Striking Distance. Debra Webb

do I have to do to prove my loyalty?”

      He sighed and braced one elbow on the other arm so that he could rest his chin in his hand as he’d often done when pacing before the class. “You see, Tasha,” he offered quietly, his easygoing tone making her want to slug him, “there are a chosen few who get special notice. For those, like you, we have exclusive plans. But, there’s always one final test. And that test can only be administered after you have access to negotiable information, otherwise it’s pointless. You, of course, passed with flying colors.”

      Some of the fire went out of her fury. But she was still as mad as hell. “What does this mean?”

      He smiled. “It means, my dear Tasha, that you are on your way. Very soon you’ll be brought into that exclusive club.”

      She narrowed her gaze, her suspicion mounting. “How soon?” She wanted more than an empty promise. She’d had that.

      “Soon.” He surveyed her haggard appearance. “Now go home, take a long hot bath and enjoy your weekend.”

      Before she could demand any other information, he got into his Jag and drove away.

      “Bastard,” she muttered as she staggered to her own waiting, considerably more modest, vehicle.

      She’d lost one of her shoes, so she kicked the other one away before climbing behind the wheel of her Bug. Her panty hose were shredded, and one knee was skinned. She dragged off the ragged nylon and tossed it out the window. Only one button held her blouse together. But at least she still had all her teeth, she mused, sliding her tongue over her undamaged pearly whites.

      A quick glance in the mirror and she grimaced. She looked like hell. Well, as long as it got her where she wanted to be. No pain, no gain, right?

      She started the engine and pointed the car toward home. Damn she was beat.

      Literally.

      Half an hour later she braked to a stop at the curb outside her small Crystal City duplex. Swearing profusely she eased out of the car. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest of each move. Fat lot of good three nights per week of martial arts had done her. With her hands tied behind her back she’d scarcely landed a single blow.

      Appeasing herself with the memory that Martin had said soon, she padded barefoot up the steps and to the front door. Soon she would join an exclusive club. She knew what that meant—field operations. Smiling, she reached to insert the key into the lock. She stilled. A chill raced over her skin. Her pulse tripped into the rush zone.

      Something wasn’t right.

      It was past midnight and damned dark. Most of her yuppy neighbors were in bed already. Like her they all worked too many hours to bother with pets, so the whole neighborhood was dead silent. They were all good little robots, spinning their wheels in their white-collar world by day and playing nice, tidy little home owners by night.

      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