Exit Strategy

It seemed unbelievable, and she reminded herself that Ortega was a professional liar. “Really? How long did it take you?”

“It took eight months—and a pile of shards and failures—just to make the first one. Now it goes pretty quickly.”

“All part of the therapy I presume?”

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “All part of the therapy.”

“Interesting.” She took a deep breath, then turned toward the target, threaded the arrow on the string, arched the bow expertly, and released. The arrow flew straight, hitting the target cleanly, about half an inch from the center.

“Nice,” Ortega murmured.

She gave him a confident smile, pulled a second arrow from the quiver, and after recalibrating to account for her error, she shot again, this time hitting the target dead center.

“So?” she asked smoothly. “You’re saying I’ll do better than that after you teach me your technique?”

“Smart-ass. You’re pretty damned good.” He took back the equipment, returned it to its hooks, then eyed her outfit. “Do you have any looser clothes in the car? I’d lend you a gi, but you’d swim in it.”

“I’m fine like this.”

“I agree. But you won’t have the full range of motion.”

She took off her sweatshirt and laid it on a nearby bench. “I’ll muddle through. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Okay.” He opened the bench and took out a metronome, wound it, then set the speed so that the ticking resembled a slow heartbeat. “I haven’t had to use this in years, but it’ll help you keep count. Take this seriously though, okay? You’ll be glad you did.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned to face east, bowed slightly, and took in a long, slow breath. Then he exhaled and told Miranda, “From the stomach. Shoulders loose, eyes front. As evenly as you can. Try to match the metronome, but don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about a thing. Just breathe and follow my movements. Clear your mind of anything else.”

“Got it.”

She could see from his grimace that he didn’t think she was giving due respect to his ritual, but she didn’t care. While she appreciated the obvious physical advantage to any form of exercise, she didn’t put much stock in the supposed psychological ones. No meditation for her, or finding her chi, or any of that nonsense. If she wanted to tone her mind, she’d read a book.

“Inhale for eight beats. Exhale for eight beats. Repeat that pattern two more times. For the fourth full breath, inhale for sixteen beats—”

“Sixteen?”

“Right. Three sets of eight, one of sixteen. Then start again.”

She wanted to object—to remind him she wasn’t a pearl diver or mermaid, and couldn’t possibly inhale for sixteen beats of that stupid metronome—but he was already beginning to move and breathe, so she joined him reluctantly. It was tough to match even the eight-count beat, especially when paired with the movements. They were typical of any good martial arts form, but done so slowly and meticulously, impatience soon flared in her arm muscles as she tried to follow him. Meanwhile, she had to gulp for air every time she tried to make it through a sixteen-count breath. She probably would have just quit, but Ortega was handling it so effortlessly, her pride wouldn’t allow her to give up, so she persevered.

In the distance, a bird was chattering like crazy, and even though she tried to ignore it, her brain was cataloguing the sound, trying to identify the type. Not a crow. A hawk maybe?

Concentrate, Miranda. He said make your mind a blank. Forget about the stupid bird!

Her muscles were aching as they reached a part of the routine where he barely seemed to be moving at all. Their right arms were outstretched fully to the side, their left arms straight out in front of them at chest level. Their left legs were lifted off the ground, bent at the knees, with their right legs offering the only support. Then Ortega rocked forward, so that all of his weight was on the ball of his foot, and she decided he was right about one thing. These exercises were good for balance!

Would you clear your freaking mind for just one stupid minute! she chastised herself. Then she closed her eyes and listened to the metronome, ignoring Ortega completely. She continued to move, as slowly as possible, but switched to the form from her tae kwon do class. It was a little easier now, and now the eight-count breathing felt almost normal. In fact, in a strange way it felt better than normal.

She wasn’t quite sure when the ache left her arms, or the sounds left her ears, or her mind started to relax. She only knew that when it all came together, it was perfection. A moment outside of time, outside of space, outside of herself, yet intimate, at the very core of her being.

Then she lost it, and almost lost her balance in the process. Gulping for air, she opened her eyes and realized that Ortega was standing right in front of her, his face inches from hers, staring at her with open curiosity.

She knew her cheeks were reddening as she backed away from him. Then she admitted, “That was interesting.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d get there the first time.”

“I almost didn’t. Then I closed my eyes, and it all came together.”

“Closing your eyes is key,” he confirmed.

“Then why didn’t you tell me to do it?”

“I knew you’d figure it out on your own. That’s part of what makes it key,” he added with a wink.

“Whatever,” she drawled, intent on returning to their former nonrelationship. “Did Kell really teach it to you?”

“He taught me the breathing part. I added the movement. For me, that definitely enhances it. The more you practice, the sooner you’ll find the right combination that works for you. Learn to recognize the sensations—the flow—so you can get there without consciously trying. Then it’ll last as long as you want.”

Miranda bit her lip, wondering if he knew he was beginning to sound like every sex manual she had ever consulted.

“The trick is, don’t rush it,” he continued, his voice low and reassuring. “Sure, you want to get there, but the idea is to let it happen naturally. Relax. Enjoy the movement. The breathing. When it’s time for it, it’ll come. And it’ll definitely be worth waiting for.”

“Good to know,” she said, cutting him off before her cheeks got any hotter. “Now what about the Brigade? Are you going to help us or not?”

His chuckle acknowledged the abrupt change in mood. “I told you, SPIN can do it on their own. This is just Kristie’s scheme, and I’m not falling for it. You shouldn’t, either.” His smile warmed. “She’s a good friend and I care about her. But she needs to respect my wishes.”

Miranda wasn’t sure if it was her imagination or not, but Ortega’s attitude actually did seem more centered. More balanced. Had the breathing routine really mellowed him that easily?

In any case, there was no doubt that she was feeling unusually calm. All of the anger and hurt that usually accompanied any thought of him had dissipated, and she was able to respect what he was trying to say. Trying to do. Yes he was flawed—more flawed than most, or at least, his flaws were more dangerous—but he was trying to minimize the danger, both to himself and to others.

“Maybe it would help if you gave Kristie a timeline for when you’ll be ready to talk to her again,” she suggested carefully. “She misses you, Ortega. She says you taught her everything she knows. You’re practically a hero to her.”

“Kristie doesn’t just want to talk. She wants to drag me back into the intelligence racket. But that environment is poison for me. I’ll never go back to it.”

“Which means there really isn’t any way I can convince you to come back with me and head up the anti-Brigade team?” Miranda squared her shoulders. “Can I ask a different favor then?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Can you at least talk to me about the time you spent with Kell?”

“I was thoroughly debriefed. Haven’t you seen the file?”

“I read every word, but I still have questions.”

Ortega seemed about to refuse, then he said, “I’ll get us a couple of bottles of water. Then you can ask me whatever you want. Then we’ll eat. Then we’ll go through the routine again.”

She tilted her head to the side, trying to fathom why he wanted her to stay for such a long time. Guilt? Loneliness?

More manipulation? No, that didn’t seem to be it.