"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."
He grinned, and she wondered if it was because he so easily irritated her or because she had said 'pissed.' What did the man think she was, a nun? He was going to make her uncomfortable if he kept laughing every time she said something the least bit blue.
She poked him in the chest with one finger. It was like poking a steel plate, with no give beneath the skin. "Since you'll be using another name when we get to France, shouldn't I be getting used to calling you that? What if I slip up then?"
"I'll be careful not to piss you off."
"You aren't going to tell me?" she asked incredulously.
"Not yet."
She pushed past him. "I'm going to take a shower. Lock the door behind you when you leave."
She fumed as she showered. There was no reason for him not to give her his cover name. He just loved being contrary and secretive, though it was such a habit for him now he probably didn't realize-no, of course he realized. He did everything deliberately; she had noticed that about him in Iran.
It followed, then, that he had intentionally revealed his own name, rather than being so surprised to see her that he blurted it out. John Medina didn't blurt out anything. He couldn't have lived this long if he did. The question was-why? He could have posed as Tucker, and she would never have known any differently. Mentally shrugging, she put the question aside. Who knew why Medina did anything?
She took her time in the bathroom, indulging in her morning ritual of moisturizing her skin, then smoothing on a body oil with a subtle scent that lingered all day. She didn't have to be at work until nine, so she didn't have to hurry. That was one reason she got up so early; she didn't like rushing around and arriving at work already frazzled. Of course, she usually got more sleep than she had last night, but Medina hadn't left until well past her normal bedtime.
Going into her bedroom, she took out a matching navy blue set of underwear, but only put on the panties. She wore a bra while she was jogging and at work, but didn't bother while she was at home. She put on her terry-cloth robe and snugly belted it, pulled her wet hair out from under the shawl collar, and walked barefoot down the hall to the kitchen to see if the coffee Medina had made was still drinkable.
He was sitting at the island bar, drinking coffee, much as he had been before. She checked only briefly, then went to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. "I thought you were leaving."
"Why?"
She turned to face him, leaning against the cabinet and cradling the cup in her hand. His hair was wet, she noticed.
"I used your other bathroom for a shower," he said. "Hope you don't mind. I had to put these clothes back on, though."
"No, I don't mind. But I still thought you were leaving. I have to go to work."
"No, you don't. You're on indefinite leave."
She sipped her coffee, hiding her shock-and, yes, her irritation. "That's news to me."
"Frank took care of it last night. Until this job is finished, you're mine."
She didn't know if she liked the sound of that. A funny little pang tightened her stomach. She took refuge in her coffee again, hiding her expression.
He looked so pantherish and male, dressed all in black, lounging at his ease in her cheerful kitchen.
The T-shirt he wore clung to him, revealing the breadth of his shoulders and the flatness of his stomach. He was tall and lean, but more muscular than he looked when wearing street clothes. He had meant his words one way, but his physical presence was so strong she couldn't stop herself from a brief sexual speculation. Did his stamina extend to lovemaking? If so ... wow.
Immediately she pulled her thoughts away from that direction; nothing but trouble there. "So what am I supposed to do with my time until we're ready to leave? When do we leave, anyway?" she asked briskly.
"About a week. It takes time to set up a cover as foolproof as yours will be. In the meantime, we train. How are you with a handgun and self-defense?"
"Rusty."
"Have you had any formal self-defense training?"
"No. Just a rape-prevention course, the usual self-defense stuff." And the rudimentary training Dallas had begun with her, but that was five years ago, and she hadn't kept it up.
"Okay. We won't have time for anything in-depth, but in a week's time I can have you at a level where you can hold your own with most men. You're in good shape already, so that helps."
Great. It looked as if she was going to be in his company nonstop for a week. She sighed and took a skillet out of the cabinet. "I'm not doing anything else until I eat. What do you want for breakfast?"
"Take your pick," Medina said, indicating the small arsenal he had laid out on a bench. They were in a private firing range, used by CIA personnel. The huge, barnlike building was empty except for the two of them.
It wasn't anything fancy, having been built more for use than looks. The far wall of the range was stacked with sand bags and bales of hay, so no rounds of ammunition went through the walls to do damage to anything or anyone outside. The walls themselves were lined with what looked like pegboard, to contain the noise. Big industrial lights hung overhead, but they were individually controlled so that the lighting conditions could be adjusted He indicated the first weapon. "This is a Colt .45. It's a heavy-duty cannon, with a lot of stopping power. The next one is a Smith & Wesson .357 revolver. Again, it's pretty heavy. But they're both as reliable as the sun, so you might want to practice with them. I wouldn't recommend them for regular use, though, because of the weight. You need something lighter."
