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He
was big.
Two,
two hundred twenty pounds at least. Visibly strong. And young. No
question his body had made the journey to manhood, but the stupid
grin on his face said his mind was stuck in adolescence.
He’d
taken an aggressive stance, feet planted wide, arms flexed. “You’re
going down, Bitch.”
Erin
backed up. “Whatever you’re trying to prove, this isn’t the way.”
“I’m
not the one with something to prove.” He edged toward her.
She
put more distance between them, reaching for the calm that would
get her through this. Instead she found something else, something
darker.
“Where
do you think you’re going?” he asked, a smirk in his voice and on
his face.
He
was right. She had little maneuvering room. Though she doubted more
space would make a difference. If she ran, he’d be on her in seconds,
and it would be over. Her best bet was to stand her ground.
“Look--”
she started.
He
made a sudden and unexpected grab for her, his big hands clamping
brutally around her forearms. But the move was based on brute strength
not skill, and she twisted and brought one elbow up to slam into
the underside of his chin. He grunted and released her.
She
backed again.
The
next time, she saw him coming and ducked and rolled out of reach.
Back on her feet, she pivoted to face him again.
“You’re
quicker than you look,” he said.
“And
you’re clumsier.” The reply escaped before she could check herself,
and he obviously didn’t like it.
“Enough
of this shit.” He came at her again, fast and straight this time.
Erin
blocked him, her foot outside his, ankle to ankle. The heel of her
right hand slamming against the underside of his chin. Her left
striking his bicep, then delivering a stunning blow to the side
of his neck and forcing his head sideways into his shoulder.
At
another time, the shock on his face might have been comical, but
today, she wasn’t laughing.
She
seized his elbow, twisted, and he landed on his back. Hard. But
she kept him rolling onto his stomach and jammed her knee against
his kidney. His arm wrenched behind him, bent at the wrist. Her
free hand shoving his head to the floor. And he frantically slapped
the mat in surrender.
The
class applauded.
Erin
held him a few seconds longer, then let go, releasing his arm and
backing away.
“Good
job, Erin.” Bill Jensen, head martial arts instructor at the CIA’s
Farm, stepped away from his trainees and extended a hand to the
man on the floor. “Sorry, Cassidy. It’s the price you pay for being
the biggest s.o.b. in the class.”
The
younger man ignored the offered assistance and sprang to his feet.
“No problem.” He rotated and massaged his shoulder. “I like getting
roughed up by a woman half my size.”
“Life
sucks sometimes,” Erin said, as she retrieved her towel from a corner
of the mat. “Especially in the Company.”
She
was still edgy. More than she should be, more than would be healthy
if this had been real. Maybe that was the problem. This had all
been a game, and she didn’t like games.
“Go
ahead,” Cassidy said, “rub salt in my already shredded ego.”
She
looked him over. He was probably ex-military, and the CIA wasn’t
known for recruiting people with low self-esteem. The combination
meant it would take a lot more than one fell to do serious damage
to his ego. “You’ll survive it.”
“Okay,”
Bill said to the others. “Do I have to interpret these results for
the rest of you?”
“I
want some of what she’s got,” said a short, compactly built young
woman in front.
“They
don’t hand out balls to wimps, Sheila,” goaded a man behind her.
He was nondescript in the way of many nice looking American men:
medium height and build, muddy eyes and dark blond hair. Perfect
raw material for the CIA.
Sheila
turned a brief, cold stare on him, then dismissed him with a sneer.
“You should know, Chad.”
The
class whooped, congratulating her while offering condolences to
her target.
“Okay,
joke if you want,” Bill said. “Just don’t miss the point. Which
is . . . ” He looked from one career trainee to another.
“Size
don’t mean shit,” said Sheila. “The big ones just make more noise
when they fall. And the small ones . . . ” She threw another quick
glance at the man behind her. “They squeak.”
Another
burst of approving laughter, and again Bill cut it short. “That’s
right. You can be strong as an ox, and this little lady,” he gestured
toward Erin, “will use that strength against you. Any questions?”
“I’ve
got one,” said another of the women. “That was very impressive,
Officer. . .” She hesitated, evidently unsure what name to use,
though it was Farm policy not to use an Officer’s last name--even
if you knew it. “Erin.”
