Striking Distance

Boring...boring. Not the life she’d planned for herself.

Hopefully that was almost over for her.

At the moment over might very well have an altogether different meaning.

Cautiously, not making a sound, she moved around the side of her house. Her unit was the last one on the block, which gave her quick access to the rear of the property without passing a neighbor’s window. Keeping close to the brick wall, she edged around to the back.

She flattened against the wall next to her back door and listened intently. No sound came from inside, but the goose bumps raised across her skin warned her that things were not as they should be.

During training she’d met a few other recruits who had this elevated sense of alert. Advanced precognitive warning system, whatever the shrinks wanted to call it. She’d always had it...had banked on it more times than she cared to recall. Whenever her gut clenched and her flesh pebbled she paid attention.

She eased a little farther across the rear of the house until she reached her bedroom window. A smile slid across her lips when she found it open an inch or two and with one broken pane. The bastard. He’d climbed through her window. Just who the hell did he think he was? He’d likely been damned disappointed that she didn’t even own a DVD player much less a Blu-ray. She preferred making her own entertainment.

Another thought struck her on the heels of that one. This was too easy. Not right. She considered her options and decided that going in was the best route. She’d be prepared for whatever waited inside. And she knew someone was there...she could feel it.

In less than ten seconds she was in the room with scarcely any effort and without having made the slightest noise to warn her prey.

The bedroom was dark but Tasha didn’t need any light. She knew her way around her own home.

She reached into the tissue box on the bedside table and snagged her weapon. A .38 that she’d purchased the day she graduated from college. A girl had to have her protection. Besides, she’d thought she was going into the spy business. Didn’t every spy carry a weapon? Fleetingly she thought of the 9 mm Martin had lent her for about five seconds. It probably had been loaded with blanks, just like the ones that had sent her diving for cover when the van came barreling into the gas station’s parking lot. She gritted her teeth against a new surge of fury. This sure as hell better not be another one of his games.

She frowned. The .38 felt wrong. She weighed it in her hand...too light. She crouched down and felt under the edge of the bedside table for her backup piece. A sinking feeling kicked in. This business of game playing had gone too far. A burglar would have taken the gun, not just the bullets.

She eased across the bedroom and through the open door. She had memorized each spot where her floor creaked and avoided those areas as she made her way down the short hall that connected the five rooms of her home like spokes on a square wheel. The bathroom was clear...the kitchen was, too, except for three nights’ worth of dirty dishes. She didn’t have to see them to know they were there, her memory provided a vivid image. Nothing in the guest room.

With each breath expertly controlled to avoid audible detection, she locked her right elbow and leveled her .38. She kept her left hand slightly behind her, the .32 grasped firmly there. She didn’t want to give away her backup piece just yet. Giving herself a mental three count she entered the living room, her gaze sweeping left to right until she visually engaged the dark outline of the target framed in the meager light from the streetlamp outside the window.

On the sofa. Looked tall. Male probably.

The barrel of her .38 zeroed in on his torso. “Don’t move or you’re dead.”

“Do you mind if I turn on a light? I prefer to look a person in the eye when conversing.”

A new kind of wariness slid over her, and she squinted to make out the details of his face, which was impossible. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m reaching for the light,” he informed her as one arm moved toward the table next to him.

The lamp switched on and she blinked to adjust to the brightness. The warm glow from the sixty-watt bulb spilled over the intruder who looked to be about fifty or so. Graying hair...eyes the color of a winter’s frost. Business suit, designer quality. His hands were propped on a cane in front of him. Briefcase sat at his feet.

Resisting the urge to frown, she cocked her weapon. “You’d better start talking, old man, before I decide to shoot first and ask questions later.”

He opened his left hand and showed her his palm and the brass rounds gleaming there. “You might find that difficult without these.”

She leveled the .32 in her left hand on him then. “I don’t think it’ll be difficult at all.” She tossed the useless .38 aside.

He smiled, approval gleaming in his eyes. “You are good.”

“I don’t know who the hell you are,” she growled, “but I can tell you that I’ve had a really bad day. So bad in fact that I could shoot you right now and blame it on post-traumatic stress and probably get away with it.”

“Sit,” he ordered. “And we’ll talk.”

That sounded a little too damned familiar. Talking had done nothing but get her in trouble today. Still watching him warily, she moved to the closest chair, which put her directly across the antique-trunk-turned-coffee-table from him. She eyed his cane skeptically and let him see her dubiousness. “How the hell did you manage to climb through my window?” she asked bluntly. Beating around the proverbial bush had never been her style.