He indicated the other weapons. "The next one is a SIG Sauer P226, 9mm. It's my personal favorite. The other automatic is an H&K P9S. It's half a pound lighter than the Colt, and H&K makes a fine weapon. You can't go wrong with either one."
Niema studied the handguns, then picked each one up in turn. The two revolvers were so heavy she could barely aim them. The H&K was more manageable, but for sheer ease of handling the SIG suited her much better.
"Looks like the SIG is going to be my favorite, too." She wasn't an expert with firearms, but neither was she a rank beginner. Dallas had been constitutionally unable to bear a wife who didn't know how to fire a weapon, so he had taught her the basics and insisted she practice. But that was five years ago, and she hadn't been on a firing range since.
"The SIG doesn't have a thumb safety," he said. "That lever on the left side of the frame is the decocking lever. Never, ever lower the hammer except with the decocking lever. Some SIGs are double-action and won't have the lever, but you need to get used to using it."
"It's awkward," she said after a minute spent familiarizing herself with the lever. "I can't work it without shifting my grip."
"Try using your left thumb. I learned to shoot it left-handed because I ran into the same problem."
She slid a glance at him. "Accurately?"
"Of course," he said coolly. "Or I wouldn't do it."
"Pardon me for insulting your manhood."
"My manhood isn't connected to my weapon, honey."
She bit the inside of her lip to hold back any rejoinders. That particular subject could rapidly get into dangerous waters.
A surprising amount of expertise returned as soon as she handled the weapon. She put a clip in the SIG, and Medina set the first man-shaped target at ten" yards.
"Is that all?" she asked, wondering whether or not she should be insulted.
"Most situations where you would use a handgun are fairly close quarters, and things happen fast, in five seconds or less. Work on your accuracy before you start worrying about distance. Anything much over thirty yards and you'd be better off with a rifle or shotgun, anyway."
"How do we get our weapons on board the plane?"
"We don't. I could, but it would attract too much attention. I'll get them once we're in France. By the way, we won't be traveling together."
She nodded, put on her headset, and raised the pistol. Dallas had taught her the point-and-shoot method; studies had found that people were very accurate in pointing at something, but when they tried to aim a weapon the mechanics of doing so somehow interfered with that natural ability. The idea was not to aim, but simply to point.
Medina's arms came around her from behind, his hands closing over hers and making minute adjustments in her grip. "Gently squeeze the trigger," he murmured, his voice coming through the headset.
She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, the way Dallas had taught her. When she had exhaled about half, she stopped and squeezed the trigger. The weapon jumped in her hands as if it was alive, the barrel recoiling upward from the released energy. With the headset protecting her ears, the shot was a flattened crack, like a board popping. Smoke and cordite burned her nostrils. Without a word she steadied the weapon, took a breath, and shot again.
This time Medina braced her wrists with his own hands, but this time she was more prepared for the recoil. She didn't fight it, but let her forearms absorb the shock.
"Good," Medina said, and let his arms drop from around her.
Taking her time, not rushing her shots, she emptied the clip at the target. When the clip was empty, per Medina's previous instructions, she removed the empty dip and slapped a new one in. While she was doing that he called up a new target and set this one at twenty yards. She shot all the bullets in that clip, too.
Afterward he pulled the targets up for examination. On the first target, out of a fifteen-shot clip, she had scored two rounds in the head, one in the neck, and five in the chest. "Only eight," she said in disgust. "Barely over fifty percent."
"This isn't a marksmanship competition, so don't try to be Annie Oakley. And look at it this way: With the other seven bullets, you probably scared the hell out of whoever was standing beside the target."
She had to laugh, even if it was ruefully. "Thanks a lot."
"You're welcome. Take a look at the second target."
The second target made her feel better. With both targets she had tried to divide her shots equally between the head and chest. It hadn't worked very well with the first target, and in one way she didn't approve much: only three shots went into the head. But eight shots were clustered in the chest area, meaning she had made all of those shots.
She told John what she'd been trying to do. "Forget the head," he advised. "In a tense situation, the chest is a much bigger target. You don't have to kill someone, just stop him. Now let's switch to another weapon."
