Casa de la Rosa. Cuba

Death pressed against her temple. 

Chilling, hard steel, small caliber, but still lethal at this range. Sudden and unexpected, the gun and the man holding it had caught Erin off guard.

“Breathe,” said the familiar voice behind the weapon. “While you still can.”

“Moss,” Erin whispered his name and tried to steady herself against the certainty of her own death. A gun to her head made it too easy to forget her years of training, made everything but fear slip away.

A second man came into her field of vision, a thick stripe of tape across the bridge of his swollen and discolored nose. Erin shivered when he looked at her, hate ripe in his eyes. One of Moss’s hired killers, the last time she’d seen him, he’d been sprawled at her feet, cursing and grasping at his shattered face. Now he seemed ready to return the favor, or worse.

Where was Alec?

Had Moss killed him? The only way Moss would have gotten past Alec was if he was already dead. The thought settled like a weight in her stomach, making breathing once more a difficult task.

Moss nudged her with the gun, just a little left of her spine, sparking her anger. Better than fear or grief, it was an emotion she could handle. And use. Except, she didn’t see how.

“On the floor,” Moss said.

Erin hesitated. Once they had her on the ground, it would be too late. If she was going to do something, it had to be now, while she still had her feet beneath her.

“Don’t even think it, Erin.” Moss must have read her mind, because she looked into his eyes and saw her own death.

He was right. It was all over.

Miami, Florida

August in Miami.

Alec Donovan knew hotter and more humid places existed. He’d once spent an interminable July in Austin, where the dazzling, dry heat had sent thermometers twenty degrees higher than those on the Florida Gold Coast. He remembered the intense sun, baking against his skin, as he worked with the local FBI Office to locate a missing toddler. They’d found the boy, but not before the Texas heat had nearly sapped the last of their strength and pushed tempers to a ragged edge. 

Then, just last year, he’d given a seminar to the Field Office in New Orleans, a city known for its summer months of heat and humidity. He would have picked a different time of year if he’d had a choice, but as one of the FBI’s leading CAC (Crimes Against Children) authorities, Alec’s expertise was in high demand. Both in the field and out. Timing for either was seldom up to him.

Thus, he’d experienced first hand the stifling southern heat. That didn’t make him feel better, or cooler, as he started across the University of Miami campus.

It spread out in neat shades of green. Grass, unlike its northern cousins, spiky and stiff, but dense and carefully trimmed. Trees, some tall and slender with feathery leaves, others massive, their twisted trunks and roots reaching toward the walkways, heavy branches draping overhead. A variety of palms, familiar and not, with metal plaques naming the plant and its origins. Ferns, scattered in bunches, alone or around the base of trees.

All a little too manicured for his taste.

He’d first visited Erin here in January, when the wind and streets of D.C. had been icy, and the South Florida weather a sunny seventy degrees. He’d told her at the time he could live here. She’d simply laughed and suggested he come back in six or seven months before jumping to any conclusions. He suspected, then and now, that her response had been more about fear of letting him too close, than any concern for his ability to adapt to the Miami summers.

Still, she had a point. It was damn hot.

The thick air stirred, fluttering around him like a damp blanket. A distant rumble drew his eyes to the western horizon and its line of dark clouds. He picked up his pace and darted beneath the overhang of the Learning Center, just as the first fat drops darkened the sidewalk.

Within seconds, a sheet of rain blurred the daylight.

“Welcome to the tropics,” he said, and turned to continue his search for Erin.

He found the room number he was looking for on the far side of the building. Through the glass door, he saw an auditorium-style classroom with lines of empty seats descending toward a podium and desk. About a dozen students sat scattered in the first two rows. In front, sitting on the edge of the desk facing them, sat Dr. Erin Baker, Ph.D. not medical, and ex-CIA Intelligence Officer.

Alec opened the door and slipped into the shadows at the back of the room. Frigid air slapped against his heated skin,  stinging and soothing at the same time. He took a deep breath, relieved, and wondered how anyone had survived living in this climate before the invention of air conditioning.

He worked his way down a couple of rows and took a seat.

No one noticed him, or so he would have believed if he didn’t know better. Erin wasn’t the type of woman who missed much, and though she’d made no move to acknowledge him, he didn’t doubt she’d seen him.