He smirked. “Who said I climbed through the window?”

Her gaze narrowed then cut to the front door. Sure enough the lever was turned to the unlock position. She’d known the whole window thing was too easy...staged.

“I only opened the window to make you think I’d climbed through,” he explained unnecessarily. But then he did that on purpose, wanted to rub it in.

“Okay, so you have my attention now. What’s this about? I’ve endured about all the head games I intend to play today. And you don’t look like the type who has to force the ladies to do his bidding. So what do you want?” Despite being over the hill and using a cane, the guy was attractive, in a smart-ass sort of way, definitely distinguished looking.

That last jab won her a genuine smile. Her heart fluttered. When he smiled, wow! Those gray eyes sparkled with mischief and something deeper...something curiously fascinating. She scolded herself. That was just the kind of thinking that usually got her into trouble. This stranger had broken into her home and had unloaded her weapon. He could be armed. She surveyed him again. Probably was. Besides, she wasn’t supposed to notice how cute he was. He wasn’t a frigging stray dog looking for a home. In fact, she’d bet he was about as far from domesticated as one could get. Another concept crept into her thoughts. Had Martin’s schemes moved to a new level?

“My name is Lucas Camp. I’m here because I need you for a mission.”

Whatever he’d said after his name was lost on her. “Lucas Camp?” She lowered her weapon. “You’re a legend.”

Another of those charming smiles. “Some would disagree with you on that.”

What the hell was a superspook like Lucas doing in her living room? “Former Military Intelligence turned CIA,” she said aloud, recalling all the rumors she’d heard about the legendary Lucas Camp. “Then the story gets a little murky. Everyone knows you’re out there, but no one knows any more than that. You’re the best of the best. No one can touch you.” She’d never say it out loud but he represented all that she wanted to be. Made Martin look like a pussy. Well, okay, maybe not a pussy, but she was a little pissed at him right now.

“Unless I choose to allow them access,” Lucas said with a pointed look at her.

Her breath caught in her chest. He was allowing her access. This was Lucas Camp—in her home—talking to her. Her eyes rounded and she passed the back of her hand over her burning lip. “Would you like something to drink? Water? Beer?” Dammit, he probably preferred coffee and she didn’t even own a coffeemaker. She winced again at her stinging lip.

“No, thanks, Ms. North. As I said, I’m here to discuss a mission with you.”

She felt her eyes go even wider. A mission? Had he said that before? “With me?”

He nodded. The amused expression he wore told her she was making a complete idiot of herself. Time to pull it together and act like a professional. She’d survived CIA training after all. And today’s final test. She was no lightweight. She squared her shoulders and looked him directly in the eyes. “What kind of mission?” She sounded strong, professional. Just when she would have given herself a mental pat on the back she remembered how she looked—like hell for sure.

While she tugged at her blouse to keep it closed he reached into his briefcase, withdrew a phone, entered a code and offered the device to her. “The profile is pretty sketchy, but this is what we have.”

She reviewed the meager contents, scrolling forward one screen at a time. John Doe, estimated age thirty, approximate height and weight six-two, a hundred and ninety pounds. Living somewhere in Chicago, specific address unknown. She surveyed the shot someone had taken from a considerable distance, probably zeroing in with a mega zoom lens. Blondish hair, similar to her own. Blue eyes. Chiseled good looks.

She looked up at Lucas and asked, “You don’t know who this guy is?” Which was a dumb question since he was listed as John Doe. Duh.

Lucas shook his head. “Not a clue. We believe he’s an assassin.”

Now that got her full attention. “Who’s his target? The president?” Another rush of adrenaline seared through her veins. This might just be her lucky day.

“Nothing politically related or that high profiled,” he told her without going into specifics, which was par for the course. Intel was doled out on a need-to-know basis only.

“What part do you need me to play in this mission?” She emphasized the word need. No matter how he downplayed the scenario, this had to be big or Lucas wouldn’t be involved. Maybe not White House big, but big in any case.

“We need to know who this guy is and, more important, we need to reach out and touch the man who hired him.” Lucas pointed to the phone. “The next face you see is the one we’re looking for.”

Tasha studied the final image on the screen with new curiosity. This one was older. Gray hair, gray-blue eyes. Five-ten, a hundred and sixty pounds. This one looked almost harmless. She flipped back a screen or two. Now this one—she studied the younger man’s grim features—looked deadly. “So, you want me to get to know the assassin. In hopes he’ll lead me to the man who hired him.” Her gaze connected with Lucas’s. “Is that it?”