Iris Johansen - Dead Aim

"What makes you think that means anything to me?" "Like I said, I know you."

Judd shook his head. "No, you don't."

"Elena said that you once threatened to take her out if she got me into trouble."

"Threats are easy."

"And you didn't mean it?"

Yes, he'd meant it. He didn't permit himself to become close to many people, but Galen had barged into his life and made himself his friend. "Maybe."

"That was hard to say, wasn't it?"

Judd smiled faintly. "You've always insisted on thinking the best of me. Why? Do you hate to admit you're wrong?"

"Probably. It would be a great blow to my self-esteem. You should be glad I don't believe you're the bastard Elena thinks you are. I don't think you'd have sold us out for the money."

"But I did sell you out."

"Not really." He paused. "If you had, I'd have made sure that you didn't survive to paint any more pretty pictures." Galen finished his coffee and stood up. He pulled a large manila envelope from his jacket pocket and dropped it on the coffee table. "A dossier on Alex Graham. I thought you might want to look it over. Now I'll get out of here and leave you to think about the proposition."

"I've already turned it down."

"But that was before I appealed to your gentler side." He started for the door and then stopped and gazed at the painting on the easel. It was of a slim, bearded man in Renaissance dress stepping out from behind a curtain. "That's really very good. His expression is… exceptional. It's mocking yet…" He thought about it. "Haunted."

"But then, we're all haunted by something, aren't we?"

"And there's a tension… He looks lethal. Who is he sup posed to be?"

Judd shrugged. "No one in particular. I just woke up one morning and started to paint him."

Galen was still studying it and suddenly snapped his fin gers. "He's an assassin, a Renaissance assassin."

"Is he?"

"Isn't he?"

"I suppose he could be." He smiled faintly. "But I assure you I had no intention of creating a self-portrait."

"Remarkable…" Galen headed for the door. "Call me."

Judd picked up his paintbrush as the door closed behind

Galen. He wouldn't call him. Even if Arapahoe Junction weren't involved, getting mixed up with a job like this would be a mistake. He was no bodyguard, and the last thing he wanted to do was try to protect this woman. He was having enough trouble protecting himself. There was no way he'd let himself be persuaded by sentiment.

Besides, he wanted to finish this painting. It had been driving him since he'd first started it last week. He didn't need any interruptions.

He bent over the easel.

More shadow in the cloak.

More richness in the velvet of the doublet.

More torment in the face of the assassin.

Galen waited until he had crossed the state line into Massachusetts before he dialed Logan.

"I've found Morgan and made the offer," he said as soon as he reached Logan. "It's a possible."

"You're sure he's the right man? He may be more danger ous than our shooter."

"Almost certainly. That's why you need him."

"He's a loose cannon." Logan paused. "I never questioned you before when you told me he'd had a raw deal. But I'm questioning you now. There's a hell of a lot at stake. The word is that he disobeyed orders and almost caused a diplomatic incident. That the sanction on that North Korean general was canceled and he went ahead and did it anyway."

"It wasn't canceled. Just deemed a mistake after the fact."

"So he claimed."

"And I believe him. He did what he was ordered to do, what the United States government trained him to do." He added wearily, "My God, I'm sick to death of all this hypocrisy. They can't have it both ways. The military picks up kids with potential and gives them a bunch of brainwashing about patriotism and duty and then sends them out to kill. If they have a good eye and steady nerves, they may even put them in the Airborne Rangers like they did Morgan. They taught him how to kill and blow up everything in sight and praised him for it. When he proved to be exceptional, they upped the ante and sent him alone behind enemy lines in the Middle East to take out the enemy. Do you know how many terrorists he's killed in these last years? But exceptional also means expendable. He became a little hot, so the CIA picked him up for their dirty tricks and the cycle began again."

Logan didn't speak for a moment. "You like him."

"Yes, I've always liked him. God knows why. And I wouldn't have recommended him to you if I didn't think he could do the job. He has great qualifications. He knows how to run, how to hide, and how to get rid of anyone in his way."

There was a pause on the other end of the line before Logan said, "I've always been puzzled about the difficulty I ran into when I was trying to pull strings to get the heat off Morgan."

"Puzzled?"

"It should have been easier. I'm no amateur when it comes to getting my own way with politicians and bureaucrats, but I ran into a stone wall when I mentioned his name."

"They were trying to protect their asses."

"Maybe. Or maybe not."

"Look, do you want to use him or not?"

Another silence. "If you really think he's the best man for the job. When will I know if he consents to do it?"

"When I do."

"And you think he'll go for it?"

"It's hard to tell. Judd's always been hard to read. I've got a hunch he'll- I don't know. I have to let him mull it over. I'll call you." He hung up the phone. He wasn't about to commit himself to Logan. Even though Galen's instincts were telling him he'd made an impact, Judd might still turn him down.

It had to be instinct. Judd's face had all the expression of a slab of granite, and he sure as hell wasn't predictable. Elena would testify to that fact. She'd probably never forgive him for the Chavez deal.

Elena. At the thought of her, his foot pressed harder on the accelerator. Forget about Judd and Alex Graham and everyone else. If he could get a quick flight out of Boston, he might be home with Elena tonight.

It was done.

God, he was tired. Judd rubbed his eyes as he propped his feet on the coffee table. It must be close to three in the morning, and he'd been working on the painting since Galen left hours ago.

Was it good? How the hell did he know? He supposed it was the best he could do at this particular stage. It was certainly better than he'd been able to do a year ago. He'd been sketching faces for years, but when he'd fled the Company and started to dedicate himself to painting, he'd been unable to do anything but landscapes and stilllifes. It was only recently he'd begun to bring people back into the mix, and now portraiture was becoming an obsession. It was fascinating to delve deep, to tear through the layers and find what lay beneath. Not many people were at all what they seemed on the surface, and painting them was like exploring a new territory. His gaze met the eyes of the assassin in the picture. He'd denied to Galen that this particular painting was a form of therapy, but perhaps he'd lied. He lifted his coffee cup in a toast and murmured, "Hello, brother."

He took a drink of coffee and then grimaced. Cold and bitter. He should have made a fresh pot. He set the cup on the coffee table beside the envelope Galen had tossed there.

Arapahoe Dam.

Ignore the envelope. He had to look out for his own neck. Arapahoe Junction.

What the devil did he care if the woman was idiot enough to think she could tilt at windmills? He'd already made a decision that there was no way he was going to open that Pan dora's box. He was in enough trouble.

What had she seen at Arapahoe Dam?

Oh, what the hell. He opened the envelope and drew out the dossier and three photos. He wouldn't look at the photos. He had found as long as he didn't look at the faces he could keep himself remote and unemotional.