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The raised trunk would offer some protection while she grabbed her weapon. And if she was wrong, if the van was empty, she’d just get in her car and go home. Soak in a hot bath. Forget she’d nearly made a fool of herself.

She was already leaning into the trunk when she heard the nearly silent footsteps behind her. Her fingers closed around the holstered SIG-Sauer, and she had it free of leather when the sharp pop echoed. White-hot heat streaked just above her right temple.

Diving toward the side of the car, hoping to use it as cover, she brought the SIG-Sauer up, getting her first look at the shooter—a stocky male in dark clothing. She fired two quick rounds. Both slammed into his chest.

He kept coming.

A loud crack sounded. The taillight next to her shattered. Small bits of plastic exploded, some of it hitting her in the face, causing her to blink. Causing her third shot to miss.

As a bullet punctured the fender next to her, she squeezed the trigger again, this time going for a head shot.

Like a tethered pit bull hitting the end of its chain, the guy’s forward momentum vanished, and for the briefest of moments it was as if both time and motion stood still. His expression changed, bloomed from one of aggression to chagrin and then to stunned disbelief.

And then time kicked in again, and he was flying backward.

Chapter Two

Beth got to her feet, her weapon trained on her attacker as she checked out the darkened garage for additional signs of danger.

Nothing.

No hint of movement or sound. But then, she hadn’t heard her attacker until it was nearly too late. Where had he come from? Why hadn’t she seen him sooner?

Her pulse scrambled uncontrollably. No matter how fast her lungs worked, she remained winded, gasping for air.

Keeping her weapon leveled at the body on the ground fifteen feet away, she forced herself to focus.

Part of her training had involved role-playing, learning how to survive a situation like the one she’d just been involved in, one where taking the time to weigh options could get you killed. And it was that same training she fell back on now, her attention flipping between her attacker and her surroundings.

She kicked aside the weapon he’d dropped—a .45 Smith & Wesson automatic—before closing the last few feet and getting the first clear look at his injuries. His right eye was gone.

As she reached down to check for a pulse—something she knew was a wasted action even before she did it—the warm scent of fresh blood reached up and grabbed her. Swallowing the bile that piled in her throat, she straightened.

He was younger than she’d first thought, midtwenties maybe. He wore a black ski cap pulled low over his ears. Seeing no sign of hair, she assumed his head was clean shaven. The rest of his clothing—jeans and sweatshirt—were also black.

When her gaze made it as far as his feet, she realized the reason she hadn’t heard him. He wasn’t wearing shoes. Who goes barefoot in November? In freezing temperatures?

Still facing him, she backed away, fumbling for the cell phone at her waist. She couldn’t stop her hand from shaking, so it took several tries to disengage the phone from the clip.

After placing calls to 911 and to Bill Monroe, she sat on the bumper of her car to wait. It was unlikely that Monroe would show up. When she’d reached him, he’d been at some type of social function.

For the first time, she allowed herself to really think about what had just taken place. She’d taken a life. And no matter how prepared she’d thought she was to do it, how certain she’d been that she could live with it, she suddenly realized she might have been wrong.

Inhaling sharply, she tried to dislodge the growing tightness in her chest. She couldn’t fall apart now. Deep breaths. Cleansing breaths. She’d killed a man, and there was no going back.

An hour later Beth was still sitting on the bumper of her car, but she was no longer alone. Minutes after she’d placed the 911 call, the first responding officer—a street cop—had secured the area and taken down an initial report.

Two Baltimore detectives and the crime-scene unit were the next to arrive. And less than two minutes ago, three FBI special agents from the Baltimore office had shown up. At one time she’d considered them office allies. But ever since Monroe had tagged her for termination, they’d distanced themselves from her.

It was always the office relationships that were the first to go. Next would come the stripping of security clearances. So far she’d dodged that bullet, for the same reason she still had a job—because they needed her testimony. Testimony that would carry more weight coming from a special agent whose security clearance hadn’t been downgraded or revoked.