“But?”
Erin knew what was coming, the question asked after every demonstration.
And it was always one of the women who did the asking.
“Well,
you’re obviously well trained. What are you, a black belt in Tae
Kwan Do?”
“Erin
holds several black belts,” answered Bill. “What’s your point?”
“Well,
what happens when she comes up against someone who’s just as good,
and he outweighs her by a hundred pounds?”
Before
Bill could answer, Erin said, “No matter how good you are, there
is always someone better.” She glanced at him, saw him nod and went
on. They both knew it was the women who wanted an answer, and they
wanted it from her. The men needed to hear it as well, but would
never admit it. “And in this business you’re bound to run into that
person sooner or later. Whether it’s someone your own size, or,”
she glanced at the hulk she’d just put on the mat, “or not.”
“So
what do you do? Hope for the best?”
“You
train and acquire as much skill as possible. You get good.” Erin
paused, letting her eyes drift from one face to the other, wondering
how many of them understood what she was saying. They were young
and brash, the best of the best in their respective fields. Or else
they wouldn’t be here. The CIA recruitment criteria was very tough.
Every one of them was used to winning. “Then it comes down to heart,
and the will to survive.” Not win. Survive.
“It
becomes a chess match,” Bill offered. “You fight with your head
as well as your--”
“More
than that,” Erin interrupted, frustrated with him. They needed to
know this wasn’t a game. “It’s a question of which of you is willing
to pull out all the stops.” She looked pointedly at the guy she’d
taken down. “And who gets meaner, quicker.”
For
a moment, no one spoke.
Then,
“Okay, thanks, Erin,” Bill said, indicating the end of the session.
“Now pair off.
“Chad,
I want you and Sheila together. I’m pretty sick of the two of you,
so work it out.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Just
don’t kill him, Sheila. The paperwork for dead CT’s a bitch.”
Dismissed,
Erin started toward the locker rooms. As always, she left wondering
if anything she’d said or done would have an impact. Would they
take their training more seriously and understand the inherent dangers
of the job? Had she listened when she was a trainee? Probably not.
It wasn’t until you got out in the field that reality set in.
Bill
fell in beside her.
“Sooner
or later, one of your gorillas is going to wipe the floor with me,”
she said.
“Sounds
familiar.”
She
grinned and threw him a sideways glance. It wasn’t the first time
they’d had this conversation. “That was an accident.”
“So
you’ve always claimed.”
Four
years ago, as a CT--career trainee--in Bill’s class, she’d put him
down in a demo similar to the one she’d just given for his current
class. It never would have happened if he’d taken time to read her
student file, which revealed her years of martial arts training.
Instead, she’d caught him by surprise, embarrassing him in front
of a class of newbies, and he’d never let her forget it.
She
suspected, however, that he’d also never repeated the mistake of
ignoring student files. “So this is your way of getting even. You’re
hoping one of your recruits can take me.”
He
laughed abruptly. “I’m not holding my breath, but it wouldn’t exactly
break my heart.”
“Easy
for you to say. You’d be watching from the sidelines.”
“As
you said, life in the Company sucks.”
She
laughed and shook her head. “You’ve a wicked streak, Officer Jensen.”
He
grinned. “Yeah.”
They’d
reached the women’s locker room, but as she went to open the door,
he said, “Wait up a minute, Erin. We need to talk.”
She
stopped, aware of the sudden shift in his voice. “Okay.”
He
hesitated, briefly. “You were a little rough on him. Cassidy, I
mean.” He back-stepped and planted his hands on his hips. “You put
him down pretty hard.”
“Please.”
She rolled her eyes and held out her arms, splotches of red showing
where Cassidy had grabbed her. By tomorrow, they’d be black and
blue. “The guy was looking to hurt me.”
“He
was playing a part.”
“And
I wasn’t?” She folded her arms, not believing he was serious about
this.
“I’m
not sure.” He looked away for a moment, then met her gaze again,
head on. “Sometimes you play the part a little too well.”
She
frowned, surprised. He meant it. He was actually worried that she’d
hurt one of his hand-picked testosterone junkies. “This isn’t a
game, Bill, those recruits--”
“This
isn’t about them, it’s about you.”
