove for the ground, hitting the asphalt hard and rolling behind his car just as a hail of gunfire erupted.

Martin followed suit, their movements like a well-choreographed dance.

She shifted into a crouch and prepared to return fire when the world suddenly went dark.

* * *

Her head ached.

Tasha slowly opened her eyes and surveyed the room around her. Plain white walls. No furniture other than the chair in which she sat.

Where the hell was she? She blinked and even that small movement cost her. The ache in her head sliced through her skull like a machete.

Her hands were secured behind her back. She twisted her wrists, the flesh there burning from the tightness of the ropes.

Martin.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Had he been shot?

The code.

Surely this wasn’t about that code...she didn’t even know what it related to.

The door across the ten-by-ten room suddenly opened, and a man dressed in black combat gear walked in. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

“Hello, Agent North.”

She looked up at him from beneath her lashes and told him her position in no uncertain terms. “I don’t know what you want. You’re wasting your time.”

He tugged at first one leather glove and then the other, pulling them firmly into place. “You think so?”