She lowered the wad of fast-food napkins she’d found in her glove box and had been pressing to the side of her head. The gash just above her right temple was a minor one, but like most head wounds, it had bled pretty profusely at first. She glanced down at her shoulder. The white silk scarf was probably a lost cause, but because the coat she wore was navy-blue wool, the bloodstain wasn’t particularly noticeable and would probably clean up okay.

Her gaze returned to the three special agents and two detectives who were still conversing near the ramp. What were they discussing now? Just the shooting? Or were her coworkers eagerly explaining to the detectives that her appointment tonight had been with a shrink and not some other type of doctor?

Beth shifted her attention away from them and onto the dead man. His body remained uncovered. At least the shooter had a name now. Leon Tyber. The shoeless hit man. But even if he’d forgotten footwear, he’d remembered to wear body armor, the reason the first two shots to his chest hadn’t stopped him.

He’d come prepared to take me down swiftly and efficiently. But instead, I killed him.

As another sharp breeze blew through the structure, she shivered. She wasn’t really dressed to hang out in a cold garage. Like everyone else at the scene, she was waiting for the medical examiner to show up and release the body for transport to the morgue. Until he did, she couldn’t move her car without destroying evidence. Of course, if she’d been really eager to go home, she could have called a cab and come back tomorrow to pick up her car.

Hearing footsteps, she glanced up. Special Agent Tom Weston, a seventeen-year FBI veteran, walked over and propped his backside next to hers. He was tall, well built. In her early days in Baltimore, he’d been somewhat of a mentor to her. Up until a year ago, she’d considered him a friend.

Hands clasped in front of him, he looked over at her and then motioned at her injured head. “Maybe you should consider a trip to the emergency room to get that checked out.”

“It’s just a crease. I’m fine.”

“What you are,” Tom said, “is lucky.”

Frowning, she refolded the napkins and rested them against her scalp again, trying to ignore the now throbbing headache. Tom’s comment didn’t surprise her. It did however sting more than she would have expected. “What I am is good at my job.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest—”

Her eyes narrowed. “Of course you didn’t.” But they both knew better. Recently her accomplishments and skills had increasingly been downplayed. “And the fact that I’m not included in the Friday-night get-togethers doesn’t mean a damn thing, either.”

Beth knew she was venturing into areas that would only serve to further damage her relationship with Weston, a man she had once held in great respect.

“You’re shutting me out,” she said, and glanced down, not wanting to meet his eyes, not wanting him to see how much his actions had hurt her. “I didn’t expect that.” She looked over at him. “I actually thought you would be the only one in the office willing to back me up.”

“Damn it, Beth.” Tom grimaced. “I have two kids already in college and another one starting next year. I’m not about to put my job in jeopardy.”

“There’s a name for that, Tom. Careerism. The practice of protecting one’s career. At the cost of one’s integrity.”

When Tom shifted his gaze to the group of men near the ramp, Beth sensed he was looking for a reason to leave her, to rejoin the others. And at the same time she realized even if he’d been going about it very cautiously, he had been trying to be somewhat supportive. At least for tonight.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m not being completely fair here.”

He rubbed his face, suddenly looking even more exhausted than when he’d sat. “You have nothing to apologize for.” He studied her, a deep furrow between his brows. “But why didn’t you come to me before going over Monroe’s head?”

She balled up the bloody napkins. “Like you said, you have kids in college. I don’t.”

“But you had to know that you were risking your career. That Monroe wouldn’t hesitate to blow you away if you said anything about his screw-up.”

“He didn’t give me a choice.” Even she heard the edge of anger in her voice. “It was a viable lead, and he didn’t assign it. And because he didn’t, terrorism got another payday.” Beth realized the other men were watching them now, and lowered her voice. “I took an oath to protect and defend this country,” she said. “Not keep my mouth shut.”

Tom nudged her shoulder with his. “You always were a damned idealist.”

“So were you,” she offered with a sad smile.

He nodded. “Back when I could afford to be.”

“What did Monroe have to say when he called you tonight?”

“Just that I was to head up the investigation and he’d talk to you in the morning. There’s nothing for you to worry about. It was obviously self-defense.”

He glanced toward where the other men were still talking. This time she didn’t think it was because he was looking to escape her. But then his facial expression suddenly changed, went from one of fatigue to near anger. “What in the hell is Mark Gerritsen doing here?”

