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He was silent for about fifty yards. Then he said, “The better I was trained, the better my chances were for staying alive. There was a particular job where I needed every edge I could get.”
“How old were you?” He couldn’t have been very old, not if he was a few classes ahead of Dallas, which meant he had begun black ops work at an early age.
“Twenty-one.”
Twenty-one. Not long out of his teen years, and already so dedicated to his job that he had put himself through BUD/S, a training program so tough only about 5 percent of the men who began it made it all the way through. Now she knew why he and Dallas had been so much alike in so many ways.
“How much longer are we going to run?”
“We can stop whenever you want. You’re in great shape; I don’t have to worry about that.”
She began slowing. “Are we likely to have to run for our lives?”
He dropped into step beside her. “You never know.”
That was when she knew she was crazy for real, because she wasn’t scared.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
How did you know I run every morning?” she asked as they returned to the house. The run had mellowed her considerably; early morning was her favorite time of the day. The sky was beginning to turn shades of pearl and pink, and the birds were awake and singing. She felt tired but also energized, the way she always did after a run.
“I told you, Frank kept tabs on you over the years.”
“Bullshit.”
He burst out laughing. She gave him an irritated look as she fished the house key out of her pocket and unlocked the door. “What’s so funny?”
“Hearing you curse. You look like such a madonna—”
“What!” She stared at him in amazement.
“Angel, then. It’s that sweet face of yours.” Grinning, he stroked one finger down her cheek, then deftly maneuvered past and stepped into the house ahead of her. She hadn’t seen him reach for it, but a pistol was in his hand. “You look as if you wouldn’t understand most swear words if you heard them.” He was moving, examining the house, as he spoke.
She rolled her eyes and followed him inside. “I’ll try to stick to ’gosh’ and ’darn,’ then, so I won’t shock you. And don’t think you can change the subject. Mr. Vinay hasn’t just ’kept tabs’ on me, has he? I’ve been under pretty close surveillance. Tell me why.”
“The surveillance isn’t constant. It was at first, to establish your routine. Now it’s just often enough to make certain you’re okay and to see if anything’s changed.”
“Tell me why you’ve wasted Agency time and manpower like that.” She had to raise her voice because he was down the hall checking the bedrooms.
“I haven’t. Frank used a private agency.”
Before, she had been irritated and disbelieving; now she was downright astounded. She slammed the door with a thud. “You paid for a private agency to watch me? For God’s sake, Tucker, if you wanted to know, why didn’t you just pick up the phone and call?”
He was coming back up the dark hall toward her. Because he was wearing black, he was difficult to see; only his face and bare arms and hands made him visible. Part of it was the way he moved, she thought absently. He was fluid, noiseless; you had to rely only on your eyes to detect him, because he was utterly silent.
“John,” he said.
“What?”
“You called me Tucker. My name is John.”
He stood directly in front of her, so close she could feel the animal heat generated by their run, smell the hot odors of sweat and man. She took a step back and tilted her head so she could look at his face. “I haven’t quite adjusted yet. You were Tucker to me for five years, whether or not I ever saw you. You’ve been Medina for less than twelve hours.”
“Not Medina. John. Call me by my first name.”
He seemed strangely intent on this name business, standing motionless, his gaze fastened on her face. “All right, ’John’ it is. I’ll probably slip, though, especially when I get pissed at you—which so far is averaging at least once an hour.”
