quite figure out why they would be doing that. Why would the CIA be keeping tabs on one of their own? Especially on someone who was no longer working for them? That almost made it seem…Almost made it seem…
Her mind was racing again. And even as it did, Josh reached the car. He opened the door and said something to the man with the camera. Paige was too far away to hear the words, but the man lowered the recorder and looked up at Josh, answering him.
She was already fumbling to open her purse where her weapon was, her hand moving almost without her volition. She had started toward the street when Josh reached out to take hold of the camera, as if he intended to wrest it from the man who was apparently reluctant to give it up. Paige began to run, closing the distance between her and her former partner.
Her gun was in her hand, but she prayed she wouldn’t have to use it. If the men in that car were fellow agents…
And then the guy with the camera came up out of the front seat, still holding onto it with one hand. With the other, he was reaching into his pocket.
Paige’s heart rate accelerated, knowing she was going to have to make a decision about whether to shoot within the next ten seconds or so. It was a decision she didn’t want to have anything to do with. One she didn’t have enough information to make. And one that would inevitably be influenced by what had once happened, a long time ago, between her and Josh Stone.
She stopped, gripping the semiautomatic with both hands, willing them not to shake. She drew a bead on the chest of the man who was struggling with Josh over the camera.
Her concentration, however, was on his other hand. And then, moving almost in slow motion, that hand began to come out of his pocket, bringing something with it.
Chapter Three
This isn’t supposed to be happening, Jack Thompson thought.
He couldn’t even begin to explain why he had come over to confront the two men. When he had seen that camera, for some reason he had been overcome by an overpowering wave of anger.
The doctors had warned him. They had said that a tendency to impulsive and risky behavior was a fairly common result of head trauma. He hadn’t paid much attention, because up until now he hadn’t sensed any lack of restraint within himself.
Up until now, he thought grimly, aware that the guy he was struggling with for control of the camera was reaching into his pocket with his other hand. And he knew with cold certainty, a feeling which tightened all the muscles of his stomach, that the cameraman was going for a gun.
Something Jack wished he had. He could almost feel the solid, reassuring weight of a weapon in his hand. Except he didn’t have a gun, and he couldn’t remember ever having touched one. Couldn’t consciously remember, he amended, because somehow he knew that he had. And he wanted to again. Right about now would be a real good time.
The fumbling hand finally emerged from the side pocket of the guy’s coat. And he hadn’t been wrong, Jack thought, seeing what it held. He wished to hell he had been. He also wished that he hadn’t started this. What could it possibly matter that someone was videotaping him while he was talking to a woman? A stranger. It sure wasn’t worth getting killed over.
He willed his fingers to release their grip on the camera they were struggling over. The unexpected loss of opposition unbalanced the cameraman. He staggered backward, crashing into the open door of the car. Both hands rose automatically, almost shoulder high, as he tried to regain his balance.
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