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was something in the rule book about keeping alive those you want to question.
Not far from here, she’d auditioned for a dance troupe production, establishing her cover. She always auditionedupon arrival when she was using her dancer cover, thanks to Barbara’s uncanny knack of locating productions suited to Beth’s strengths. Sometimes Beth won a role in her cover audition and had to feign injury to avoid the commitment. Sometimes on long-term jobs, she auditioned with intent, got the part, and carried the cover throughout her assignment. In this particular instance, she was still waiting to hear about callbacks…but it didn’t matter one way or the other. Because whenever, wherever she auditioned, she cased the theater for her own use.
They were all the same in the ways that were most important. They all held rooms and warrens and corners of old props, new props, costuming, dressing rooms, makeup….
They gave her a place to hide. A place to baffle the unfamiliar, and one that often provided her with the tools she needed to improvise her way out of trouble. Wigs, clothes, makeup, a first-aid kit. Sometimes a place to clean up, even if it meant a sink bath and hand soap in her hair. This particular theater had turned out to be an ancient thing, with basement hallways to rival the underground lair of the Phantom of the Opera and a rich assortment of wardrobe offerings. She’d almost ditched her hotel and stayed there in the first place, but opted to keep it back in case of trouble.
Well, she had trouble, all right. But she also had a wine tasting to make, and—she glanced at her watch as she ran—just enough time to manage it, assuming the wine country bus line was running to schedule today.
Blue Crane. And lots and lots of tables.
Jason stared at Bear in perplexed disbelief. “She’s CIA?” She hadn’t acted like CIA. No reason not to reveal herself as such when he’d caught her, and to pull interagency politics to handle their conflict. And besides, according to Bear, the men at the hotel had been CIA, and they didn’t have that comradely air about them.
“Quit looking narked and pay attention,” Bear said, a lack of patience in his voice that caught Jason’s attention. He straightened in the desk chair and looked properly alert. “She was CIA. Sniper-trained, too—not something she often took advantage of in those days, but when she did…she’s good, Stellar. Cracking good.”
“She said…”
She’d said a lot of things. That she hadn’t killed Lyeta. That she was far more than your average sniper. Ohh, yes.
She’d said she wanted to work together.
“Stupid,” he muttered out loud. There’d been no mistaking that instant of disappointment on her face—or that she’d known the instant he’d decided to stick to the mission profile. How long had it been since someone read him so well? They would have meshed well, if he hadn’t been so reluctant.
Rules are rules for a reason. Never mind meshing well; he knew better than to trust the judgment of someone who acted on impulse. Shooting apart handcuffs in the middle of a crowded lobby, for instance. Not giving him the chance to talk to her on terms that allowed him to trust her—even to help her.
Bear ignored his grumbling and went on. “We don’t know what she’s up to now. But I can tell you she isn’t known to use an M24, which is what our Lyeta-killer used.”
“Basic U.S. Army issue,” Jason said, pulling himself out of his internal thoughts to speculate out loud. “Recently available to the public, if I recall correctly. You know, if she didn’t kill Lyeta, if she was somehow working with Lyeta… But you don’t have her in any of your current agency databases. Sounds like dark ops to me.”
“Welcome back to the conversation,” Bear said, heavily sardonic. “The point being, the murder weapon isn’t her weapon of choice, and others could have obtained it. The point being…I don’t think she did this. On the
Not far from here, she’d auditioned for a dance troupe production, establishing her cover. She always auditionedupon arrival when she was using her dancer cover, thanks to Barbara’s uncanny knack of locating productions suited to Beth’s strengths. Sometimes Beth won a role in her cover audition and had to feign injury to avoid the commitment. Sometimes on long-term jobs, she auditioned with intent, got the part, and carried the cover throughout her assignment. In this particular instance, she was still waiting to hear about callbacks…but it didn’t matter one way or the other. Because whenever, wherever she auditioned, she cased the theater for her own use.
They were all the same in the ways that were most important. They all held rooms and warrens and corners of old props, new props, costuming, dressing rooms, makeup….
They gave her a place to hide. A place to baffle the unfamiliar, and one that often provided her with the tools she needed to improvise her way out of trouble. Wigs, clothes, makeup, a first-aid kit. Sometimes a place to clean up, even if it meant a sink bath and hand soap in her hair. This particular theater had turned out to be an ancient thing, with basement hallways to rival the underground lair of the Phantom of the Opera and a rich assortment of wardrobe offerings. She’d almost ditched her hotel and stayed there in the first place, but opted to keep it back in case of trouble.
Well, she had trouble, all right. But she also had a wine tasting to make, and—she glanced at her watch as she ran—just enough time to manage it, assuming the wine country bus line was running to schedule today.
Blue Crane. And lots and lots of tables.
Jason stared at Bear in perplexed disbelief. “She’s CIA?” She hadn’t acted like CIA. No reason not to reveal herself as such when he’d caught her, and to pull interagency politics to handle their conflict. And besides, according to Bear, the men at the hotel had been CIA, and they didn’t have that comradely air about them.
“Quit looking narked and pay attention,” Bear said, a lack of patience in his voice that caught Jason’s attention. He straightened in the desk chair and looked properly alert. “She was CIA. Sniper-trained, too—not something she often took advantage of in those days, but when she did…she’s good, Stellar. Cracking good.”
“She said…”
She’d said a lot of things. That she hadn’t killed Lyeta. That she was far more than your average sniper. Ohh, yes.
She’d said she wanted to work together.
“Stupid,” he muttered out loud. There’d been no mistaking that instant of disappointment on her face—or that she’d known the instant he’d decided to stick to the mission profile. How long had it been since someone read him so well? They would have meshed well, if he hadn’t been so reluctant.
Rules are rules for a reason. Never mind meshing well; he knew better than to trust the judgment of someone who acted on impulse. Shooting apart handcuffs in the middle of a crowded lobby, for instance. Not giving him the chance to talk to her on terms that allowed him to trust her—even to help her.
Bear ignored his grumbling and went on. “We don’t know what she’s up to now. But I can tell you she isn’t known to use an M24, which is what our Lyeta-killer used.”
“Basic U.S. Army issue,” Jason said, pulling himself out of his internal thoughts to speculate out loud. “Recently available to the public, if I recall correctly. You know, if she didn’t kill Lyeta, if she was somehow working with Lyeta… But you don’t have her in any of your current agency databases. Sounds like dark ops to me.”
“Welcome back to the conversation,” Bear said, heavily sardonic. “The point being, the murder weapon isn’t her weapon of choice, and others could have obtained it. The point being…I don’t think she did this. On the
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