From a distance, she looked young, as she had the fall night he’d first met her, nearly a year ago. Like then, something caught inside him at the sight of her, some elemental awareness of her that he hadn’t understood at the time.

She’d told him a crazy story about a man with magician’s hands and a string of missing children. Any other investigator would have dismissed her as a nutcase. Instead, Alec had believed her–-though the why of that still escaped him--and had followed her down a dark path neither of them could have predicted. In the process, he’d discovered a woman with so many layers he thought he could spend a lifetime exploring them all. The problem was convincing her to allow it.

Today, she wore her usual jeans and a slim, fitted shirt, her dark hair still short, a bit mussed, and more functional than stylish. According to her secretary, the class was a senior seminar on U.S. - Cuban Relations, and one of the last of the summer semester. But Erin didn’t seem much more than a grad student herself.

Unless you looked closely.

For anyone capable of seeing, it was her stillness that gave her away. The stillness of a warrior, unafraid and certain of her own skills and abilities. The stillness of a predator, knowing her prey would eventually cross her path. The stillness of a woman, waiting for something . . . something more than this seemingly small and fettering classroom.

Then Alec shook his head and bit back a snort of impatience at his own fanciful thoughts. Erin was just a woman, and she’d chosen this life. She’d left the CIA of her own accord and become a full time academic.

At least for now. 

Which was the crux of his dilemma as he watched her address her students. He full-heartedly approved the safe path she’d chosen, but he’d seen another side of her, at her best or worst, depending on your perspective, with blood on her hands, the light of victory and revenge in her eyes. And he knew that long term, she’d never be content in a classroom.

Miami, Florida

Erin saw Alec slip into the back of her classroom.

Suppressing the automatic smile that filled her, she kept her expression neutral, seemingly oblivious to his presence. Though nothing could be further from the truth. Instead, she was suddenly conscious of her less than feminine attire and lack of makeup, and fought the urge to fidget, smooth down her hair, or adjust her clothing. It was unnerving. She wasn’t a woman who normally fussed over her appearance.

With an effort, she focused on the heated discussion between two of her students, a young woman and man who’d been on opposite sides of every issue the entire semester, especially the US Trade Embargo against Cuba. 

“The embargo is a failure,” said Darlene, a Florida blonde, who was every bit as bright as she was pretty. Though she didn’t seem to know it. “It has been forty years, and the trade restrictions against Cuba aren’t working. Seems to me it’s time for our government to admit they made a mistake and move on.”

“Who says the embargo’s failure?” asked Tim, her male adversary.

“Phuleeze.” Darlene rolled her eyes. “All it’s done has made the U.S. Castro’s scapegoat. He can blame all his country’s problems on us.”

“Let him.” Crossing his arms, Tim sprawled back in his chair. He was tall and lanky, his long legs taking up a lot of space, and had the look – awkward, glasses – of a student none of the others acknowledged outside the classroom. Here, however, he was in his element, seemingly smarter, or at least more informed, than the rest, and his body language dismissed Darlene even more effectively than his words.

She didn’t back down, though. “Sure, and meanwhile the Cuban people are paying the price.” As Tim relaxed, she came forward, sitting sideways on the edge of her seat, facing him. “They’re the ones the embargo is hurting, not Castro or his government. It’s unfair.”

“Was it fair when Castro confiscated more than a billion dollars in American property and assets?” Tim’s response was flip, again dismissive.

“That was a long time ago. It’s--”

Tim cut her off. “And the hardships to the Cuban people are due to the fall of the Soviet Union and their support. Not the U.S. trade embargo. Besides, Cuba imports very few of its staples, so why is there such a shortage? Could it be that the Cuban government, who dominates the distribution of goods, is corrupt?” He widened his eyes in feigned surprised. “What a concept.”

“Don’t be a jerk, Tim. I’m not--”

“Whoa,” Erin interceded, just barely resisting the urge to check Alec’s reaction. It made her uncomfortable knowing he was watching her. “Let’s keep this civil.”