Surprised to hear the name, Beth followed Tom’s gaze, certain he must be mistaken. Unfortunately, he wasn’t. At six-three and deadly handsome, Special Agent Gerritsen was easy to recognize even from where she sat. Currently he was talking with the other two FBI special agents and the two detectives.

She frowned. Why would the FBI’s leading counterterrorism specialist have any interest in what had taken place here tonight? In a simple shooting?

Mark suddenly broke away from the other men and walked toward Tom and Beth. When he reached the dead shooter, he stopped to examine the body.

Beneath the beige trench coat, Mark Gerritsen wore a dark suit. The collar of his white oxford-cloth shirt was open, and his hair looked as if he’d plowed his fingers through it more than once.

Not so amazingly, as she watched the FBI’s best-of-the-best straighten and walk toward them, her thoughts had nothing to do with national security, and everything to do with the last time they’d met. A meeting where she had come off as completely foolish and sophomoric. A meeting she was hoping he didn’t recall.

But it probably hadn’t been all that memorable for him. During her sixteen weeks of new recruit training, he’d been her counterterrorism instructor. There hadn’t been a female in the class who hadn’t been in lust with Mark Gerritsen, her included. After all, when it came to aphrodisiacs, power coupled with intellect, looks and honor was damn potent.

Back then he’d been newly divorced and had a couple of kids. Was that still the case?

Tom had stood as soon as he’d seen Gerritsen, but she waited until he reached them to get to her feet.

Tom held out his hand, his expression anything but welcoming. “Gerritsen, let me introduce—”

Mark’s gaze connected with Tom’s briefly before immediately shifting to Beth. “We’ve actually met.”

It was only when he extended his hand to her that she realized she still held the bloody napkins. After quickly shoving the wad into her pocket, she shook his hand, lifting her gaze to his face at the same time.

His eyes were brown, and at the moment the brows were drawn down tight over them. There was a rawness to his features—eyes that were deep set, a nose that wasn’t quite straight, a mouth that rarely smiled. But when it did, there was a dimple just to the left of it. She’d seen it on only one occasion—the one she was hoping he’d forgotten.

“I hear you had a rough night,” Mark said.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She tried for a confident tone. “All in all, I’d say mine was better than Leon Tyber’s.”

Mark’s lips shifted toward a smile, but it never actually appeared. He now glanced over his shoulder at the body, too. “At what point did you discover he was wearing body armor?”

“When my first two shots didn’t stop him.” If he was impressed, it didn’t show.

“How many rounds total?” He seemed to be studying her a little too intently, and she again wondered what his interest could be in the shooting. She couldn’t imagine Tyber having any connection to terrorism.

“He got off three, I fired four.” She was aware that Tom still stood beside her and that there was some animosity between the two men. She wondered about its origin.

“And you think Rheaume hired him?” Mark asked.

She paused. How would he have known that? Then she realized the other agents had undoubtedly filled him in. What else had they said? “It went down like a hit.” She took half a step backward. Somehow it suddenly felt as if he’d invaded her space. “Not to mention the fact that street punks don’t usually carry twelve-hundred-dollar weapons and wear body armor.”

“What makes you so certain it isn’t linked to another case?”

“Because the Rheaume case is the only one I’m involved with.” She wasn’t about to elaborate on the reason that it was her only one. If he didn’t already know about her current employment problems—something she figured was fairly unlikely since that kind of thing tended to get around the Bureau pretty quickly—she saw no reason to enlighten him. To make herself look worse in his eyes.

“What brings you here?” Tom asked.

Mark’s mouth tightened. “Perhaps you could excuse us, Tom. I need to speak with Beth.”

Those words took her by surprise. Especially since she’d assumed he was there to see one of the other agents or even Tom. What would Mark Gerritsen need to discuss with her that he wouldn’t want to talk about in front of Tom Weston?

Tom glanced at her. “Are you okay here?”

What was he asking? Why did he seem so hesitant to leave her with Mark? Was it concern for her? Or was he simply worried she’d do something to make their boss look bad? And that as the senior special agent at the scene, he would somehow be held responsible?

