Get Blondie. Carla Cassidy

lie waiting in the shadows.

      She stood in the doorway, willing her breathing to still, the sound of her own heartbeat to silence. Beneath the hum of the refrigerator motor she heard nothing to indicate there was another living, breathing person in the room.

      Maybe she was mistaken, still charged with residual energy from the scuffle with Sammy the Snake and from receiving the unexpected communication from the agency. Maybe she was just imagining the nebulous presence of another invading her personal space.

      But it had been innate instinct, intense imagination and an almost paranoid level of caution that had kept her alive until now. She’d learned through the years that when any of those three emotions went into action, it was best not to ignore them. And at the moment all three were screaming inside her.

      Slowly, not making a sound, she made her way down the hall. The door to the bathroom was closed, as were the doors to the two spare bedrooms. But the door to the master bedroom at the very end of the hall stood open. She never left the doors opened.

      The minute she stepped into the doorway of the bedroom she saw him…a tall dark figure standing near the window. An intruder who didn’t belong in the sanctity of her home. The instinct of survival kicked in and she raised the knife to throw…at the last minute a flash of recognition altered her aim.

      The knife shot through the air and hit the wall with a sharp thud. Cassie flipped on the light switch to see the handsome dark-haired man standing against the wall, the knife embedded in the Sheetrock an inch from the left of his head.

      “Losing your touch?”

      “Not likely. If I hadn’t recognized you at the last minute your ear would be pinned against the wall. What are you doing here, Kane?”

      She didn’t bother to ask him how he’d entered her house. There wasn’t a locked door or a security system invented that could keep Kane McNabb out if he wanted in.

      He moved with a languid grace away from the window and sat on the edge of her bed. “You didn’t call.”

      “You’re right, I didn’t.” She walked over to her knife and pulled it out, satisfied to see that a little putty and touch-up paint would easily heal the wall wound.

      “Aren’t you intrigued?” Kane asked.

      She turned back to face the man who had once been her partner and lover for two years. He hadn’t changed much in the past five years. Like a chameleon, he had the ability to look like a debonair man of means, a disreputable drug lord or a high-ranking foreign government official. He could be whatever the agency wanted him to be. The last time she’d seen him he’d been pale, lifeless and unconscious in a hospital room bed.

      Now his eyes were dark and brooding and a remembered flutter of heat ignited in the pit of her stomach. She tried to ignore it. “No, I’m not intrigued. I’m tired.” She bent over and untied the laces of her black boots, then kicked them off.

      “You should hear the details before you make any decision.”

      “I don’t need to hear the details,” she replied coolly. “I’m not interested…and get off my bed. In fact, get out of my house.” Now that she was closer to him she could smell the scent of his familiar cologne.

      To her irritation he didn’t move a muscle. “We need you, Cassie. This is big…really big.”

      “I don’t care. I told you I’m not interested. Now, get out.” It was bad enough the agency wanted her back, it was sheer manipulation by them that they’d sent Kane all the way from the L.A. office to recruit her back. It made her more adamant about staying out of all of it.

      He stood and moved toward the bedroom door. “So I guess it doesn’t matter to you that within two months’ time tens of thousands of men, women and children will probably be dead and you may be the only person on earth to stop the carnage.” He shrugged. “Pleasant dreams, Cassie.” He left the bedroom and she slammed the door shut behind him.

      “Good riddance,” she muttered as she removed her flashlight and billy club from her belt, then took off her service revolver. As she placed the knife and gun in the drawer next to her bed, she tried not to think about what he’d said.

      Tens of thousands of men, women and children, and she was the only person on earth to stop the carnage. She was sure Kane had added on that last part in an effort to appeal to her ego, but it hadn’t worked. The agency had hundreds of agents, including other females as effective as she was.

      She sat on the edge of the bed and worked the tie out of her hair, allowing the long blond strands to spill free around her shoulders. Damn them. And damn him for intruding back into her life.

      Her fingers moved to the top of her light blue uniform shirt, but instead of unbuttoning the buttons, her hands fell back into her lap. Tens of thousands of men, women and children. What could possibly be brewing in the underworld? Was it a terrorist plot of some sort? Certainly the world was ripe for such potential.

      Damn them, she thought once again as she rose from the bed and yanked open the bedroom door. The scent of brewing coffee had just begun to make its way down the hall.

      With a new rise of irritation welling up inside her, she followed the scent to the kitchen and turned on the light. Kane sat at the table, two cups in front of him awaiting the brew…and obviously her.

      She wasn’t sure what she hated more, the fact that he’d found her special stash of vanilla-flavored coffee or that he knew her so well he’d anticipated her inability to remain completely uninvolved on all levels.

      She threw herself into the chair opposite his, unsure if she was angry with him or angry with herself for playing right into his hands.

      “I’m not promising anything, but I’ll admit, you’ve piqued my interest.”

      He nodded and stood to grab the coffee carafe. “Ever hear of Adam Mercer?” he asked as he filled their cups with the fresh brew.

      “Adam Mercer?” She frowned. “Isn’t he some sort of rich philanthropist?” She watched as he returned the coffee carafe to the machine. Kane moved with an almost feline grace that belied the strength and power she knew him capable of.

      He returned to the chair opposite hers and wrapped a hand around his coffee mug. “Adam Mercer…fifty-four years old, wealthy as Midas and the behind the scenes leader of a grass roots coalition called MAD.”

      “MAD…as in Men Against Drugs?” Kane nodded and she racked her brain to think of everything she knew about that particular organization. It was easier to focus on the matter at hand than to sort out her emotions about seeing Kane again. “All I really know about the organization is that they run several shelters around town.”

      “They run a hell of a lot more than a few shelters,” Kane replied. He paused a moment to take a drink of his coffee, then continued. “At the moment MAD runs dozens of shelters in cities all across the nation. They also maintain several rehabilitation centers specifically geared toward substance abuse.”

      “What does this all have to do with the death of thousands of men, women and children?” she asked impatiently. Kane McNabb had always liked the sound of his own voice.

      “Adam Mercer and his organization has lobbied for law changes, provided drug education and paid for antidrug advertising. The agency began to monitor the group when it realized that MAD was gaining not only huge political support, but also amassing a cultlike following with the movers and shakers of the country.”

      “Just get to the point, please.”

      “Patience was never one of your strong suits.” His dark eyes gave nothing of himself away. “Bottom line…three years ago Adam lost his only daughter to a drug overdose. He lost his daughter, then months after that his wife left him and we think he’s gone off the deep end. The man has lost his mind to hatred and an obsessive need to wipe out all drug use.”

      He paused to take another sip of his coffee. “Several months ago