Stark plucked at the covers restlessly. They might have been flirting with a relationship for weeks, but they'd only been sleeping together a matter of days. "I understand. I didn't mean to put you on the spot." She intended to drop the matter, and then the next words popped out. "You wouldn't have to stay, if it didn't work out"

"What if it does? Are you ready for that?"

"We'd kissed once," Stark noted solemnly, "before the Loverboy operation went down in New York. I remember that kiss. It was beautiful. It was over in a second, and you just brushed your lips over mine, but I knew it was more than just a friendly kiss." She drew a breath, remembering that Renee had just finished a workout and had still worn her boxing gloves. Her T-shirt had been damp with sweat and her caramel skin misted with its shine. She'd looked strong and feminine and so sexy. "Less than twenty-four hours later, I was kneeling on the ground with my hands pressed to your chest, afraid that you were dying."

"Paula, sweetie," Renee breathed, heart aching to hear the tremor in Stark's voice. "Honey—"

"No, I'm okay." Stark pushed on, needing to give voice to the well of emotions springing within. "What's between us, it started before that kiss, before we'd even touched. Because when I thought that you might die, I hurt somewhere inside that I hadn't even known was there. I hurt in some place that felt like it would bleed forever."

"Oh my God. Paula." I love you.

"So, yeah, I'm ready." Stark spoke quietly, gently. She'd never said anything like what she had just said before, never even thought the words. But she knew without question that they were right and true. That knowledge gave her strength, and from that strength, came patience. "But maybe it would be smart if we said from the beginning that it would just be a temporary arrangement. Three weeks."

"Three weeks." Renee's voice trembled now. "That seems... reasonable."

"By then, you'll have a better idea what your permanent assignment will be, and we'll have had a chance to check things out."

Renee laughed, sounding almost giddy with happiness and wonder. "I'm all for checking things out with you, sweetie."

"Yeah? So you think that might work...temporarily?"

"I think it just might. Call me when you get back to the city and you're free, and I'll come over. Okay?"

Stark sighed and slid down under the covers. She was tired, but she felt great. The only thing that was missing to make the night perfect was Renee lying beside her. "Roger that."

"You sleepy, sweetie?"

"Yeah. Some. How about you?"

"I'm still wired from the trip," Renee replied, swinging her feet over to the sofa and stretching out.

"I don't have anywhere to go for a few hours," Stark murmured.

"Oh yeah?" Renee reached up and clicked off the light on the end table. With a tiny laugh, she said, "So, sweetie, what are you wearing?"

0200 20Aug01

A cell phone rang in a paramilitary compound deep in the mountains of Tennessee. The duty officer—a twenty-year-old white man with his hair clipped to within a breath of his skull, dressed in battle fatigues, and weighted down with his sidearm, extra ammo in magazine clips hanging from his belt, a bush knife in a leather sheath, and night glasses on a thick leather strap around his neck—answered the call. "Sergeant Wilson."

"This is red team leader. Have the general call me at this number."

Wilson, the weekend duty officer who worked during the week as a gas station attendant at one of the rest areas on the interstate, knew better than to question the order and dutifully repeated the ten digits. He'd never met the person who belonged to the voice on the phone^ but he was familiar with the deep rumbling tone. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

When the caller terminated the connection, Wilson used the landline to ring through to the general's quarters, one of the cabins that once composed the mountain resort that now formed the heart of the compound. The central lodge had been converted into the organization's headquarters, while the officers were housed in the cabins scattered in the surrounding woods. The volunteer personnel bivouacked in tents in areas (hey had clear-cut themselves. The entire five-acre compound was surrounded by a ten-foot barbed wire fence and protected by motion sensors and floodlights. Some of the officers, like the general, spent the better part of every month on base. The rest of the troops were only weekend warriors like himself, but those core members were dedicated and determined to take part in the struggle to reclaim the nation for the people.

"General Matheson, sir. I have a priority call for you."

"Give me the number, soldier."

Five minutes later, the dark-haired American flipped open his cell phone as it vibrated. "Good morning, General."