“I’m fine.” Those two words were quickly becoming her new mantra.

Mark waited to speak until after Tom walked off. “Fine might be an overstatement. If you haven’t already had someone look at your head, maybe you should.”

“Thanks for the concern, but I’m okay. And I’m curious about what would bring you here tonight.”

Mark turned his back to the breeze. “I just came from trying to see a friend of yours.”

Hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat, she leaned against the car fender, even more perplexed. “What friend?”

“Rabbit Rheaume.”

The name took her by surprise. “Really?” Glancing down, noticing the ripped-out knee on her pantyhose, she immediately lifted her gaze again. She wanted to look more confident, more together than she felt. “I plan to pay him a visit tomorrow. To give him the good news about Leon Tyber.”

Mark stared at her. “You’ll find him at the morgue.”

Chapter Three

Mark followed Beth into her small bungalow. It hadn’t taken much to convince her to let him bring her home. Or to control the conversation during the drive. They’d covered the recent weather and a number of other unmemorable topics. And the only time she’d brought up Rheaume’s death, he’d suggested they wait until they reached her place. Her agreement had come in the form of silence.

Just inside the door, she stopped to disarm the security system and to turn on the foyer and living room lights, but then kept moving. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to put on some coffee.”

“Sure.”

As she walked on through to what he assumed was the kitchen, he didn’t follow. He wanted to give her some space. Even if she wasn’t displaying any of the obvious signs of distress, she was still coping with it internally. He recalled the first time he’d used lethal force, the way his hands had shaken for hours afterward. How, for nearly a week following the incident, even when he hadn’t been thinking about the shooting, his hands would suddenly start to tremble again.

Turning, he checked out the living room. Though the house and neighborhood dated before the 1940s, the inside of the home had been decorated with an almost loftlike starkness. Lots of metal and wood and bright colors.

He glanced at the red chair and hassock in front of the unlit fireplace and found himself wishing he could afford the luxury of just sitting, of sharing a cup of coffee with a woman without having to interrogate her.

Unfortunately he couldn’t do either of those things. He had a meeting in Boston in the morning, and in the meantime he had a job to do.

The kitchen light went on and then there was an extended stretch of silence where he was left to wonder what she was doing.

After several minutes, he finally took half a step toward the kitchen. “Can I help?”

“No,” she answered in a voice that was an octave higher than usual. “That’s okay. I’ve got it.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Three years,” she said over the soft thump of a cabinet door closing. “I bought it as soon as I was assigned to the Baltimore office.”

Hearing the kitchen faucet run and figuring that she’d be busy for a few minutes more at least, he stepped across the foyer and into the darkened home office. At one time the space would have been a formal dining room. Like the living room, the furnishings were also contemporary. He took off the khaki-colored trench coat and folded it over the back of the desk chair, before turning his attention to the wall of family photos.

She was the only daughter of a diplomat. Geoffrey Benedict had done stints in both France and Turkey, which accounted for Beth’s proficiency in Turkish and French. And for the numerous black-and-white photos with European and Middle-Eastern backgrounds.

Though she held a degree in accounting, he suspected the FBI had been more impressed with her language skills. Since becoming a government employee, she’d added Farsi and Spanish to the list. And with the global environment out there now, that ability would only become more important as time went on.

So why was Bill Monroe so determined to terminate her? Was she really the loose gun her personnel file suggested? Unwilling to follow orders? Unable to function as part of a team? That wasn’t the recruit Mark remembered.

He’d first noticed her in his class because, even at twenty-three, she’d been a standout. Not only physically but also intellectually. Her questions had demonstrated an awareness of world views that most of the other recruits had yet to recognize. She had intrigued him then. And she intrigued him now. Perhaps more than was wise.

Suddenly the overhead light went on. “Make yourself at home.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he didn’t miss the slight rebuff. Or that she’d taken off the coat and scarf, but didn’t appear to have checked the head wound. If she had, she would have wiped away the dried blood on the side of her neck. She had dark-gray eyes and nearly black hair that was on the short side. And if anything, she was more attractive than she’d been three years ago.

