"You might not be thanking me later if he approves this. Not all of our field operatives have well developed social skills."

Shelby shoved his warning to the back of her mind. She had weighed the risks before making the suggestion and had offered it only because Dennis seemed almost willing to ignore the threat rather than risk a scandal. She did have some private concerns about working with a field agent who could be an unsanctioned killer and hoped they would both be on the same side.



A Desert Camp in Saudi Arabia





Kristina Bartley raised the antenna on the portable receiver and directed it toward a satellite south of her position. Within five minutes, the encrypted message she had intercepted began downloading into her self-modified hand held receiver without leaving any trace of having done so. The message was automatically decoded and displayed across the three-inch screen in timed bursts. As the words registered, her eyes narrowed speculatively. She quickly returned to her quarters and waited for her Saudi liaison.

Ahmed had just received new instructions and slowly made his way to the American woman's location. He didn't like her and was relieved this would be the last message he would have to deliver to her. He would miss her skill, but she didn't know her place and when he had challenged her, he had barely escaped with his life. He would never forget the emotionless, ice blue eyes as she moved in to strike the winning blow. If Henri's arrival hadn't been so timely, he was sure she would've killed him. No, skilled or not, he would be glad to see her go.

Kris sat on the bedroll against the canvas wall, seemingly relaxed and unconcerned as she called out in Arabic, "Come in," the foreign language rolling smoothly off her tongue.

Actually, every muscle in her tall body was prepared to move at the slightest threat or provocation. She didn't trust her Saudi counterpart, but then she didn't trust anyone, so it wasn't an alien feeling. In this business, trust could mean death, and Kris had no intentions of becoming worm food anytime soon.

When Ahmed entered Kris grinned sardonically, fully aware of how intimidated he was and how much he despised her for that very reason. She snorted to herself. He had determined their working relationship by strutting up to her shortly after her arrival and informing her that as long as she was in his country, she would be subordinate to him. Most men, and women, too, usually succumbed to her natural charisma when she chose to use it, but he had been totally oblivious to it and so she had been forced to physically correct his misperception of their working relationship.

"Hawk just called a code yellow." Ahmed looked closely at the beautiful woman for any reaction to his words. He knew code yellow meant that the mission was aborted and operatives were to return to headquarters. The Saudi also knew it was highly unusual, yet the American's face remained totally impassive. He knew it was impossible, but it seemed as if she already knew.

Angry at the lack of reaction, he ordered, "You will depart now!"

Ahmed felt his air cut off and fleetingly wondered how she could move so quickly. He heard a quiet chuckle and his blood ran cold. She had to be crazy. She whispered in his ear, "I'll leave when I'm ready. Understand?" Then, as if talking to a child, she repeated the words in Arabic. Ahmed nodded his head, unable to speak through the vise gripping his throat.

"Good. I'm glad we understand each other. So you want to tell me what that was all about? We both know there are no flights to the States until morning." Kris loosened her hold on his neck so that he could answer.

"I thought you might want to wait at the airport."

Her voice steely, Kris growled, "You are a poor liar, Ahmed. Get out of here while you still can."

Ahmed strode out of her quarters in what he hoped was a dignified manner, consoling himself with the fact that she was most assuredly in trouble with her superiors.

Kris remained awake until she departed for the airport the following morning. She could sleep on the plane. Contrary to what Ahmed thought, the operative was actually very concerned about being recalled. It was a first in her career, and she doubted it boded well for her. Her mind processed a multitude of possible reasons, none of which were reassuring and one was downright terrifying.



Fairfax, Virginia





Shelby walked into her second floor garden apartment, tossed her purse on the floor by the couch, and kicked off her shoes before sinking into a large, mauve, overstuffed chair. She glanced over and checked the answering machine, but the light wasn't blinking. Surprised that her mother hadn't called, she got up and began shedding her clothing a piece at a time. Her blouse ended up on the bathroom doorknob, the skirt on the bed, and her underwear in the hamper. All she could think of was a warm shower to wash the stress from her tense muscles.

