Kate Donovan - Exit Strategy

“I never said she had enough information to figure it out,” he corrected her. “Just enough to plan an op to infiltrate the group. Not through Kell-he’s too suspicious and way too bitter to trust anyone-”

“Anyone but you.”

“Kell’s grateful, but not stupid. He knows I was with the CIA. If I showed up at his place wanting to have a beer and talk about old times, he’d know I was investigating the Brigade.” He arched an eyebrow. “As I was saying, Kristie can develop a strategy. She has all the information I have, plus she knows which top-notch agents with the right expertise are available, what their skills are, and who the other three Brigade members are. All she has to do is sit in her cubicle and work her magic.”

“I agree.”

He stared. “You do?”

“Yes. You’d be a huge help to her, but she can do it alone. And you’re right. Kell’s not stupid. The whole idea of your contacting him was a bad one, which means Kristie really was just using it as a way of luring you back.” She scrambled to her feet. “Thanks, Ortega. I’ll show myself out.”

“Wait! You promised to have a meal with me.”

“I did not.”

He gave her a disarming smile. “We’ll spear a couple of fresh trout in my stream and cook them over an open fire. Then we’ll do the breathing routine again.” Standing, he stepped close to her and murmured, “You’ll like it, Miranda. And I think I can get you there faster this time, now that we’re in synch.”

This time, there was no mistaking the sexual undercurrent to his words. And strangely enough, she was responding. She really wanted to get there faster this time!

He was manipulating her again. Only this time, she could handle it, thanks in part to the calm, centered feeling his relaxation routine had given her. In fact, she might just be able to do a little reverse manipulation.

So she suggested sweetly, “You catch the fish. I’ll practice the routine alone. I’ll feel less self-conscious that way. Then we’ll have that meal. And then, I’ve really got to go. I want to fly out at a decent hour.”

As always, Ortega backed off quickly. “Good plan. I’ll just change and get my spear.”

She watched him go into the cabin, returning in just a few moments in cut-off jeans and a muscle shirt. As she had suspected, his body was one gorgeous muscle after another, lean and tanned and irresistible.

Just look away, she counseled herself, amused that sex was lurking so stubbornly at the edges of her mind. She definitely needed to do the breathing routine again if she had any hope of maintaining balance with Ortega looking so good.

She turned her attention to the metronome, winding it gently, then setting it on the bench, while her host lifted his spear off its hook on the side of the cabin and disappeared into the trees toward the sound of the stream, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t think. Just breathe.”

“Okay,” she called back, but her mind wasn’t on the metronome. It was on the cabin. This was her chance to take a look around without Ortega knowing about it. She didn’t know what she hoped to find, but she knew Ortega was a man of many secrets. Many lives. Many lies.

What would it hurt to just double-check that equipment, to make sure it was just a security system, Internet access and satellite television, as he had implied, and not some sort of espionage game being run under the pretense of retreating from the world?

She scooped up the empty water bottles from the bench to use as an excuse if he came back and found her in the house. Then she slipped through the back door and into the living room to examine the high-tech equipment.

She was almost disappointed to find that Ortega had apparently been telling her the truth. His computer and video equipment, while ultrasophisticated, was not anything a wealthy or connected civilian couldn’t get their hands on. Did that mean her host was just what he claimed to be: a good guy with a tendency to go wrong, but not really bad deep inside?

Miranda wasn’t quite ready to conclude that yet, so she took a moment to glance at his books, tapes and DVDs, just in case a suspicious theme presented itself. She found instead a very eclectic and engrossing collection-just the sort of items one might expect to find on a spinner’s shelves.

She was just about to admit defeat when she saw an empty tape container in front of the VCR.

Let’s see what you’re watching these days, she told her host as she picked up the box and read the provocative label: Surveillance Video.

For a guy who’s been out of the game for a year, you’ve got some strange viewing habits, Ortega.

After a quick peek out the back window to ensure he was still busy, she checked to see that the tape was in the player. Then she turned on the TV and pressed the Play button. A grainy black-and-white image appeared, and for an instant, Miranda was simply confused by the low-tech quality of the recording.

Then realization shot through her and she stared in disbelief at the image of herself and Ortega, chatting and flirting-or more accurately, drooling over one another-while waiting for the elevator in the lobby of her apartment building.

Oh, God…

She punched the Stop button, her stomach knotting with disgust and self-loathing every bit as fresh and intense as when she had first viewed the video on a forty-two-inch screen at Langley. It took every ounce of willpower not to rip the tape from the machine and tear it to shreds. Instead, she carefully replaced the carton, then pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes and forced herself to grasp the truth.

Ray Ortega wasn’t some sexy spiritual guru living in harmony with nature. Nor was he a top-secret mastermind running sophisticated black ops from a mountain retreat.

He was a pervert-a loser!-sitting alone in the middle of nowhere watching videos of Miranda to get his rocks off.

Somewhere in the distance, a metronome was sending her a rhythmic signal from outside the door, and while she couldn’t quite make herself breathe normally, it did help her pull herself together. Locating a pen and paper, she wrote:

Hey, Ortega, I decided to just get going. I’ve got all the info on you and Kell I need. I’ll pass it along to Kristie, and I’ll try to make her understand why you need to stay out of the intelligence game permanently. Thanks for teaching me the breathing routine, I’m sure it will come in handy, assuming they ever give me a decent assignment. I doubt we’ll ever meet again, so goodbye.

Then she grabbed her pistol from where she had left it on his kitchen table, shoved it into her knapsack, and hurried to the rented SUV. In seconds she was speeding down the mountain, still a little shaken up, but only because she had allowed herself to get upset over seeing the video again.

Or more accurately, over knowing Ortega watched it whenever he needed a cheap thrill. And since it was in the player, she could only assume he had watched it very recently. No wonder he had been so pleased to see her!

Well, Miranda, she told herself grimly, you wanted closure, didn’t you? I think you just got it.

When her plane touched down at 10:00 p.m., Miranda dialed the telephone number marked “SPIN-nighttime” in the Brigade file. Kristie Hennessy answered on the first ring, identifying herself as S-3. When she found out her caller was Miranda, she acted as though they were long-lost sisters. Then she gave her the address of her apartment and promised to have hot chocolate and cookies awaiting her.

Miranda was actually in need of something stronger, but still, she was amazed and pleased at the reception. She had been thinking about this mission-studying the file for the entire plane ride-and she needed to discuss it with someone. Anyone. But most particularly with a spinner. So she took a cab straight to Kristie’s apartment without bothering to go home first.