"Is it? Maybe in whatever cushy hotel you're in," the gravelly voice barked. "It's hotter than hell up here in these mountains, even with the windows open. You end up trading a dozen mosquito bites for a piss-poor bit of breeze."

"My sympathies, General."

"Yes, well, let's not waste these high-security minutes." They'd learned a valuable trick from their Middle Eastern colleagues—by anonymously purchasing disposable memory chips, usually from Switzerland, for their cell phones, they could communicate by satellite links with no danger of their calls being traced. Those with sophisticated equipment could even use the chips to uplink their computers for more extensive data transfer or to insert maps, photo images, and other intelligence data into dummy Web sites. "What the hell happened over there? That mission was planned down to the second—it should have gone off flawlessly."

"I was hoping you could tell me," the other man snapped, his patience frayed by the months of planning that had nearly culminated in disaster. "We were minutes away from completion of the operation when we had to abort. The premature release of the target's newspaper interview increased media attention to the point that our extraction route was unacceptably compromised."

The general grunted in disgust. "We had nothing to do with that. We don't want undue focus on the target at this point in time. Not when the larger operation is about to commence."

"This is not the time for miscommunication," insisted the agent who had spent the last six years of his life infiltrating one of the most secure organizations in the world. "Timing is critical now."

"You think I don't know that? What the hell do you think we've been doing here for the last year?"

Silence hung thickly while each man struggled with his temper.

"Are we abandoning this target?" the agent demanded.

"No. But the mission has changed...from abduction to termination," the general replied stonily. "It will be a coordinated strike to coincide with that of out friends."

The dark-haired man's stomach tightened. He kept his response short to avoid the possibility of revealing his surge of anxiety. "When will I get the details?"

"When you need them."

The American agent standing on a corner in Washington, DC within sight of the White House, making plans to commit treason, nodded as if the man on the other end of the line could see him. "I understand. I'll be waiting."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

22 August 2001

C am leaned against the stone pillar that supported the wrought-iron gate on the east side of Gramercy Park, surveying the entrance to Blair's apartment building. At 11:30 a.m., a stylish blond in a navy blue linen dress, the hemline high enough to accentuate elegantly sculpted calves, exited and walked to the curb. Brushing her shoulder-length hair back with one casual sweep of her hand, the woman glanced down the street, apparently in search of a cab.

"Diane," Cam called as she pushed away from the wall and crossed the street

Diane Bleeker looked around in surprise and smiled curiously as Cam approached. "Why, hello, Cam." Her voice was whiskey warm and her gaze leisurely as it traversed Cam's face and then did a slow appraisal of her body. She curled her fingers into the crook of Cam's arm with casual affection. "I haven't seen you in far too long. How are you?"

"I'm fine." The unusual absence of flirtation in the blond's tone instantly raised Cam's suspicions. Diane, Blair's business agent and best friend, was seductive by nature, and although Cam never took her seriously, she had come to expect a certain amount of suggestiveness in her manner. Its absence confirmed her concerns that something was not right—and seriously so. "Would you walk with me for a few minutes? I'll see that one of my agents takes you home after that."

"Only if you promise that it will be the beautiful Felicia," Diane responded with her winning smile.

Cam shook her head as they began to walk north, grinning despite the uneasiness churning in her depths. "Actually, Felicia isn't on duty. How about John Fielding?"

"Oh, really. He's hardly an appropriate substitute." Diane gave an elaborate sigh, but her eyes were devoid of merriment. "You don't have to take one of your agents away from their duties, Cam. I'll get a cab when we're done. Now, not that I mind you lying in wait to spirit me off, but I suspect it's more than a stroll you have in mind."

"Yes," Cam said quietly. "It's Blair. I'd hoped you could tell me what's wrong." The change in Diane's expression was barely perceptible, but Cam sensed her withdrawal and fought back a surge of temper born of two days of confusion and worry. "We've been back in the city since Monday, and she hasn't left her apartment once. I haven't seen her, even for briefings. She's canceled them all."