Exit Strategy (Nadia Stafford 1)

I spun to face Jack. As I did, a voice in my head screamed for me to be more careful. Don't let him see how angry I was. Don't give him any reason to suspect I wasn't in perfect control, the consummate professional.

"Can I--Can I get a drink?" I whispered, gaze down. "Some water?"

He steered me to the bar. They'd closed, but the bartender took one look at me and handed Jack a glass of ice water. We stepped off to the side and I gulped it, feeling the shock of the cold hit, reviving me.

"S--sorry," I said. "Just--Warm. It got warm."

I gulped the rest of the water, filling my mouth with ice, closing my eyes and biting down on it. Yet it did no good. My blood ran so hot sweat broke out along my hairline, stinging as it dripped into my eye.

I had to find him. Make him pay. He thought this was a game? I'd show him a game. I'd track him down and I'd catch him, and then I'd wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze the life from him. And I wouldn't turn away. I'd watch him die, and I'd savor every moment.

Jack cleared his throat and my gut went cold as I realized he was standing right there, watching as I'd let the mask crumble. I rubbed my hands over my face, mumbling about the heat. He didn't say a word and when I looked up, met his gaze, his expression didn't change.

As I swallowed, Jack's gaze moved away to track a middle-aged man hurrying for the doors. The man hailed friends standing outside, waving them in from their cigarette break, and Jack relaxed, nodding slightly. I realized that's what he'd been doing, not watching me, but looking for the killer. Too preoccupied to notice me. Better things on his mind. More important things.

The buzzer sounded.

"We have to go," I said, searching for a trash can. "Get out of here before the show starts. He's done his job. Now he'll run--"

"No, he won't."

"But--"

"Too risky. He'll be in there."

"Wha--?"

Jack waved at the line of patrons filing into the opera. I looked around, realizing that nothing had changed, no one was panicking, screaming about a murdered man in the washroom.

"They aren't telling anyone what happened, are they? Everyone who was there thinks it was an accident. And if there's no mass exodus--" I swallowed, then swung my gaze to the auditorium doors. "He'll have to go inside. Watch the show like everyone else."

Jack nodded, took my glass with one hand, my elbow with the other, and led me over to join the line.

I don't know how I made it to my seat. My heart started racing the moment I stepped through those doors--walked into the same auditorium where my target now sat. The thought of sitting down and doing nothing about it was...indescribable.

Jack moved closer, his knee pressing against mine, hand going to my thigh as he leaned over to say something. I could feel the heat of him, smell the cigarettes on his breath. His lips moved, but I couldn't hear what he was saying, the noise around us too loud, the blood pounding in my ears not helping. I watched his lips move, stared at them, mesmerized by the sensual curve.

I sat there, watching him, smelling him, feeling his hand on my leg, until that was all I could sense. Something built inside me, an ache, sharp, urgent. A primal voice whispered that this would do, that he'd do--a suitable substitute, a way to slake my frustration, reach out and touch him--

I realized what I was thinking. Felt it like a slap that jolted me out of my thoughts, face reddening, cheeks heating. I looked away. Jack's fingers only pressed into my thigh, getting my attention.

I didn't look, but heard him now, telling me to watch for the killer, study the audience before the lights went down. It took a moment for my thoughts to unsnarl and to realize what his words meant. I glanced around, searching for men in the right age group...which described 90 percent of the male patrons. I tried narrowing it down to those sitting alone, but there was no way of knowing because hardly anyone "sat alone"--with no one on either side of him. The killer would be smarter than that anyway. If he'd somehow ended up with an empty seat on either side, he'd just move over, joining another party. As Quinn had said, this wasn't a sold-out show. There was at least one empty seat in every row.

A hopeless task. But a task nonetheless. Busywork. Keeping my mind occupied, that surging frustration at bay. Exactly what I needed. To Jack, it was just being efficient. Making the best use of our time.

At intermission, I wanted to find out what the Feds were doing, if they even knew this was a hit yet, but Jack was having none of it, and I had to admit he was right. We couldn't be caught hanging out too close to the FBI agent plants, hoping to overhear their conversations.

"Come on," Jack said, tapping the ci

garettes in his pocket and jerking his chin toward the mass of patrons streaming outside. "Gotta talk to Felix."

We walked along the sidewalk, getting as much distance from the other smokers as possible without looking suspicious.

"How will they find--?" I began.

"Already did. Don't look. Just keep walking. I'll stop. Next to an alley exit. Turn toward the street."

"With my back to them in the alley. Got it."