A short time later, Shelby sat curled up on the couch in a long, red sleeping T-shirt with a picture of kittens playing on the front. Tonight all she wanted to do was relax. Maybe I'll watch The Fugitive. Kim seems to think it's good. Shelby didn't want to think about what Monday would bring. If Jeb approved her suggestion, she was going to be working with a field operative that could just possibly be an assassin, and that made Shelby decidedly uneasy.

She still couldn't believe she was working for the CIA. After graduating from college with a dual degree in Computer Science and Psychology, Shelby accepted a job as a computer programmer in a local company. She quickly mastered the job, but found the work tedious and boring. Increasingly dissatisfied, she enrolled in graduate school part time, and had just finished her last course when Shawn Burgess became her supervisor. His interest in her had extended beyond the job and things had quickly deteriorated when she had rebuffed his advances. Going up the supervisory chain had only made matters worse, so, unwilling to put up with the constant harassment, she had started looking for another job while she waited for her degree to be conferred.

Shelby clearly remembered the day she had sent her resume to a post office box address in response to an advertisement in a local paper. Her Master's degree in Psychology had qualified her for the job and she was excited about an opportunity to put it to use. Inwardly smiling, Shelby reflected that had she known it was a CIA ad, she might not have answered it. She had no regrets, however. Her new job was interesting and challenging, a distinct improvement over the previous one.

She knew the Company often had a poor image because of past scandals and a common misconception was that many CIA operatives were government-sanctioned killers. Shelby had never believed that, and accepted the job, although she was not naïve enough to doubt that the Company would do whatever was necessary to protect the interests of the country.

After her promotion, Shelby began working on highly classified cases and came across the term wet operative in a few cases that had very deadly outcomes. She intuitively made the connection and felt the title was gruesomely appropriate.

For her, the biggest downside of the job was the loneliness of the work. There was very little opportunity to interact with other employees and being gregarious by nature, Shelby missed that.

Forcing work from her mind, she decided to call her best friend, Kim. Most of her friends were married or had ongoing relationships, but Kim was single like she was and usually available for a night out.

She punched in the number, and waited for Kim to answer.

"Hello."

"Hiya."

"Hey Shelby. Whazup?"

"Not too much. Wanna see Charlie's Angels tomorrow? The write up's pretty good."

"Sure. What time?"

"Well, we could get something to eat and catch the 9:30. Want me to pick you up?"

"Yeah. That'd be good. It's your turn to drive."

Shelby laughed. "What're you doing, keeping track?"

"No. I just hate to drive in this city. Maybe someday I'll get used to it."

"I hear you. Doesn't bother me that much, though."

Kim loved to eat out and asked, "So where are we going to eat?"

"You pick. I picked the movie."

"Umm...how 'bout Chesapeake Bay Seafood House?"

"Sounds good. See you tomorrow."

Shelby hung up the phone and relaxed. Their outing would be a nice diversion from the worrisome events of the day.



CIA Headquarters





Jeb almost sighed with relief as he left the office of the head honcho of covert ops, Earl Mason. He had met with Dennis the evening before and didn't have authority to pull an operative from the field without going up the ladder. And quite frankly, Earl Mason was one scary guy.

He was strictly a REMF (Rear Echelon MFer) and Jeb accepted the title proudly. He commanded from a desk, and that was the way he liked it. Lots of power, but nice and safe. He had no intentions of getting his ass shot off or being tortured in some foreign country while the government disavowed any knowledge of him.

Walking into his office, he called Dennis. "It's a go. Earl is pulling Blue." He paused as he heard the sharp intake of breath through the phone. That had been his reaction, too.

"Why Blue?" Dennis had heard rumors of just how ruthless Blue was and the operative had a reputation for never failing, regardless of how long the mission took. It was the "ruthless" part that bothered him if there were any truth to the tales he had heard, and experience had taught him that there was always some truth in the rumor mill.