Cody Walker's Woman

He told himself he was overreacting. That it was just the circumstances surrounding their first meeting coloring his perspective, when a vision of a woman rose in his mind. Translucent skin with a sprinkling of pale freckles; red-gold curls that made a man want to tangle his fingers in them and see if they were as soft as they looked; brown eyes fringed with gold-tipped lashes untouched by mascara—soft brown eyes that refused to cry.

And faintly pink lips without a trace of lipstick. Firm lips. No-nonsense lips. Lips that hadn’t trembled even when she’d believed she was about to be raped and killed. Lips he’d give a sizable chunk of his next paycheck to discover if he could soften under his.

You’ve got no business daydreaming about her, he warned himself with stern resolution. He’d barely managed to relegate her to a corner of his mind when a slight movement caught out of the corner of his eye made him look up. Walking toward his office was Trace McKinnon. And right beside him was the woman with the unkissable lips Cody wanted suddenly—and urgently—to kiss.

Chapter 4

Cody stood at the firing range in the soundproofed subbasement of the agency. Safety glasses and noise-canceling headphones in place, he raised his right hand and fired his Glock 17 at the silhouette target fifty feet away until the 33-round high-capacity magazine was empty. He reeled the target in, noting with disgust that roughly half his shots weren’t in the ten ring, although he had nothing outside a nine.

He liked the Glock better than the standard-issue revolver he’d carried when he’d been the sheriff of Black Rock—more accurate at a greater distance and more firepower, even without the high-capacity magazine—but guns had never been his thing. Knives had always been his first love, ever since he’d been a kid.

Cody could remember practicing until both arms were sore and aching, and then practicing some more until he was nearly as good with his left hand as he was with his right. He hadn’t even stopped when his father had roughly told him that knives weren’t much use anymore, not when throwing a knife left you disarmed and gave your attacker a weapon to use against you.

That had just added to the challenge. Even as young as he’d been, Cody had figured out that if you were deadly accurate, you didn’t have to worry about having your own knife turned against you. A well-balanced knife in the hands of a marksman was a potent weapon.

Knives also had other uses, as he’d known when he’d used his to pry open the warped window the night he first met Keira. Using a good throwing knife as a pry bar didn’t do much for its balance, but it sure came in handy.

And knives could be concealed more easily than guns.

He glanced down the line at the other two agents on the firing range. McKinnon was doing rapid, five shot strings with a SIG SAUER P226; Keira was using the two-handed Weaver stance to empty her smaller, compact Glock 19 with deadly precision.

Unlike the FBI, the agency didn’t have a standard-issue firearm—each field agent requisitioned his or her own weapon based on fit and functionality, the agency’s position being that what worked for one agent wouldn’t necessarily work for another—but they did keep records of all guns issued.

And every field agent was responsible for staying sharp with the weapons of his or her choice. Cody was sure Keira and McKinnon didn’t need today’s practice rounds, but with special rule seven invoked...and it wouldn’t hurt, anyway; you never knew when just the tiniest fraction of an edge might make a difference.

One of the great things about working for the agency was that a lot of the bureaucracy and red tape involved in requisitioning assets for a covert operation had been minimized or eliminated entirely. And the agency had a whiz of an acquisition and supply team. Cody couldn’t recall a time when he had requested something he needed for an op that hadn’t been forthcoming in less than twenty-four hours.

His small team already had in their possession most of the assets the three of them had figured they might need, and he’d been assured the rest would be ready and waiting for them first thing in the morning, along with the two vehicles they’d requisitioned. Neither vehicle would be new enough, or old enough, to draw unwanted attention, he knew without asking. But under the hood—where it counted—both would be impeccably maintained. McKinnon and Keira would drive the truck with its retractable, locking tonneau cover over the truck bed, concealing their gear. Cody would drive the SUV, chosen more for its power, agile handling, corner-hugging ability and near-perfect manual transmission—things a vehicle needed in the mountains around Black Rock—than for its amenities.