“Darlene, you’ve made valid points, as has Tim. But don’t let him push your buttons.” Her gaze jumped to Alec, saw him smiling, and she quickly refocused on Tim, giving him a behave-yourself frown. “It’s the fastest way to let him win.” She glanced around at the others, again avoiding Alec’s eyes, knowing his grin had broadened. Pushing other people’s buttons was one of Erin’s specialities, something Alec knew all too well. “Okay, let’s hear from someone else?”

Another of the male students gave Darlene a puppy-dog grin. “If the government lifted the embargo, the U.S. could make money in the Cuban sugar industry.”

Darlene smiled back, acknowledging his support, which Erin knew stemmed more from his wanting to impress Darlene than anything else. 

“The only money to be made in the sugar industry would hurt our own exporting,” claimed another young man. “Besides, we’d end up taking the place of the Soviet Union and subsidizing the Cuban government with credit. And since Cuba hasn’t paid off any of its creditors so far, why would we do that?”

“We wouldn’t,” added Tim, jumping back into the discussion and leaning forward in his chair finally. “In fact, if nothing else, the embargo has saved the U.S. millions of dollars in unpaid debts.” He paused, then sat back again. “But you all are missing the main point. Cuba is a communist state, and we cannot allow Communism to take root.”

“What about China?” Erin asked, inserting another element into the mix. “If we trade with China, why not Cuba?”

“Cuba isn’t nearly as important to our national interest as  China,” Tim said. “China’s size, power, UN affiliation, and trade influence determine its diplomatic status. Cuba has none of that.”

“So the Cuban people are paying for the price of U.S. International Politics,” said Darlene, obviously still disgusted with Tim and anyone else on his side of the fence. 

“Politicians have always chosen causes for their own purposes, sanctions included,” Tim answered.

“And that makes it right?” she challenged.

“Right or wrong, it’s reality.”

For a moment, no one else spoke. Tim’s grim views putting a damper on the discussion.

Then, “So who’s right, Dr. Baker?” asked a student in the front row.

The question amused Erin. She couldn’t blame them for trying to get the answer out her. They always did. “You tell me.” 

“Oh, come on,” said Tim. “You’re Cuban, you’ve got to have an opinion on this.”

“My father was Cuban,” she acknowledged, “but this class isn’t about me. It’s about exposing you to the facts, so you can draw your own opinions.” She looked pointedly from one student to another. “You need to make up your own minds which side is right.”

“Oh, come on, give us a hint.”

She laughed. “I don’t think so. If I did, I’d get twenty essays reflecting my opinion.” She paused, considering. “One thing I will say, though. This is not a black and white issue. There is no one, right answer to Cuba’s problems. There are only shades of truth and partial lies. Rationalization. And opinions.” She paused again, letting her words sink in. “So I want those papers to tell me what you think, where you stand on the issues and what each of you came away with from this semester.” She smiled. “And of course, I want you to back up those beliefs with facts.”

Good-natured mumbling drifted through the class. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this particular discussion. They were a good group, bright and engaged in the topic. It made her job so much easier.

“Okay, I think we’re done here.” Erin pushed to her feet.  “Have those papers to me by noon tomorrow or take an incomplete for the course. Then enjoy the rest of your summer. You’ve been a great class.”

The students responded with light applause. Then the noise level rose as they stood and gathered their belongings, the usual three or four heading straight for her.

She chatted and smiled, answering their questions when appropriate. Most of her attention, however, was on the man at the back of the room. Over their heads, she watched Alec stand and start toward her. She knew it should annoy her when he showed up unannounced like this. Instead, the unpredictability of his visits teased her senses in a way she didn’t want to think about too hard. Despite her initial resistance, Alec Donovan had stepped into her life, and fighting the smile that filled her at his presence, was no longer possible.

Santa Clara, Cuba

Joe Roarke had always known he’d end up dead in a place like this, alone in some Third World alley, where his death would go unnoticed, and certainly unacknowledged. He just hadn’t expected that death to come in Cuba, less than a hundred miles from the home his parents had fled shortly after his birth. The irony of it didn’t escape him.

Around him, a late afternoon storm had emptied the streets of Santa Clara and reduced the visibility to a few feet. He’d taken refuge in the shadows beneath a balcony, the crumbling stucco at his back still warm from the day’s heat. The rain had bought him time, throwing off, or at least slowing down, the men following him.

