You can do it, Sammi June. Go get ’em.

Resolutely, she banished the hurt and the loneliness. But she held on to the anger, tucking it away in the back of her mind like a secret talisman.

She was taken to a room up one flight of bamboo stairs from the large main room. It was sparsely furnished-a pile of those same all-purpose cushions on the floor, a small bamboo table and stool near the only window-but seemed hospitable enough. A basin filled with water sat on the table, and a shelf below held folded cloth towels.

Her escort nodded her into the room, then closed the door and departed-hurriedly, and without a word or a smile, as if anxious to get as far away from her as possible. Alone at last, Sam let her breath out in a gust and went quickly over to the window. It had neither glass nor screen, just a bamboo shutter that could be closed to keep out the rain and indigenous wildlife-the larger varieties, at least. She leaned her head and shoulders out, looked up, then down. It was a long way to the rushing stream below. She was, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner in the room; though she didn’t think she’d been locked in, she was quite certain any attempt to leave through the door would be foiled by those ever-vigilant guards.

What had she expected? This was the hideout of the most wanted man in the world; she could hardly have expected to be given free run of the place.

A picture flashed into her mind, of Cory leaning forward to accept a cup of tea from the bloody hand of Fahad al-Rami. A shiver of outrage shook her from head to toe.

How can he do this? How can he sit there and…and talk with that man-and drink tea, for God’s sake!-as if he were just any other human being? Knowing what he’s done, all the innocents’ deaths he’s been responsible for…the suffering he’s caused. And he gets to sit here like a rajah, enjoying this jungle paradise…

The anger ebbed, and in its place came a cold resolve. Not for long!

Anyway, her fit of pique had been only a momentary thing, a knee-jerk reaction to the injury to her feminine pride. The truth was, she knew her “banishment” couldn’t be more opportune. For what she needed to do next, privacy was essential.

Privacy…and a good satellite signal. An awful thought came to her, and she swiveled her gaze upward again to where only minute fragments of hazy sky were visible through the dense foliage. What if the satellite can’t pick up my signal?

It was time for a test. She took in a deep breath through her nose…whooshed it out…flexed her fingers, then gave her hands a shake. Loosening herself up, shaking off the tension. Then, carefully touching back the hair behind her right ear, she lifted her finger and placed it on the small bump located there, beneath the healing scar. Head bowed, eyes closed, concentrating on blocking out the twinges of pain from still-tender tissues, she pressed the bump in a well-rehearsed code sequence: Target located.

She waited, heart thumping. Several minutes later-it only seemed like hours-the answer came. A single but unmistakable zap: Message received and copied.

Quivering and clammy with relief, she tapped out a new message: Stand by.

The answer came more quickly this time. Two zaps: Say again. Clarify.

She repeated it: Stand by.

And the answer came back-one zap: Copy.

It was done. For now, anyway. Wobble-legged, suddenly, she turned and half sat, half leaned against the windowsill, letting the tension and adrenaline drain from her body and her thumping heart settle back into normal rhythms. Later, when the time was right, she’d send another signal-the signal to move in. But for now, all she could do was wait. Wait until Cory finished his interview. Wait for word on the hostages. Wait until they were all safely away. Wait.

Waiting had never been easy for her.

And in the meantime, somewhere out there beyond the ravine, Philippine government forces and their American special ops advisors would be gathering, homing in on her GPS signal. Waiting for the signal to move on Fahad al-Rami’s jungle hideaway. Waiting. Their objective, of course, would be to capture the elusive terrorist leader alive, but failing that…

A shudder passed through Sam’s body. Pushing herself away from the window, she plunged her hands into the basin and washed her face in the pleasantly cool water. After a moment’s hesitation and a quick look toward the door, she stripped off her T-shirt, then quickly slipped out of her boots and cargo pants. Dressed only in her underwear, she soaked a towel in the water, wrung it out lightly and sponged herself off as best she could. She dried herself and dressed hurriedly, cringing at the feel of her damp, sweaty clothing on her skin. She’d barely finished and was attempting to finger-comb some order into her hair when there was a discreet knock on the door.

