magazines or newspapers and arranged into haphazard words then pasted onto the plain white page.
There’s no place to hide.
Noah sighed, crumpled the letter and tossed it across the room. Anger seethed inside him. The letters had been coming once a week for more than two months. The first few had been nothing more than hate mail. That hadn’t really bothered him since he’d been called worse by the locals on occasion. But the last three or four had grown threatening. Last week’s I’m coming for you had sent Lowell over the edge. He’d insisted on informing Edgar Rothman, the only man involved with the government whom Noah even remotely associated with.
Rothman had overreacted as usual.
“There was a call also,” Lowell said hesitantly, obviously weighing the merits of saying more but duty bound to do so.
Noah paused again, his fierce glare cut to Lowell, he flinched. “What call?”
“Mr. Rothman wanted you to know that he was sending someone down to…” Lowell cleared his throat. “To serve as a sort of bodyguard.”
Noah swore, long and loud, like a sailor fresh in from a long stretch at sea finding his wife in bed with one of the local riffraff. If his enemy wanted revenge, why didn’t he take it? These games weren’t his style. Either way, Noah wasn’t running.
“Call Rothman back and tell him to forget it. I don’t want anyone coming here. I will not allow it.”
“But, what if—”
Noah pinned him with a look that he felt certain conveyed the finality of his words. “If you would feel more comfortable taking a leave until this is over, I fully understand. But I do not want a damned bodyguard. Under any circumstances.”
BLUE CALLAHAN surged forward, gaining her second wind as she sprinted into the home stretch of her three-mile run. Her heart pumped hard and steady, forcing the adrenaline-charged blood through her veins and melting the last of the tension from her body.
She’d awakened this morning with a scream trapped in her throat and sweat dampening her skin, nightmares left over from Port Charlotte. The mission had gone smoothly right up until the end. But she’d survived. Vince Ferrelli and Katrina Moore had survived too. The bad guys had been defeated and all was right in the world once more.
Just twenty-four hours had passed and the incident that had shaken her to the core was still fresh in her memory. But it would pass. She knew from experience that it would. Focusing on more pleasant thoughts, she remembered that Lucas Camp had mentioned that he had scheduled a mission where she would be the primary. He’d also warned that there was a short fuse on this one, she should be ready ASAP.
She was ready.
As soon as she had shaken off the lingering effects of the nightmare, she’d started packing in preparation. She didn’t have to know where she was going or for how long; all Specialists were trained on the proper preparations for a mission. Her selections would cover most any situation or climate.
Then she’d pushed, stretching to her physical limits all morning in an effort to dispel the remnants of the nightmares. Glancing at her watch, she realized it was almost noon and she was starved.
If she hurried she could make it to Terry’s Pizza in time for lunch with the usual crew. Blue bounded away from the track, slowing her pace as she approached the gym. This training facility was for Specialists only. Every person here was assigned to the most highly covert organization belonging to the United States government. Blue’s unit, Special Operations, fell under Mission Recovery and was headed by Director Thomas Casey. Lucas Camp, one of her favorite people, served as Deputy Director.
This state-of-the-art training facility made the FBI’s Farm look like an elementary-school playground. Blue smiled at that thought. She’d considered a career at the Bureau first when she graduated from UCLA, but she’d chosen the Secret Service instead. Having hailed from a family of cops, third generation at that, she had definitely wanted to go into law enforcement. But being the only girl in her close-knit family of six siblings, Blue had learned hard and fast that if she didn’t keep one step ahead of the boys, she’d always be two steps behind. So she’d opted for federal service rather than local law enforcement. Being asked for by name by the president himself had made her a legend in the Callahan family as well as envied by her peers.
No one in her family could believe it when she had left the Secret Service for her current duty. Forward Research, the people whose sole responsibility was to scout out talent for Mission Recovery, had noticed her Secret Service exploits and, the moment the president for whom she worked had left office, they’d lured her away from the dark suits and designer sunglasses.
Mission Recovery’s whole cloak-and-dagger routine had seduced her. Now her brothers, all local cops in L.A., were permanently one-upped. Little sister was a secret agent. She always laughed and told them it was nothing nearly so James Bondish as all that. But the truth was, they were closer to the mark than they knew.
Mission Recovery had been created to serve the needs of all other government agencies, CIA, FBI, ATF, DEA. Whenever the usual channels failed, Mission Recovery was called in to “recover” the situation. Blue could vouch for the fact that all the members of this elite group, called Specialists, were highly trained in all areas of anti-terrorism, aggressive infiltration and such. Of course, she couldn’t share any of that with her brothers.
But that was okay with Blue. She didn’t do any of it for the notoriety, she did it because she loved the job. Most of the time anyway.
She slowed to a walk as she entered the gym and made the journey to the women’s locker rooms. The place was deserted. There weren’t that many females in Mission Recovery, but their facilities were every bit as elaborate as their male counterparts’.
Peeling off her T-shirt, she toed off her sneakers, then reached for the door to her locker. Her cellular telephone rang. She flipped down the mouthpiece and said a breathless, “Callahan.”
“Blue, this is Joan at the gallery.”
Blue’s heart did a somersault. “Hey, Joan.” She tried to stay calm and not jump the gun here, but adrenaline was already soaring through her.
“I’ve located another painting by that obscure artist.”
“So I can purchase the one I’ve been admiring?” she asked quickly. She had to know! She’d mooned—obsessed really—over that painting for months now. She’d even dreamed of the enigmatic artist behind the work. Too bad no one, not even the gallery owner, knew his name. The work was simply signed N.D.D. All transactions were conducted through his agent. N.D.D. was a complete mystery. One Blue would like nothing better than to solve. Since his work was so hard to come by, the gallery owner was reluctant to let it go.
Joan laughed softly. “Drop by at your convenience. I’ll be holding it for you.”
Blue tossed the phone back into the locker and did a little victory dance. The painting was hers. Thoughts of the dark, sensual images of the almost Gothic-looking forest scene made her shiver. And now it was hers!
She snagged her towel. Maybe she’d have time to pick it up today. Clad only in her sports bra and running shorts, she closed her locker and turned to head toward the showers.
She inhaled sharply at the sight of Lucas Camp sitting on a bench at the end of the row of lockers, a briefcase at his feet.