“Coffee will be a few minutes,” she offered as she took an additional step into the room. “Maybe while we’re waiting on it, you could tell me what this is about. Why you went to see Rheaume? And why you came to see me?”

He turned and faced her. “What I’m about to say can’t leave this room.” He held her gaze. “You understand?”

“Okay.” She crossed to the desk chair and sat, looking up at him, her hands resting palm up in her lap. She wanted to look at ease, but he sensed she wasn’t.

Maybe he was making a mistake here. Several members of the task force, men he trusted, had questioned the advisability of approaching Beth Benedict. But given the situation, he didn’t feel he could ignore any lead.

“Nearly four months ago, despite tight security, a canister of MX141 was taken by Harvey Thesing, a chemist who had been instrumental in its development. He not only managed to circumvent the stringent safeguards that were in place, he was also able to conceal the theft for several days.”

“And what exactly is MX141?”

“The next generation chemical weapon. So deadly that exposure to the vaporized form kills in less than a minute. With other types of exposure, either to the skin or ingestion, you’re looking at five minutes tops.”

He grabbed the remaining chair. It didn’t surprise him that she didn’t know anything about MX141. Currently, because there was a very real concern of a full-scale panic should the public learn about the theft, only key members of the administration, the defense department and Mark’s unit knew anything about it.

“By the time the theft was noticed, Thesing was dead and the container was missing. The assumption at the time was that the weapon had changed hands, and Thesing’s buyer had decided it was cheaper to pay with a bullet than with cash.”

“I’m assuming his bank account supported the theory.”

He nodded. “No unusual activity.”

She shifted her hands in her lap, the motion drawing his gaze down. She’d removed her damaged stockings. Her legs were now bare, her skin pale and smooth and…

“Any theory on who the buyer was?”

“No. We’ve been looking at a number of groups, both foreign and domestic. Thesing had recently aligned himself with environmental causes.”

“And that was four months ago?” Beth clarified, obviously trying to figure out the connection between what he was telling her and Rabbit Rheaume and even herself. And also possibly recognizing that for months now the terrorism alert level had remained in the elevated level, when, given the situation, it should have been much higher.

Mark straightened. “We’ve been chasing leads with little progress. Recently, because continued Intel hasn’t picked up any mention of the theft or the weapon, we had started to theorize that Thesing may have had second thoughts and either destroyed the MX141 or possibly hidden it somewhere. That his death had been a result of his refusal to turn it over to the buyer.”

Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees and met her gaze. “And then just this morning I received a call from Rabbit Rheaume’s attorney. Rheaume claimed to have been approached in early July by a man looking to sell MX141. In exchange for the prosecution dropping a number of charges, Rheaume would give us his identity.”

Her shoulders dropped slightly. “And now Rabbit is dead?” As if she’d noticed his previous interest in her legs, she tugged at the hem of the navy-blue skirt, tucking one ankle in even more tightly behind the other.

It was a prim-and-proper pose that he suspected she’d perfected during the years when she’d acted as her father’s unofficial hostess following her mother’s death.

“And you don’t really think it’s a coincidence. You think whoever has the chemical weapon knew Rheaume was about to give him up?”

“The timing and the way it went down certainly leaves open the possibility.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How did it happen?”

“An inmate using a shiv got Rabbit in the jugular. He was dead before prison guards could get to him.”

“And the inmate? Did you question him?”

“Didn’t get the chance. A guard shot him.” Mark clasped his hands in front of him. “Right now we’re interviewing any recent visitors the inmate had, but there’s only a few and none of them look promising.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If it was a hit, someone would have needed to contact him to set it up, wouldn’t they?”

“Sure. But it looks as if there may have been a middle man, another inmate who was involved. A go-between. Who, even if we’re lucky enough to ID him, obviously isn’t going to talk. At least not right away.”

She nodded. “So you’re hoping I can help in some way?”

“At the time of the theft and the possible contact between our unsub and Rheaume, you would have still been working the money laundering case. Any chance you saw or heard anything?”

Beth’s mouth tightened briefly before she answered. “I saw and heard a lot during those eighteen months as Rabbit’s assistant, but unfortunately, none of it pointed to Rabbit’s involvement in the sale of any type of weapon, even assault rifles. And certainly nothing like a chemical weapon.”

