How had she let herself be convinced to help Medina on this job, when she had sworn she'd never let herself be sucked back into that life? Hadn't losing Dallas taught her anything?
But Medina was right about terrorism, right about the applications of such an explosive, right about the innocent people who would die. He was right, damn it. So, if she could help, then she had to do it.
She went into the bathroom and washed her face, then brushed her teeth and hair. The face that looked back at her from the mirror was still puffy from sleep, but there was color in her cheeks and a brightness to her eyes that made her hate herself. She was looking forward to this, for God's sake. Dallas had died, and she still hadn't learned anything.
"Niema! Get a move on."
She went rigid. Not quite believing what she'd heard, she opened the bathroom door and looked out into her bedroom. No one was there. She crossed over to the hall door and opened it. Light, along with the smell of freshly brewed coffee, spilled down the hall, coming from the direction of the kitchen.
"What in the hell are you doing in my house?" she snarled, stomping toward the kitchen. "And how did you get in?"
Medina sat at the island, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked as if it were nine A.M. instead of four-thirty, his eyes alert, his lean body relaxed in black sweat pants and black T-shirt. "I told you that you needed a new lock on the back door."
"What about the alarm? I know I set the alarm."
'And I bypassed it. With a pocketknife and six inches of wire. Have some coffee."
"No thanks." Furious, she contemplated dumping the coffee on him. She had always felt safe in her house, and now, thanks to him, she didn't. "Do you know how much I paid for that alarm system?"
"Too much. Get a dog instead." He stood up from the stool. "If you aren't going to have coffee, let's take a little run."
Thirty minutes later, she was still matching him stride for stride. Talking while jogging wasn't easy, but they hadn't even tried. They had run down the street to the park half a mile from her house, then along the silent path lit only by the occasional street light. The mood she was in, she almost hoped someone tried to mug them, not that muggings were a common occurrence in this neighborhood.
Gravel and dirt crunched under their pounding feet The early morning air was cool and fragrant. She was still breathing easily and there was still plenty of spring in her legs. She loved the feel of her muscles bunching and relaxing, and gradually she began to cool down and concentrate on nothing but the running.
Beside her, he ran as if they had just started. His stride was effortless, his breathing slow and even. Dallas had run that way, she remembered, as if he could go on at this pace for hours.
"You run like a SEAL," she said, irritated that she was panting a little.
"I should," he said easily. "If I don't, then I wasted the toughest six months of my life."
She was so surprised she almost stopped. "You went through BUD/S?"
"I lived through BUD/S," he corrected.
"Is that where you met Dallas?"
"No, I was a few classes ahead of him. But he ... ah, recognized some of the stuff I did the first time we worked together."
"Did you use your real name during training?"
"No. The Navy didn't do me any favors, either. They agreed to let me take the training only if I made the physical conditioning cut, and then I was in only as long as I could make the grade."
"What was the criteria for being accepted into the class?"
"A five hundred yard swim using a breast or side stroke, in twelve and a half minutes or less, then a ten minute rest, then forty-two pushups in two minutes. There was a two minute rest after the pushups, then fifty sit-ups in two minutes. Another two minute rest, then eight pull-ups, with no time limit. After a ten minute rest, then came a mile and a half run, wearing boots and fatigues, in eleven and a half minutes. Those were the minimum requirements. If a guy wasn't in a lot better shape than that, he didn't stand much chance making it through the real thing."
He had said all of that without gasping for breath. Impressed despite herself, she asked, "Why did you do it?"
He was silent for about fifty yards. Then he said, "The better I was trained, the better my chances were for staying alive. There was a particular job where I needed every edge I could get."
"How old were you?" He couldn't have been very old, not if he was a few classes ahead of Dallas, which meant he had begun black ops work at an early age.
"Twenty-one."
Twenty-one. Not long out of his teen years, and already so dedicated to his job that he had put himself through BUD/S, a training program so tough only about 5 percent of the men who began it made it all the way through. Now she knew why he and Dallas had been so much alike in so many ways.
"How much longer are we going to run?"
"We can stop whenever you want. You're in great shape; I don't have to worry about that."
She began slowing. "Are we likely to have to run for our lives?"
He dropped into step beside her. ""You never know."
That was when she knew she was crazy for real, because she wasn't scared.
Chapter Eight
How did you know I run every morning?" she asked as they returned to the house. The run had mellowed her considerably; early morning was her favorite time of the day. The sky was beginning to turn shades of pearl and pink, and the birds were awake and singing. She felt tired but also energized, the way she always did after a run.
"I told you, Frank kept tabs on you over the years." "Bullshit."