Running Blind Read Free

to see what was going on inside her head—or maybe not.
    The truth was, she wound him up as tight as a recoil spring in a shotgun, which was a huge problem, because Mike had partnered them up next week to do security checks at a couple of Air Force bases.
    A week with the Bombshell. Alone.
    He glanced at her, all silken blond hair, big blue eyes, and tight sweater. He hadn’t told her yet about the field assignment; he’d do that back at the office. But he’d told himself plenty: she was hands off, and not merely because DOD wouldn’t approve. No, he’d keep his distance from the Bombshell because bombs exploded, and he didn’t want to get blown to hell.

3

    She shivered with anticipation as she sighted down the rifle’s scope for perhaps the hundredth time since she’d set up the nest. The air was bitter cold, but adrenaline kept her blood pumping, sending heat to her extremities, keeping her fingers nimble as she made minute adjustments to the legs of the tripod mount.
    The Ruger M77 bolt-action was her new personal favorite. She loved the irony that it shot ammo similar to the M16 rifle that the U.S. military loved so much. And regardless of the range of almost three hundred yards, the cartridges she’d hand-loaded would ensure maximum destruction.
    She’d have made this hit free of charge, so it was icing on the cake that the Russians were paying her a king’s ransom. And it was no accident that they’d contacted her to take out one of the Department of Defense’s top covert tactical teams. She’d laid bread crumbs from Munich to Moscow, making certain they’d follow the trail straight to her and understand that she had the goods they needed and a product to sell.
    Her intricate planning had paid off. Yet another thing she owed to her mentor. He’d left her the means to this end, and the thought of finally exacting revenge for his death had her shaking with excitement.
    â€¢Â Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â Â â€¢
    â€œAre you all ready to order?” a preppy young waiter asked Rhonda.
    She didn’t find it unusual that she’d been singled out as the spokesman for the group; it had always been that way. She’d been told that she had a look—social organizer, office administrator, corporate deity, boss lady, whatever—that drew others to assume she was in charge. She’d stopped fighting it long ago.
    She glanced around the table. Her boss, Mike Brown, sat beside his wife, Eva. Then came Jamie Cooper. If he’d meant to annoy her by moving to a chair directly across from her, he’d done a good job of it. After him were two other team members, Enrique Santos and Josh Waldrop. Only Joe and Steph Green had made it from the other Black Ops team, rounding out the group.
    â€œAnyone else coming?” she asked Brown. When he shook his head, she turned back to the waiter. “Why don’t you start with the big guy here”—she patted Taggart’s shoulder—“and work your way back to me?”
    While the waiter took orders, Rhonda sat back, feeling the disbelief that sometimes hit her when she thought about her new job. These men were elite operatives. They made up the core group of the International Threat Analysis and Prevention Agency (ITAP), along with Brett Carlyle, who hadn’t made it to breakfast today.
    Now she was one of them. A member of a covert antiterrorist team.
    Never in her wildest dreams.
    She’d thought long and hard before she accepted the position. She’d known from the get-go that it wasn’t as innocuous as the name of the unit implied.
    And after she’d signed so many confidentiality and security clearance documents that it made the NSA’s requirements seem like hooking pinkie fingers and crossing hearts, Mike had briefed her on the unit’s real mission.
    â€œITAP is a cover agency created to ensure we can operate with anonymity and complete