This mission was supposed to have been a boondoggle.

One of the CIA’s foreign agents in Cuba, a man named Padilla, had gotten spooked, and Langley had sent in Joe to check it out. His Cuban heritage had been part of their reason for choosing him, but mainly he’d been in the vicinity, already en route to the Carribean for an overdue vacation.

He’d almost refused, except the suits had promised him a two or three day – tops – excursion into the heart of Cuba. Posing as a freelance photographer contracted to produce a coffee table book, he could take his time and extend his vacation for a week or so. He just had to check out a medical aid facility near Santa Clara, a city in central Cuba. A prodigal son returning home. Nothing to it.

Except something had gone very wrong.

He’d been to the camp, talked to the administrator, a Dr. Diaz, and had arranged to return the next day for pictures. It had all been very civil, pleasant even. He’d been on his way back to Santa Clara to check in with Padilla and send a preliminary report to Langley. Then, on a narrow mountain road heading into town, all hell had broken loose.

Three men with AK-47s had ambushed him. He’d escaped, barely, and lost them in the dense woods. This was their turf, but years spent in the world’s jungles had honed Joe’s skills and given him the advantage. Or so he’d thought. 

The funny thing was, he’d hadn’t seen anything of interest at the camp. The place had felt off a bit, but then everything in Cuba seemed skewed to him. Someone at the camp, however, had considered him a threat.

Why? Was there a hole in his cover? Or had someone recognized him? Or even worse, known he was CIA? He’d spent his entire adult life working the back streets of the world’s underbelly. If he’d some where, some place, crossed paths with some one at the camp. . . well, that might explain it. But who?

The rain was letting up now, and he was out of time. He’d have to make a decision and move soon, either deeper into the city or back the way he’d come.

Padilla’s shop was only a couple of blocks away.

If Joe could reach it before his pursuers picked up his trail again, he could send a warning to Langley and tell them Padilla had been right. Something was wrong at that camp. Getting to him had been Joe’s plan, the singular goal that had kept him moving through the jungle for the last forty-eight hours, working his way out of the mountains.

Get to Padilla. Get word to Langley.

Another good plan. Too bad it too had failed. He’d underestimated his pursuers and their resources, acknowledging now that he’d escaped them in the jungle because they’d let him.  They simply hadn’t followed him into the dank underbrush. Instead, they’d been waiting on the outskirts of Santa Clara. And for the last four hours they’d be trailing him, toying with him like a rat in a maze, running him to ground.

Now, getting to Padilla wasn’t the problem. It was getting to the man without exposing him.

Joe knew Langley would be waiting to hear from him. He was two days overdue, and soon his disappearance would raise a red flag. Then they’d send someone after him. The CIA may not acknowledge their covert officers, even in death, but they wouldn’t leave them behind, either. If for no other reason than a captured CIA officer was a security risk.

Thinking back, Joe knew he should have stayed in the mountains, climbing further into their heights and down their southern slopes. He might have been able to make it to Guantanamo as a possible way off this island. As it was, he fully expected to die here.                                            

Hindsight was a real bitch.  

His best bet now was to get back out of the city, though he expected it was already too late. They’d be on him the moment he made a move. But he couldn’t lead them to Padilla and buy the other man’s death with the slim hope of getting word to Langley. He would just have to take comfort in knowing that his disappearance would draw attention to the situation and bring others, better prepared, to find out what that camp was hiding.

Slipping from the shadows, he worked his way along the edge of the narrow street, away from the center of the town and Padilla’s shop. He’d made it a few blocks, slivers of hope blossoming with each unchallenged step.

Then he saw the first of them.

A lone man stepped into his path from the doorway of a nearby building. Joe stopped. The man made no aggressive moves, but Joe recognized the man’s eyes, stupid pig-eyes, filled with cruelty and gleaming with the triumph of a feral predator who’d cornered his prey. Joe had seen eyes like this on a hundred faces, in dozens of holes around the world.

Joe turned and started back the way he’d come, resisting the urge to run. A second man blocked his path.               

Behind him, someone chuckled. “You lost?” 