She opened it to find a stone-faced guard with a tray on which were arranged a small pot of tea, a cup, a woven bowl containing fruit, and a covered container she was sure would hold the usual concoction of vegetables and rice. She smiled and thanked the guard in Tagalog, but, naturally, got no response. He merely handed over the tray and retreated, pulling the door shut after him.

“Have a nice day,” Sam said dryly. She stood for a moment, holding the tray and chewing her lip, trying to decide whether to displace the basin of water and use the table and stool, or go for the floor and cushions.

“Oh, hell-when in Rome,” she muttered with a shrug as she placed the tray on the floor and sank cross-legged onto a tufted purple cushion.

The next few minutes she spent refueling with gusto and efficiency. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was-probably, she thought, anger and adrenaline would tend to have a dampening effect on a person’s appetite. Gradually, though, as the void inside her filled, a sense of peaceful lassitude settled over her. It was a good feeling; the first part of her job had been done, and for the moment there was nothing more she could do. And she was tired; she’d had only catnaps the past few days, and here, for the first time since Zamboanga, was both privacy and comfort. Her body relaxed…her mind drifted. Once again her guard slipped, and the memories came pouring in.

It’s autumn, the days are growing short and in Athens, Georgia, the leaves are already falling. But the sky is wonderfully blue and the air smells crisp and good, and Cory’s here! I haven’t seen him in a while, he’s been out of the country on assignment, but now he’s back in Atlanta again, taping something for CNN, and it’s the weekend and he’s driven over to Athens to see me. We’ve been to a football game-the Bulldogs won, not that I care, because all that matters is Cory’s here, and we hold hands as we stroll through the campus, kicking through the fresh leaves and laughing at nothing, because it’s enough just to be together. We spread our jackets on the grass and finish the rest of the tail-gate lunch I’d fixed for before the game, throwing bits of bread crusts to the squirrels.

I look at Cory, and he’s smiling that gentle smile, and his eyes look back into mine with such understanding, and his face is so beautiful I hurt inside, and I have to fight back tears. I lean over and kiss him, and his lips are warm and the shape of them against mine is the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt. His lips part under mine, and I laugh, low in my throat, because he tastes like mustard and onions, and so do I, but what do either of us care? I’m trembling when he pulls away with a soft little sigh of regret, and I want him so much…the wanting fills every part of me, and I know I won’t be able to hide it from him. I wonder how much longer I’ll have to wait for him to get past the notion I’m too young for him, the daughter of his closest friend, and decides it’s okay to make love to me. I wonder how it’s possible to be so happy…and feel such pain…

She must have slept, because she woke with a start to find herself sprawled in a jumble of cushions with her arms and legs every which way, and the silhouetted figure of a man standing in front of the window. She sat up too quickly, clammy and jangled, and the figure moved away from the light and became Cory.

“Hey. Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said softly, smiling that gentle smile that was so much like the one in her recent memory-or had it been a dream?-it made her heart flip-flop.

She scowled at him. “What’re you doing here, Pearse?” And her voice sounded gruff and cranky, because that was her best defense against the way she felt. Vulnerable. There was nothing in the world Sam hated more than feeling vulnerable.

“Are you okay?”

And sympathy didn’t help matters, either, especially coming from the person whose whole entire fault it was she felt this way. “I’m fine,” she said with an impatient wave of her hand, whisking away the question like an annoying fly. “No big deal. I wasn’t crazy about being sent to my room like a-” She broke it off while she pulled her feet under her and prepared to stand up, then amended it. “Being treated that way by that SOB, but hey-I’m over it.”

Cory stepped closer and held out his hand to help her up. His eyes were amused. “Come on, Sam, I know you too well. If ever I saw murder in a woman’s eyes…” He paused, patiently waiting for her to take his hand, as if it had never occurred to him she wouldn’t. “I know that can’t have been easy for you,” he said, and his mouth tilted wryly. “For what it’s worth, though…thank you for not making a scene.”

Telling herself it would be pointless-and childish-to ignore his offer of help, she grudgingly put her hand in his. The familiar warmth and strength of it made her breathing catch. “Guess that makes us even,” she said lightly as he pulled her easily to her feet.