Striking Distance. Debra Webb

      His slick bald head stilled, his eyes level with her waist when the wand hummed another warning at the top of her right boot. He looked up at her, one eyebrow cocked in question.

      “It’s just my cell phone,” she insisted. She reached into her boot and tugged out the slim communicator that had triggered the metal detector. “See.” She waved it in front of his face before slipping it back into her boot. “Anything else you need to see?”

      He straightened, glanced at the crowd lining up behind her and then back at her. He wanted to see more. No doubt. The gleam in his eyes gave away his every thought.

      “Come on, man, we don’t got all night,” his co-worker groused. He waited impatiently, the official Metro Link stamp in his hand. A veteran on the job, she surmised. One who wouldn’t be impressed by a half-naked woman and a sexy come-on line.

      The guy with the wand waved her through. “Have a nice night,” he offered, his tone chock-full of innuendo.

      She leaned close to him and whispered, “Believe me, baby, I will.”

      “Let’s go,” the other guy grumped.

      Tasha squared her shoulders and gave him a look that said, Buddy, you need to get laid, and held out her hand. He glared at her then smacked the stamp in place. An eerie ML glowed on her skin between her wrist and knuckles. She flashed him a “bite me” smile and moved on.

      Heavy-metal music blasted from the surround-sound system as she strode into the crowded club. The maximum occupancy posted was five hundred, and she’d bet Martin’s Jag that they’d long passed that limit. Patrons were jam-packed into every available square foot. A long, sleek bar of black-and-mirrored glass flowed along one wall. Up front the crush of the crowd made it difficult to distinguish one couple from another on the dance floor. It more accurately resembled a sea of body parts, all connected somehow like a scene from a gruesome horror novel as they gyrated to the beat.

      A laser light show splashed across a screen high above the band jamming on the stage. Booze and beer abounded like manna from heaven, and she quickly spotted a number of other less-than-legal stimulants. Leather, lace and tattoos. Smoke, heat and sex. Women with men and all variations in between. It was all out there. Just like Sodom and Gomorrah.

      So this was his favorite haunt, she mused, scanning for her target. Tall, blond and deadly liked it trashy. Well, she could play any way necessary. Backup knew where she was at all times. The handy dandy tracking-monitoring device looked just like a skin patch, the kind people used for kicking the nicotine habit or for birth control. Skin colored and shaped like a small round bandage. Rafe “Maverick” Scott, one of the two men Lucas had assigned as her backup, had instructed her to place it under her left breast. The device would send out a constant signal providing her location as well as her cardio stats. If her heart rate escalated to panic level Maverick would come to her rescue.

      But she wasn’t going to need that kind of backup tonight.

      She did a double take, her gaze landing on Mr. John Doe himself.

      “Mmm-hmm,” she muttered under her breath. “You are one amazing Y chromosome.” For a killer, she added.

      John Doe sat on a stool about center of the long bar, those ice-blue eyes scanning the dance floor like a hungry panther ready to pounce on his dinner.

      Looking for a little action, big boy? Taking her time as she crossed the room, she took stock of his numerous physical assets. Whoever had estimated his height and weight had done a stellar job. Those broad shoulders tested the seams of his black shirt. Powerful thighs filled out a well-worn pair of jeans. Black ankle boots, the kind made for walking and climbing, soft leather uppers, ribbed soles. For stealth and traction. Smart.

      He wore a watch, but no other jewelry that she could readily see. The slight bulge at his left side about midway of his torso would indicate a shoulder holster. She wondered how he’d managed to get in here with a weapon. Official ID, perhaps? Just something else she’d need to check out.

      The couple sitting next to him got up and headed for the dance floor, presenting the perfect opportunity for her. “The gods are watching over me tonight,” she murmured.

      She slid onto the stool next to J.D., John Doe just sounded too cliché. “Great band,” she said when he glanced in her direction.

      He didn’t respond.

      Okay. She crossed one leg over the other, offering up a length of thigh for his perusal. He never even looked her way. She leaned toward him. “What time it is?” she asked, ensuring she spoke loud enough for him to hear her.

      He held up his wrist so that she could see the face of his watch. She splayed her fingers over his muscled forearm and drew it closer to her face. He tensed and pulled free even before she was ready to let go.

      Not the reaction she’d hoped for, but a reaction nonetheless.

      She leaned close again, ensuring that her shoulder rubbed against his. “Thanks. What’s your name?”

      Again nothing.

      Five minutes passed with her sitting there gazing out over the mass of swaying, twitching bodies and him doing the same. Not one word was spoken.

      Time for drastic measures.

      She hopped off her stool, standing as close to him as possible. “Hey!” she shouted at the bartender. “How about a beer?”

      A long-necked bottle slid down the counter toward her. She snagged it and took a long draw. “Hmm,” she purred as she wiped her chin. She sighed and plunked her bottle back onto the counter. She resisted the urge to wince. Although her lipstick did a great job of camouflaging her split lip, the alcohol still burned on contact.

      She leaned against the bar and adjusted her position slightly so she could look her target directly in the eye...well, she could if he turned his head a mere five degrees and allowed her to. Jerk. Maybe he just wasn’t in the mood?

      Only one way to find out.

      She pulled a cigarette out of her purse, a girl never knew when she’d need a conversation starter, and provocatively leaned in his direction. “Do you have a light?” she asked, peering up at him as if the world just might come to an end if he gave the wrong answer.

      He looked at her, that piercing gaze cold enough to give her frostbite, then glared at her breasts for a fraction of a second. “No,” he growled before looking away, clearly unimpressed.

      Dammit.

      Well, at least he’d spoken to her.

      She tossed the cigarette onto the bar and propped fully against the counter, pressing her shoulder into his, as she drank her beer and contemplated her next move.

      The beer was cold and refreshing once it got past her lip, but he was making her sweat. Usually she didn’t have this much trouble getting a guy’s attention. Surely three months sitting behind a desk at Langley in a two-piece suit hadn’t thrown her off the game this badly. Giving herself grace, she hadn’t actually ever attempted to bait a killer. It must be tricky, she mused. Rising to the challenge, she studied him out of the corner of her eye. His profile was strong, his jaw chiseled. A scar running from the corner of his mouth to the middle of his cheek served as a kind of permanent dimple. Otherwise, movie-star-quality features, but more rugged. She squinted for a better view. There was something in his hairline.

      Another scar...

      No.

      Tattoo.

      A number: 6...6...shit...

      She stiffened.

      He turned his head and pointed those laser-blue eyes directly at hers.

      She opened her mouth but it took about three seconds for the words to come out. “Is that...?”

      She couldn’t say the rest. He knew what she meant. She saw it in his eyes. Damn. Was this guy for real? Focus, Tasha. Stay calm. She forced her heart