Joe knew that voice and swung back around. As he did, he caught sight of movement off to the side. Two, maybe three more men. They’d surrounded him. His focus, however, was on the man now standing beside pig-eyes. It was a familiar face.

“It’s been a long time, Roarke.”

Joe couldn’t pull a name from memory, but he didn’t often forget faces. And this one, he knew. They’d served together, Special Forces, Desert Storm, a million years ago it seemed. Before the Agency had claimed Joe’s life. Still, if this man had been at the DFL camp, it explained a lot.

Except why Joe wasn’t already dead.

No one in this dingy street would challenge or question these men if they put a bullet in his head. No one would dare. So they wanted him alive. Otherwise he’d already be lying in a pool of his own blood on the watery streets.

“Come with us,” said that familiar voice, “and no one will get hurt.”

Fuck that.

Better to die here. Because if they had any idea who he was, information would be what they wanted. And he wouldn’t give it up, not matter what they did to him. So he’d make them kill him here, though he wouldn’t go down easy. They’d pay dearly for his life, and he’d take one or two with him in the process.   

Joe charged.

Miami, Florida

The kids liked her.

The thought made Alec smile. It didn’t surprise him that she was a good teacher, or that at some level, students responded to her underlying strength. Or maybe, they too, sensed she was theirs for only a short time.

Alec stayed put until the first group had passed him on their way to the door. Then he started down toward the front of the room, stepping aside for three young women who looked him over unabashedly, one of them throwing him a flirty smile. When he reached the bottom level, he waited for the last two girls to finish their conversation with Erin.

Once they had, they grinned broadly at him, then back at Erin. “All right, Dr. Baker.”

 As they hurried off, up the stairs, Alec followed them with his eyes, wondering what that was all about.

“I think you’ve just improved my student evaluations for the semester,” Erin said as the glass doors closed behind the young women.

He turned back to Erin, confused.

She crossed her arms. “Are all men so dense?”

“Obviously.”

“They think you’re hot.”

He grinned at that, moving closer. “What about you? Do you think I’m hot?”

“I think,” she moved out of reach, putting the desk between them, and started to gather papers, stuffing them into a briefcase, “that if you’d have let me know you were coming to Miami, I would have told you I have plans for the weekend.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Though her actions, the quick jerky movements and refusal to meet his gaze, belied her words, he wanted to hear her say it. The chemistry between them was something she couldn’t control, or deny. And it made her nervous. Edgy. He wanted her to admit it. 

“I’m taking Claire and Janie up to Disney World,” she said. “We’re leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

He laughed softly at her refusal to even acknowledge his question. “Boy, you really don’t like the tables turned, do you?”

She stopped filling her briefcase and looked at him, her expression carefully blank.

“You’re the queen of throwaway lines,” he said. “But you can’t handle them coming at you.” It was one of Erin’s favorite tactics to toss out a line that disarmed and confused, rather than answer a direct question. She’d kept him off-kilter for days when they’d first met, using his attraction to her to keep distance between them.

“What are you talking about?” she said, as if she didn’t know exactly what he meant.

He moved to her side of the desk, and this time she stood her ground. He really hadn’t expected her to back up again. It wasn’t in her nature. Reaching up, he ran the back of his fingers down her cheek. “Do you think I’m hot?”

Her answer was visible, in her eyes and the slight quiver of her lips. “I think,” she said, obviously fighting her own reaction, “that touching me without permission is a good way to end up on the floor.”

“Kinky.” He moved closer still, feeling the heat of her, and her rigid control.

“I could break a bone or two for you on the way down.” Her voice sounded ragged, like she was having trouble breathing.

“It might . . .” He lowered his mouth to within a whisper of hers, until his words were a breath against her lips. “ . . . be worth it.”

She could no longer hide her response, nor the way her body leaned toward his in anticipation. And he felt a small thrill of triumph. Eventually, she’d stop fighting him. And herself.

Smiling, he stepped away. Better to keep her guessing, wanting. It was the only leverage he had, the only thing that kept her from running scared. “But then again, I’m not really into pain.”

For a moment, she stood motionless, unbelieving. Then she  let out a snort of laughter and put more distance between them. “You know, Donovan, you’re a real pain in the ass.”

