LITMIR.BIZ

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course, the Colonel might have invented the whole assignment to keep him out of trouble for a while. Alex wouldn’t put it past the man. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. If he ever found out that was the case, he would strangle the overprotective SOB and consider it well worth the court-martial.

      He rolled his neck to loosen the stiffening muscles and felt sweat run down his back as he sat on the floor cross-legged and watched. Nicola closed her eyes and pursed her generous lips as if she were humming to herself. Her movements flowed like an intricate dance. Caliente abrasador. Scorching hot. Both the weather and the woman. If he had to watch her much longer he might evaporate.

      She took showers without pulling the shades.

      Alex closed his eyes and swallowed a groan. She probably didn’t know anyone could see in her second-story bathroom window. She had no idea an SDDU soldier had made her neighbor’s kid’s treehouse his nighttime surveillance headquarters. Neither did her neighbors. Aside from a select few, nobody in the world knew the SDDU existed. The Special Designation Defense Unit was America’s latest secret weapon in the fight against terrorism.

      He wanted to be in the fight, not in a damn treehouse in a suburb of Philadelphia.

      Carefully manicured gardens, mature shade trees and well-kept houses with swimming pools were the features of Devon, a town on the fashionable Main Line. He had seen places like this on TV as a kid—never figured he would see one up close. He wouldn’t have believed anyone back then who’d told him it would be under these circumstances.

      His gaze followed Nicola as she finished her Tai Chi and moved inside her two-story Federal-style home to start the business part of her day. She spent most of her time either working on her computer or meeting clients, growing her consulting company, Barrington International Trade Services, Ltd. The most action he’d seen in the past two months had been following Nicola from office to office as she conducted her appointments. She wasn’t going anywhere today, though, nothing but phone calls on her schedule. He made sure to check her calendar every night when he sneaked in to secure the premises.

      The house needed all the help he could give it. He liked the quaint brick exterior, but not the quaint security. Lack of security was more like it—one could hardly count the single dead bolt on the front door. The sliding glass doors to the small flagstone patio were as good as an invitation, same as the internal door connecting the garage with the laundry room, armed with only a twist knob. The windows were even more hopeless, originals from about fifty years ago when he estimated the house must have been built.

      Alex wiped his forehead again as a brown van drove by for the second time. Not from the neighborhood. He knew every car within a three-block radius and to what driveway it belonged. Even with his binoculars, he could only make out shapes through the tinted windows—two people, a driver and a passenger.

      Probably nothing to worry about. Could be house hunters, checking out the property for sale at the end of the street. He pulled out his cell phone, punched in the license plate number and saved it. When he reported in at noon, he would ask the Colonel to have his secretary run it. Just in case.

      The garage door opened. Nicola. Alex watched as she backed out of the driveway, then he swung out of the tree and made a dash for his SUV parked one street down. He settled into a comfortable two-car distance behind her by the time she reached Route 30, the local thoroughfare. The woman drove like a ninety-year-old. I Brake for Finches proclaimed the bumper sticker on her late model Bonneville and that about summed it up.

      He turned on the air conditioner full blast. Eastern Pennsylvania in July was murder. A hundred degrees at least today and no breeze in that treehouse. Not that he wasn’t used to heat, he’d spent more than enough time in the desert, but the humidity got to him. If the air became any thicker he could give up breathing and start to chew and swallow.

      She turned left into the first shopping plaza, crowded with designer-dressed yuppies stopping off for their caffe lattes on their way to work. He backed into the far corner of the parking lot for a clear view of both the cars and the building and left the motor running. He didn’t have to follow her, knew exactly where she’d be going—to the Devon Farmers’ Market. Hell, he could probably predict with ninety-nine percent accuracy what she’d be buying. All of it organic.

      It wasn’t right—watching a woman grocery shop.

      One of the most highly skilled soldiers in the country, and this was what they used him for. His jaw clenched from frustration. Already anticipating the excuses, he unclipped his cell phone from his belt to check on the transfer. He couldn’t imagine anything happening on this assignment. Ever. Nicola Barrington didn’t live that kind of a life. He wanted off the job.

      He caught sight of the brown van from the corner of his eye as he punched the last number. Nicola was almost at the market door. He slammed his foot on the gas. The van’s window rolled down in slow motion. The glint of metal caught his eyes. Madre de Dios, they were going to mow her down where she stood.

      Two things flashed through his mind simultaneously: she was going to die, and it was his fault. He should have seen them coming from a mile away. Would have, if he hadn’t gotten so damn complacent, having a pity party in the car instead of paying attention. What the hell was wrong with him? Tires squealing, he pulled to a stop between her and the first spray of bullets, and threw open the passenger-side door.

      She crouched on the pavement, her head pulled down, her arms protecting her face—probably in too much shock to do anything else. Did she even notice him?

      “Get in!” he yelled as the store windows exploded behind her.

      PROPELLED BY ADRENALINE and a healthy survival instinct, Nicola leaped forward in the gunshot-peppered air and dove into the waiting SUV. The driver reached over and slammed the door shut behind her as the car surged ahead. Head down in the plane-crash-emergency position, she didn’t look up until they were out of the parking lot, racing down the back streets.

      “Thank you,” she said finally when she found her voice and could stop shaking enough to sit up and look at the driver. The familiar face eased her panic somewhat. She’d seen him at the gym. For the past two months, they’d been on the same workout schedule. She wondered if he’d even noticed her. She’d noticed him of course. Every woman in the place had. Even the grandmothers.

      “You have to turn right at the next light for the police station.” She was far from calm, but functioning.

      He ignored her and drove straight through the intersection. Probably couldn’t slow down in time to make the turn.

      “That’s fine. Just take the next right and we can loop back.”

      He turned left. On red.

      Unease pooled on the bottom of her stomach. A flock of confused thoughts circled in her head, too fast for her to grab and articulate any. “Who are you?”

      “Put on your seat belt. Did you get a chance to look at them?”

      “Not really.” She’d been thinking about her grocery list when she’d heard the first bullets and got down. She hadn’t had time to look around. The only things she could remember were the silhouettes in the van’s window. “I think they wore masks.”

      “Keep your head down.” His deep voice was hard, his face tight with concentration, as in a fluid motion he reached over her with his well-muscled arm and pulled a gun from the glove compartment into his lap.

      She congratulated herself for not peeing her pants on the spot, then ducked as she’d been told and peeked around from her awkward position. The car was suspiciously free of holes. Bulletproof? She’d been in enough of them, during another life as the sheltered daughter of a U.S. ambassador, but why did the guy from the gym have a bulletproof car? And who was shooting at him?

      Who was shooting at her? He had only darted into the picture to supposedly save her—or was he doing something far more sinister? Her father was a senator now. She considered for a moment whether the man’s appearance out of nowhere had been a coincidence or part of a well-orchestrated plot.

      “Am

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