"Why?"
"Because you never know what will be available. You need to be able to use whatever is at hand."
He made it sound like she was going to make a career of this, she thought grumpily. But she moved to the H&K as instructed and went through the same exercise. She ran into trouble with both the Colt and Smith & Wesson, though. The pistols were so heavy it took all her strength, using both hands, to hold her wrists steady. The first shot with the .357 jarred her teeth.
Medina stepped behind her then, wrapping his hands around her wrists and adding his strength to hers. "Unless you're with me, I'm not going to be much good with these," she said between gritted teeth.
"You're doing okay. Just take your time between shots."
She not only had to take her time, she had to work up her nerve. Now she knew why the big pistols were called hand cannons. She didn't make all her shots with them, either, but the ones that hit tore impressive holes in the cardboard targets. Afterward she had to massage her forearms to relax the muscles.
"That's enough for today," he said, taking note of her action, ""four arms will be sore if you keep on."
"Stopping suits me fine," she muttered. "I guess I'm not Rambo, either."
"Who is?" he asked dryly.
She laughed as she worked the kinks out of her shoulders. "What's next?"
"A workout, if you're up to it."
She gave him a wary look. "What kind of workout?"
"The kind where I teach you how to take care of yourself."
"I'll have you know I already take vitamins and moisturize my skin."
"Smart ass." He chuckled as he looped a companionable arm around her shoulders. "We're going to make a great team."
"A great temporary team," she corrected, ignoring the sudden thumping of her heart. No way was she going back into this full-time, or even part-time. This was a one-shot deal.
He let her have the last word, but she saw the self-satisfied quirk to his mouth, quickly smoothed out, that told her he planned otherwise. And that was almost as worrying as the job itself.
To her relief, he took it easy on her during the workout. The gym he took her to wasn't a gym at all, but an abandoned barn thirty miles south of D.C. Nevertheless, it was equipped with both weight machines and free weights, punching bags, what looked like gymnastic equipment, and a big, blue, three-inch thick foam mat.
"That isn't thick enough," she pronounced.
"It's thick enough. I'm not going to be dropping you on your head." He kicked off his shoes.
"It's my butt I'm worried about." Following his example, she took off her own shoes.
"I promise I'll take good care of your butt."
He was as good as his word. The workout didn't involve getting tossed around or twisted into a pretzel. "Rule one: Don't try to take anyone down," he said. "You aren't good enough. The best you can hope to do is get away, so that's what we'll concentrate on. You have the advantage of surprise on your side, because you're small-"
"I am not."
He cast his eyes toward the cavernous ceiling. "You're smaller than most men," he amended.
"But I'm wiry."
He laughed then. "Okay, you're wiry. Where, I don't know, but I'll take your word for it. But you look-"
This time she was the one who rolled her eyes. "I know, like an angel."
"You don't like that, huh? Then let's say you look like a lady. You look as if you've never been dirty, never sweated, never swore."
"Strike three, you're out," she muttered.
"And you don't look nearly as contrary as you are."
"I'm not contrary, I'm accurate."
"As I was saying..." He grinned down at her. "You look like a cream puff. An angelic, ladylike cream puff. So any guy who grabs you isn't going to be expecting you to do anything except maybe cry."
Deciding she'd bedeviled him enough for now, she shrugged her shoulders back and forth, loosening them. "Okay, so teach me how to make him cry."
"I'll be satisfied with just teaching you how to get away."
Courtesy of the rape-prevention class she'd taken, she already knew some of the basic stuff. John refreshed her on many of the moves: how to break the hold of someone who grabbed you from the front-you brought your arms up hard and fast inside your assailant's. A quick, stiff-arm jab of the palm up and into someone's nose might not kill him, though it could if done hard enough, but it would certainly cause him pain. So would slapping your cupped palms over his ears, a move designed to rupture the ear drums. A jab of stiffened fingers into the eyes or throat was disabling.
He showed her the most vulnerable place on the throat for crushing the trachea. Without immediate help, someone with a crushed trachea would die. Even if she couldn't manage crushing power, the blow, done properly, would disable.
They moved around on the mat, into different positions and scenarios. By necessity, the drill was close contact. Niema forced herself to ignore the sensations generated by having John's tall, hard-muscled body against hers, his arms wrapped around her in various holds as he patiently instructed her on how to break those holds.