“That’s why we get along so well.” He picked up her briefcase, because it would piss her off. “And I know all about Disney World. Come on, I’m buying dinner.”

“I don’t--”

“I’ve already cleared it with Marta.” An old friend of Erin’s mother, Marta helped care for Erin’s troubled sister Claire and Claire’s eight-year-old daughter, Janie. And from what little interaction he’d had with Marta, he knew who ran things.

“You talked to Marta?” Erin, obviously, knew as well.

“Sure. How do you think I found you?” He started up the stairs, figuring she had no choice but to follow. He had her briefcase, and since she never carried a purse, he expected he also had her car keys. And maybe her wallet.

“Marta said to tell you not to worry about getting in early, something about taking Janie for pizza.” He couldn’t resist glancing over his shoulder, just to be sure she was coming.

Erin was right behind him.

“So, you see,” he said, “it’s already arranged. They don’t expect you home for dinner.”

“That child is going to turn into a pizza.”

“But not tonight.”             He held the door, though he knew it would bug her, a man treating her like she needed his help when nothing could be further from the truth. Erin was the strongest woman he knew, which was saying a lot. Women in the FBI generally didn’t lack self-assurance or confidence, and his own partner, Cathy, could give any man a run for his money.

Erin, though, was in a class by herself. That was why he couldn’t walk away no matter how hard she pushed back, and why he enjoyed pulling her strings. It was his way of evening things out between them, turning the tables, and keeping her – if even slightly -- off balance for a change.

Funny that a woman like Erin, who was unafraid to face the most violent and vile of men, feared letting anyone get too close. He knew it probably had something to do with her sister Claire’s disappearance when they were children. But Alec wasn’t about to accept that excuse.

“So how about we head over to The Wharf?” he said. “I like watching the boats cruise up and down the Intracoastal.”

She hesitated, then laughed lightly, softening, as they stepped outside. “And we have perfect weather for it, too.”

The rain and wind lashed the trees and sent small branches and shredded palm fronds skittering across the manicured grounds. Heavy clouds churned overhead, blocking the sun and hiding the summer sky. They hung back, close to the wall beneath the breeze-way, as wind-swept rain reached for them.

“We could be here a while,” he said.

She shook her head. “No, it’ll be over in a few minutes.”

Thunder crashed, its power trembling through the building at their backs, as a flash of lightening momentarily illuminated the darkened world beyond the concrete overhang.

He found that hard to believe. “If you say so.”

She laughed again. “This is just a normal afternoon summer storm. They pass quickly. Fifteen, twenty minutes tops. “You’ll see.” Then, crossing her arms, she leaned back against the concrete wall.

For a few minutes, they watched the storm, Erin’s stillness and an awkward silence building a wall between them. He searched for a way to breach it, while thinking things should be different between them. They’d been through hell together, faced death and walked away. It should have made them more comfortable with each other. Instead, it hovered between them like a nightmare neither wished to revisit.

Then Erin said, “Did you come straight from Seattle?”

He looked at her, a bit surprised that she knew about Seattle. Their only contact since last fall had been the three times he’d shown up in Miami unannounced, like he had today. And then, they hadn’t spoken about the CIA, the FBI, his cases, or the one they’d worked together last year.

“I got in a couple of hours ago,” he admitted. And had come straight from the airport. Unplanned, even on his part. The need to see her stronger than his orders to report back to Quantico.

Erin nodded, her eyes still on nature’s tantrum, as if this was the answer she’d expected. “I followed the Hanley case.”

Of course. The hunt for the missing teens, a sister and boy, twins, not yet sixteen, had received national media attention. It was an explanation of sorts, how Erin knew he’d been in Seattle.

            “It was . . . rough.” A deep well of sadness opened within him, catching him unaware. He thought he’d locked away the guilt and grief, compartmentalized it behind the steel door in his head labeled ‘don’t go there.’

“I’m sorry.” She met his gaze then, understanding in her eyes. And he realized that’s why he was here, why he’d run to her straight from a case gone bad. When Erin was twelve, her younger sister Claire had been taken from a playground while under Erin’s care. If anyone knew how he felt, the way his failure tore at him, it was her.