Obviously it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely certain?” She hedged. “No. Of course not. Even though I was involved in most aspects of his business, I imagine there were instances where that wasn’t the case. Rabbit was the cautious sort. He built himself a pretty good niche business laundering money for half a dozen mid-level drug traffickers. He wouldn’t do business with large ones because they were the ones the feds were after. And he refused to take on a partner. Which is why he managed to fly under the radar for so many years and why it was so difficult to get the evidence needed to prosecute him. All that being said, though, I just can’t see his having the type of contacts who would deal in chemical weapons.”

She leaned back. “My guess, for what it’s worth, is Rabbit somehow heard about the theft and decided to use it to his advantage.”

This time when her mouth tightened, his gaze lingered on her lips for several seconds before he caught himself and forced his eyes to meet hers again. “A deal would have been contingent on the info panning out.”

“Even if it didn’t, he would have had some fun messing with the feds. Rabbit likes—” She broke off to correct herself. “Rabbit liked to mess with people. He really enjoyed watching them squirm. He was cruel like that.”

She glanced away, her voice dropping. “One minute he’d be chatting you up, the next he’d have your face in the dirt and a gun muzzle planted against the back of your skull.”

Because he’d read her file, he knew she was speaking from personal experience.

Getting to her feet, she motioned toward the kitchen. “The coffee should be ready by now. If you’re in a hurry,” she said over her shoulder, “I can put it in a to-go cup.”

She wanted him gone. Unfortunately, there was at least one more thing he needed to discuss with her. “No. I’m not in any hurry.”

After pouring two cups, she handed one to him, then retreated with the other to lean against the opposite counter. The harsh fluorescent lighting revealed the shadows beneath her eyes. She’d had a rough night, maybe a couple of rough years. Eighteen months undercover, constantly on edge, continually fearful of taking a wrong step, would have been a difficult assignment for even a seasoned agent, let alone one with just over a year’s worth of experience.

Why had she been chosen for the assignment?

He set his cup on the counter. “I think there may be one possibility you haven’t yet considered.”

“What’s that?” She blew on her coffee.

“If Rabbit Rheaume wasn’t lying, if he was killed to keep him from talking…Maybe it wasn’t Rabbit behind what happened to you tonight.”

Something flashed briefly in her eyes. Renewed fear maybe, but then it was gone. She took a quick sip and then lowered the cup. “So you’re theorizing that whoever silenced Rabbit is now trying to do the same to me? Because he believes I know something?”

“I think you have to consider the possibility. Especially given that Rabbit contacted us today and not a week from now. Why, after arranging your death, not wait to hear if Leon Tyber was successful? If he had been, there’d have been no need to contact us. To get messed up in any of this. At least, that’s my understanding. That without your testimony there was a good chance the prosecution wouldn’t get a conviction.”

She seemed to contemplate what he’d said for several seconds, and then just as quickly discarded it. “Thanks for the warning, but I’m putting my money on Rabbit. And even if I’m wrong, whoever your unsub is, he’s not stupid. He’s got to realize that if I did have any information, I would have already shared it. If not before tonight, certainly during this visit.”

Looking down at her coffee, she pushed away from the cabinetry before lifting her chin, meeting his eyes. “Besides, nothing has really changed. I’ve been looking over my shoulder for months now. I’ll just keep doing it.”

Her calm composure didn’t particularly surprise him. In essence, she was right. Nothing had really changed for her. “It still might be a good idea to stay with a friend for the next few days. Or maybe even your father. If you want, I could talk to Bill Monroe about a few days—”

She cut him off, her voice sharp. “I’ll be fine.” Her mouth briefly tightened as if she regretted her tone. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep.”

“That’s not a bad idea. For both of us. I have an early flight tomorrow, and I’m sure after everything that’s happened, you must be beat.”

She remained silent. He’d been about to suggest he could sleep on her couch, an offer that, given everything he’d seen and heard to date, she wasn’t likely to appreciate.

He dumped what remained of his coffee into the stainless steel sink. But when he turned back to her, something in her expression stopped him from heading for the door. “What is it?”