“What
are you talking about? The only reason I do this is to give them
a taste of what they’re up against. If--”
“Look,”
he interrupted. “I know you’re not crazy about working in the states.”
He
wasn’t making any sense. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re
angry, and it shows. Hell, Cassidy really pissed you off out there.”
“Give
me a break. You know better than that.” In a fight, anger could
get you killed. Bill knew that as well as she did. It was one of
the realities drilled into all serious martial arts’ students.
Still,
she had to admit, Cassidy had irritated her with his neanderthal
tactics. But she hadn’t been angry. Not really. Or maybe . . .
“I’m
worried about you,” he said. “You don’t belong at Georgetown babysitting
a bunch of foreign students.”
It
was a guess, but he wasn’t that far off. Knowledge of a covert officer’s
assignment was on a need-to-know basis, but it wasn’t much of a
leap for someone who’d been in the Company as long as Bill. Erin
had been trained for the clandestine side of the company and reported
to the Directorate of Operations, as Bill well knew. Then responsibility
had dragged her home.
“What
do you want from me, Bill? You want me to play nice with your CTs?”
“Either
go back overseas, or--”
“You
know that’s not an option.”
“Then
get your anger under control. Talk to someone, see a counselor or
a...”
“Or
a what? A shrink?”
He
rubbed a hand down his face, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “All
I’m saying, Erin, is-–“
“I
know exactly what you’re saying.” She stepped forward, into his
space. He was the one making her angry. “And you’re out of line.
My career, my life, is none of your business. I come here for one
reason only, to show those recruits just how nasty the real world
can get. So, if you want someone to coddle them--”
“That
not what I--”
“--get
yourself another demo-queen. Because I’ve been out there, and it’s
no game. And the sooner they,” she gestured toward the group across
the gym, “learn that, the more likely they are to survive.”
She
spun around, grabbed the locker room door and slammed it open.
A few strides later and she was alone inside, collapsed against
the lockers, the adrenaline pumping through her system. Balling
her fists, she barely kept herself from pounding the cold metal
behind her.
Damn
it. Damn him.
Except
for her supervisor, Bill was the only one of her colleagues who
knew about Janie and Claire. Thanks to a few too many drinks when
she’d first returned to Langley, they’d ended up in bed one night.
Which was hard enough to live with, but the things she’d told him
. . .
She
shook her head at the memory. Embarrassed.
Her
family situation was private, and she’d been afraid word would get
around. However, fifteen years in the Company had taught Bill the
art of secrecy. He’d kept her revelations to himself, never mentioning
it again to anyone. Not even her.
Until
now.
He
wanted her to see a shrink, for God’s sake. There was no way. That
was her sister Claire’s territory, and Erin wasn’t about to trespass.
Since
age twelve, when Erin had watched the adults in her life flounder
in the wake of Claire’s disappearance, she’d sworn she would never
be a victim. No one would ever have that power over her. She’d kept
that promise. She’d made herself smart, topping her class in every
subject, and she’d made herself strong, her martial arts training
bordering on obsession. And she’d managed to keep herself together
when everyone around her had fallen apart.
With
a groan, she remembered saying those exact words to Bill. Boastfully.
As if she’d accomplished something remarkable. When in truth, all
she’d done was survive.
Suddenly,
she realized what he’d done. As quickly it had surfaced, her anger
vanished, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud. Leave
it to Bill, always the teacher, to demonstrate his point by showing
her how close to the edge of anger she treaded. He’d pushed until
she’d flashed, lashing out at him for daring to see too much.
Of
course, he was right. She was miserable at Georgetown.
She’d
joined the CIA because it fit her. Working undercover suited her
temperament and her training. And because no one would expect that
of Claire Baker’s big sister.
Then,
a year ago fate had twisted her life.
Her
mother’s illness had been sudden and unexpected. Cancer. During
a routine cleaning, Elizabeth Baker’s dentist had found a spot in
her mouth and suggested she have it checked out. Six months later,
after two rounds of radiation and another of chemotherapy, she was
dead.
Erin
blamed the doctors and their radical treatment of a woman who’d
felt fine until they’d started treating her. She also blamed her
mother for her three pack a day habit and the vodka that had gotten
her through the nights. And Erin had blamed herself. While her mother
had been dying, she’d been overseas running agents for the U.S.