“You can’t save them all,” she said.

Though it was what he’d told himself at least a hundred times in the last twenty four hours, what he told himself every time, he didn’t like hearing it. “Fuck that.” 

She shifted her weight against the wall. “Yeah.” Again, she got it. The desperation to make things better, safer, and the anger and frustration over those that could not be helped. “Any chance of finding the guy?”

“The locals are working it.” But they both knew not all cases turned out like the one they’d worked together. The bad guys weren’t always caught, the innocents not always saved.   “They have a good profile and a few solid leads. These guys get caught.” Maybe saying it would make it true. “Eventually.”

Just not always before they’d claimed more victims.

Silence again. Easier this time as the memories circulated between them. His. Hers. And those they shared. Together they’d exposed an international slave trader and his supplier – a man called The Magician, who’d been evading the authorities for two decades. Neither Erin nor Alec had come away from the encounter unscathed, but they’d saved one boy’s life and set another free. And who could say how many families had been spared the future horror of a missing child?

“Alec. . .” He heard the hesitation in her voice. “You can’t quit.”

The statement surprised him. It was the one thing he’d never admitted to anyone, not even her. The temptation to quit, leave the CACU and possibly the FBI, came at him more and more often lately. Especially at times like these, when he’d failed so miserably. He thought maybe it was time to let someone else take the reins. Someone younger. Smarter. Someone who didn’t feel each loss as if someone had thrust a knife in his gut. But it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about.

Not even to Erin.

So he ignored her statement and nodded toward the weather beyond the overhang. The worst of the storm had passed. “Looks like you were right. It’s letting up.”

For a moment she hesitated, and he thought she would say something else about Seattle. Or his thoughts of quitting. Instead she smiled, though it looked forced.

“Of course I’m right,” she said. “I grew up here. Remember?”             He let out a short laugh and followed her down the walkway, avoiding the puddles that had gathered at the grassy edges. Everything was brighter, greener. The western sky was once again a brilliant blue. And it even felt a few degrees cooler.

“Strange weather,” he said. This was nothing like the summers he’d known in Western Massachusetts, or even Virginia.

“It’s just. . .” She broke off, slowed, suddenly tense.

Alec followed her gaze to the nearly empty parking lot, where a man sat in a car across from hers, motor running. Seeing them, he shut off the engine and climbed out.

Physically, he looked like your average guy on the street, medium build, height just under six feet, light brown hair. That’s where ordinary stopped. He stood like a soldier and moved with precision as he turned to face them, his gaze sweeping over Alec before settling on Erin.

“Someone you know?” Alec asked, fighting the urge to step between her and the stranger.

“Yes.”

Alec glanced at her, a surprising streak of jealousy shading his thoughts. “A friend?”

She kept her eyes on the other man. “He’s from Virginia.”

Langley. She didn’t have to spell it out. The man was CIA.

“Go on to the restaurant,” she said. “I’ll meet you there.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Alec, please. He won’t talk to me with you here.”

“That’s okay by me.”

She looked at him then, finally, her expression determined. “But not with me. I won’t be long, thirty minutes. Max.”

Alec glanced at the stranger. He’d known the CIA would come for her sooner or later. That didn’t mean he had to like it.  “Okay,” he said. He really had no choice. “Thirty minutes.”

“The Wharf, right? On the Intracoastal.”

“Yeah.” Alec kept his eyes on the other man. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”

“I’m sure.” She reached up, turned his head toward hers, and  kissed him lightly. Then she said, her voice soft, pleading for understanding. “And yes, I think you’re hot.”

His reaction was automatic, almost possessive. He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her hard against him, changing the gentle kiss to something else, something desperate. Then he let her go, abruptly, before he could change his mind.

She stepped back, her voice a bit breathless. “Go now. I’ll see you at the restaurant.”

“I’ll be waiting. A half hour.” He backed as well, then stopped. “Whatever he wants, Erin.” He paused, hesitated. “Whatever the CIA wants. Tell them no.”

==========================
Click here for more quotes, back cover copy, and reader comments.
==========================

Excerpt from Out of Time
Ballantine Books, December 2005
ISBN: 0-345-47962-9
Copyright Patricia Lewin