Kate Donovan - Exit Strategy

“I tried everything I could think of. Everything except going all the way. Director McGregor made it clear I wasn’t expected to go that far.”

“No one wanted you to do anything like that,” Runyon assured her. “I’m sorry if I implied otherwise.”

“You’ve got to stop apologizing to me for doing your job,” she told him with a sigh. “You know, I have to say, the contrast between you and Ortega is really unbelievable. There he was, thinking only about himself. And here you are, worried about me. It means a lot, Mr. Runyon.” She hesitated, then murmured, “Bob.”

“You’re a valuable member of my team,” he assured her.

“Your interim team. But I’d love to make it permanent. Maybe we can discuss that when I get back.”

“From vacation? You mentioned that earlier. I didn’t realize you were scheduled for one.”

“It’s a new request. Is it a problem? I just feel like I’ve finally put my past behind me. And I’d like to do what you suggested last year. Visit my dad’s grave. Talk to my old friends. Then come back here all eager and fresh. Ready to make new memories. Maybe even in elevators,” she said, blushing on cue.

Runyon licked his lips. “How long do you plan on being gone? McGregor recommended you for the anti-Brigade team and-” He laughed sheepishly. “Well, I had my doubts about that. But now that we’ve spoken, I definitely want you with us.”

“And I definitely want to be with you,” she told him breathlessly. “But the spinner says it will be two weeks before the op is planned and ready. Perfect timing, right? When I get back, I’ll be at your disposal.”

“I’ll process the paperwork right away, transferring you to me. And Miranda?” He stood and walked around the desk, then waited for her to stand before telling her softly, “I really do apologize for that video business. I shouldn’t have played it in front of you. I realize that now.”

“Do you know what I think, Bob?” she replied, gazing up at him with widened eyes. “Someday, when we’re both ready, we should watch that tape again. Together. Just so you can remind me, once and for all, that I didn’t do anything wrong in that elevator. I just did it with the wrong guy.”

Miranda was still laughing at herself when her plane took off later that morning. She usually didn’t indulge in such over-the-top seductions, but Runyon had been the masculine equivalent of a bitch in heat, and she hadn’t been able to resist making his heart pound even faster. He’d live. And meanwhile, she could chalk it up to broadening her range of vamp skills, although she prayed that she wouldn’t need them so often in the future if she and the spinner succeeded.

She took it as a good omen that Kristie had already accomplished a lot. Miranda was traveling in first class under the alias Jennifer Aguilar. Her only carry-on luggage was her purse and a DVD player in a padded case with six romantic comedies on disks nestled in plastic sleeves.

Stowed in the bowels of the jet were the tools of Miranda’s trade, spinner style. Her favorite was an ornate barrette that was actually a tiny digital camera. There were also eyeglasses that would help her see in the dark during the break-in, along with a miniflashlight that produced a powerful beam.

Last but not least, she was equipped with tranquilizer darts and a high-tech shooting “straw” made of silicon. Kristie had learned that the drug company’s security system consisted of a six-foot-high iron fence, a padlocked gate, and four semivicious Dobermans. No security cameras, no voice prints, no retinal scans…

In other words, a piece of cake.

Miranda wanted to lean back in her leather seat and enjoy the luxury-after all, she hadn’t been pampered since the time she had pneumonia just weeks before her father’s accident-but she found herself studying the files again. So much was riding on this. Her career. Her self-esteem. Her true emotional break from the Ortega fiasco.

And Kristie Hennessy’s reputation.

Miranda was fairly sure McGregor would forgive Kristie any screwup-one only had to see them together to know that. But the spinner had built something for herself, using instinct, intelligence and guts, and Miranda wasn’t about to ruin it. She’d never knowingly do that to a dedicated professional.

And certainly never to a friend.

She checked into her five-star hotel, discovering quickly that it catered to ultrawealthy Americans who wanted a jungle experience without the heat, humidity and bugs. In fact, as nearly as Miranda could tell, they just wanted lush foliage and tropical drinks, and she might have joined them in the decadent Rain Forest Bar, but she wanted to get a few hours of sleep before the break-in.

She also needed to locate the vehicle Kristie had arranged for her. The desk clerk had already given her the keys in a sealed envelope marked “Señorita Aguilar.” Once she checked out her accommodations-a sumptuous suite with a fully stocked bar and a huge bed draped with designer mosquito netting-Miranda went for a stroll in the parking lot, occasionally pushing the alarm button on the key chain until finally a set of head-lights on a shiny black Mercedes convertible flashed in response.

Miranda knew without checking that there was a loaded pistol and a C-4 kit under the front seat. The trunk almost certainly contained a set of chain cutters and a lightweight black cotton outfit, complete with tennis shoes, in Miranda’s size. Reassured that the op was set, she returned to her suite and enjoyed a room service order of Canopy Kabobs and Tropical Fruit Salad, washed down by Safari Seltzer. After slipping out of her clothes, she set the alarm on the nightstand to wake her at midnight-with “Sounds of the Jungle Night,” no less. But she didn’t climb into bed just yet.

Instead, she rummaged in her suitcase until she found the metronome she had purchased on the way to the airport that morning. Then for the first time since she left Ortega’s place, she practiced Jonathan Kell’s breathing technique as she moved through her tae kwon do form.

Eight counts in, eight counts out, three times. Slow and steady. Then one impossibly slow set. She had to gulp for air a few times before the rhythm established itself, then her motions and her breathing attained a fluidity that moved her easily toward the goal of complete balance. A new sensation-the feeling that her lungs had infinite capacity, that she could inhale forever-began to seduce her. Then the metronome reminded her to exhale, and that, too, was amazing, as the air flowed up through her, an inexhaustible source, replenished even as it left her.

Now the three slow breaths seemed too hurried, and her body yearned for the fourth one. When it came to her again, she floated-serene and in perfect harmony. And because she didn’t struggle to maintain it, she stayed there, still breathing, but no longer making a conscious effort. She didn’t know how long it lasted, but when it ended, she felt no loss, no regret. She felt only peace.

My God, Ortega, no wonder you do this…

She moved through the form one last time, just to reintroduce her body to reality. Then she glanced at the clock and realized sheepishly that the entire experience had lasted less than thirty minutes. It had seemed like at least an hour!

She felt so refreshed, it seemed silly to think about sleeping. Yet she also knew she would fall asleep in seconds, thanks to the absence of worry or stress. And she needed to be at her best for the break-in, so she entered the cocoon of netting, slipped between satin sheets, tucked her blowgun under the fluffy pillow and nestled down for a nap.

Awakened by the recorded sounds of birds cawing and waterfalls crashing, Miranda switched off the alarm, then dressed in a sexy black-and-white striped sundress and low-heeled sandals. Then she twisted her hair into a long, loose braid, grabbed a black canvas shoulder bag containing the straw, darts and a flashlight, and headed down three flights of stairs to the ground floor.