Government, but more to the point, if not for her, Elizabeth never
would have started with the cigarettes and the alcohol to begin
with.
Erin
sighed, the mistakes of her past a burden she couldn’t ignore. Any
more than she could walk away from the responsibilities of her present.
Standing,
she headed for the showers, stripping off the Farm-issued sweats
as she went.
She’d
returned to the states for the funeral and never left again. With
her mother gone, there was Janie to care for. And Claire. Always
Claire.
Now
Erin was stuck.
The
CIA didn’t know what to do with her. She wasn’t an analyst or a
techie, so they’d placed her at Georgetown while they tried to figure
it out. Armed with a Ph.D. in International Studies, which she’d
earned before joining the Agency, she taught Ethics and International
Relations to twenty-year-olds, while keeping her eyes open for potentially
violent anti-American sentiments among the foreign student population.
And she worked the embassy circuit, attending parties two or three
times a week.
Not
that she minded teaching. She enjoyed it and found hope in the bright
young minds, but it wasn’t what she’d spent her entire adult life
training for. As for her unofficial assignments–-watching foreign
students and embassies--on the surface they seemed similar to what
she’d done overseas. But it was different on American soil, where
she had strict orders to take no action and only report what she
saw.
Meanwhile,
her bosses seemed to have forgotten her.
So,
yeah, she was angry. But, as she’d told Cassidy, sometimes life
sucked.
A
few minutes later, she left the locker room wearing army fatigues,
the standard dress code for CTs and their trainers, with her one-day
temporary id clipped to the breast pocket.
Bill
was waiting for her. “Still mad?” he asked.
She
started toward the exit. “Should I be?”
“Look,
Erin, I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“Who
do you think you’re kidding? You meant to piss me off.”
He
threw her a glance, obviously gaging her mood, then smiled. “Well,
yeah, but . . . Okay, hell, I’m not the least bit sorry. But hey,
what are friends for, if not to meddle in each other lives?”
They
stepped outside, the bright fall sunlight cool and crisp. She turned
toward him. “Is that what we are?”
“I
thought so.”
They
fell silent, the memory of that one night awkward and strained between
them. Erin retreated to a safe subject. “So, do I come back for
your new class next month?”
He
laughed shortly and nodded, obviously deciding he’d said enough
on the subject of her anger. “Yeah, I want you.” It was the wrong
thing to say. “I mean–“
She
held up a hand. “It’s okay. I know what you meant.” She gestured
toward the visitor’s lot-–a half mile on the other side of the complex.
“I better be going.”
“I’ll
be done here in about half an hour. Join me for a drink?”
She
shook her head. “I can’t . . . ”
“Just
a drink, Erin.”
“It’s
Friday, Marta’s night out, and Janie and I do the pizza thing. Plus,
I have a long drive home.”
“Invite
me along.”
That
surprised her, and she was half-tempted. Despite the family that
occupied her every free thought, she’d been lonely this last year.
Still . . . “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Janie
had suffered too much loss already. Erin wouldn’t parade men through
her life as well.
“Okay,
then what about tomorrow? I’ll drive up and we’ll make it dinner.
I’ll treat you both.”
“I
can’t.”
He
hesitated, then said, “You know, you don’t have to handle this all
alone, Erin.”
She
knew what he meant. “Yes, I do. They’re my family, my responsibility.”
“Erin
. . . ” He started to say something more, then obviously thought
better of it and backed off. “Okay, but if you ever need anyone.”
She
reached out and touched his hand. “You’re a good friend, Bill.”
“I’d
like to be more.”
“There’s
no more of me to give.”
He
looked about to argue further, but dropped her hand and stepped
back instead. “Okay, go on and get out of here. You got a kid waiting
for you.”
Smiling
tightly, she turned away and started across the grounds to the parking
lot. She suspected she was throwing away her chance at a good man,
a man who understood her, maybe better than she understood herself.
But besides her job, there was no room for anything or any “one”
besides Janie and Claire. That was a reality she’d just have to
live with.
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Excerpt from
Out
of Reach
ISBN: 0-345-44320-9
Copyright Patricia Lewin
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